Facing the Music - The Disco Musical

Maybe God really is trying to destroy the homosexuals. Maybe it's time to face the disco music (Last Dance - Donna Summer).

This morning as I got to work, our receptionist greeted me. Our receptionist is a 50-something gay man with a white handlebar mustache and a reputation for performing drag under the name, Lady Astor, several years ago. In fact, his license plate is LDYASTR. Sans the mustache and with a really powerful imagination, you can almost see him over-acting on a stage somewhere in the 70s and 80s. (You Sexy Thing - Hot Chocolate)

I was practically running in the door. Hurricane Katrina (She's a Bad Mamma Jamma - Carl Carlton), as she bitched her way through Memphis last night, caused my power to flicker. I awoke at 8:40 for a 9:00 meeting. And, although it wasn't a crisis until after I debated what to wear, I was still breezing through the door at 9:10.

Lady Astor told me the meeting had been cancelled, and then resumed the conversation he was having with the other two staff in the lobby about the hurricane.

"And, oh my, what about Southern Decadence? I just remembered that Labor Day is this weekend." And then he explains to our administrative staff that Decadence is "the big New Orleans Labor Day orgy oops-I-mean party. All those disappointed men oops-I-mean people." (Lady Marmalade - Patti Labelle)

Maybe it is time to face the disco music. Maybe this was our warning. (Shame - Evelyn "Champagne" King)

At Sunday afternoon tea-dance time, Katrina was Category 5 with sights dead-set on New Orleans for sometime the next morning. By the time I awoke on Monday, God had switched Katrina's gears down to a Category 4 and moved her a smidge to the east. (Rock the Boat -The Hues Corporation)

What would have happened if one more gay boy had gotten a toaster oven for the straight-to-gay conversion? God might have changed His mind and put Katrina in a starring role a week later. There would have been 100,000 gay boys living up their supporting role in "The Poseidon Adventure meets Twister." (Tragedy - The Bee Gees)

Please God, don't cast me as Shelley Winters. (In the Navy - The Village People)

Before New Orleans, Katrina churned up some trouble in Miami and South Beach. Last year, hurricanes pummeled Pensacola. And how many times in a year does Key West get clobbered? (It's Raining Men - The Weather Girls)

And don't we all know that the West Coast, especially San Francisco, is going to fall off into the Pacific Ocean? (Shake, Shake, Shake - KC and the Sunshine Band)

Now if natural disasters are any indication, maybe God does have it in for the pillow-biters. At least the American ones. All of our great domestic destinations are getting their butts whooped. (Kung Fu Fighting - Carl Douglas)

If it comes down to a full-fledged, hand-to-hand, lightning-versus-lipstick combat between God and the Gays, I want Cher leading the troops. Journalists have said that after the Apocalypse, there will be cockroaches and Cher. Who doesn't want that kind of stamina on their side? (This Is a Song For the Lonely - Cher) Yeah, I know that isn't typically disco but it fits in the story.

As long as Cher lives, so does disco. As long as disco and its children live, so will those who move to that music.

And, really, don't we all? (Grand Finale Medley: Love Will Keep Us Together - Captain and Tenille, Staying Alive - The Bee Gees, I Will Survive - Gloria Gaynor)

What Happens in Nashvegas...Stays in Nashvegas

Ten years ago. Exactly a decade ago on Labor Day weekend, my two former college roommates, me and Hotass went to New Orleans. For Southern Decadence, or as the waitress in the restaurant told us in her delightful Cajun accent on that fateful trip, "some queer festival." We feigned shock when she told us but giggled like the dumb girls we were when she walked away.

Our motto for the weekend was "whatever happens across the state line, stays across the state line."

None of us did anything that would require that big of a secret. Those silly naive boys had themselves a hell of a time, though, and quite frankly, I don't know that I now in my old age have the energy to do it again. But I'd like to, especially knowing now what I didn't know then.

Seeing that New Orleans is about to go underwater as a result of a direct hit of a category five hurricane (Katrina - she just sounds like a bitch), I might never have the chance to go to Decadence again.

Never fear. This Labor Day weekend, the Gaggle lands in Nashvegas. And it has remarkable similarites to my and Hotass' trip to NOLA.

• Labor Day weekend. The end of summer and lord, what a summer it's been.
• A roadtrip. Back then, we were too cheap, no, make that broke, to fly. So we drove the eight hours to New Orleans. And since I couldn't drive a stick, I got to sleep most of the way there and back. No such luck this time.
• A first trip together with new friends. Our trip to NOLA was the first time we had been on a get-away together as a group. And nothing is a truer test of friendship than going on a trip with your buds. Nine of us are going to Nashvegas this weekend - Dusty, HotAss, Buffy, Wanda, the Herbalist, Pistol Pete, the Dynamic Duo, and me. Watch the dramedy ensue.
• Boys, booze and bars. Back then, French Quarter bars were legendary - Oz, Lafitte's, Bourbon St. Pub. To a gay-bar desert like Memphis, the sweet quenching allure of Nashville's bars - Tribe, The Chute, and Play - is like a soaking thunderstorm. Not to mention a gay man's attraction to O.O.T.'s (out-of-towners). Throw in some cheap draft beer, and you've got all the makings for a Rock Star Weekend.

And this weekend is even a bachelor party of sorts. In honor of the upcoming nuptials (can you use "nuptials" for a gay couple?), the Gaggle is taking the Dynamic Duo to Nashville. In less than a month, the Dynamic Duo will exchange vows of love and commitment.

And, to be real for a moment, I can't tell you how excited I am to be able to witness that. It's pretty damn life-affirming as a gay man to see a REAL gay couple be that in love with one another. It reminds the Singletons that, despite the overwhelming straight and gay opinion to the contrary, two men can be in love and willing to commit their lives to fulfilling, enjoying, and encouraging love. Congratulations to Rob and AJ. I truly do wish you the best of a life together.

So anyway...the weekend certainly does hold the potential for stories that will be told for years to come. Stay tuned.

>>>

One more thing, let me introduce a new feature to my blog - the Distraction of the Minute. Do any of us ever do anything anymore without multi-tasking? No wonder I feel like I have Attention Deficit Dis-oh-what-was-I-just-doing?

So anyway...this is what's going on in the background - maybe downloaded music, maybe Internet radio, maybe TV, maybe nothing. Or maybe I've mistaken you for someone who gives a whoopty-doo.

Source: RealPlayer

Genre: Disco

Song: More, More, More - Andrea True Connection

Ooops! I Crapped My Pants!

It is my firm belief that every adult has, at some point in their old-enough-to-know-better years, crapped their pants.

And even if you don't want to admit it, you probably have messed a pair of drawers or two. Well, maybe more so guys than girls.

A couple of weeks ago, Hotass, T-man and I were sitting around on a Friday night, having a beer and already this story is sounding way too butch. It was precipitated by Dusty's post about loo etiquette and like a train speeding out of control, the conversation turned to fecal matters. And now seriously, this is only a conversation you'd have with your closest friends. Each of us had at least one, if not more, story about crapping our pants.

Hotass had to leave a pair of underwear in the bushes somewhere between Seattle and Memphis on a marathon cross-country roadtrip. I had to leave a pair of black Calvin Klein briefs in an Exxon restroom somewhere in Kentucky.

Usually the story involved a long roadtrip and thinking you could make it to the next exit. And in a few circumstances, it was a case of gas-passing turning out to be something much wetter.

For example, my story about being on the way to work one morning. I was barely three blocks from home. Sitting at the stoplight, I thought all I had to do was let out a light squeaker. A few seconds later, I was making a U-turn to go home and change pants.

And I also told my story about a Target restroom in Hendersonville, Tenn. And, believe me, it's not one I want to retell.

Well, let's try this. You know when the Gotta-Go-Gotta-Go-Gotta-Go-Right-Now mood strikes, and it's intense? Mind-numbing pain intense? The sphincter clenches to save the Banana Republic khakis? You make it to a bathroom but there is a catch-22. You need to sit on the toilet to gain some relief, but at the moment you unclench to perform the squatting movement, you'll effing explode before you're even in position to explode. It's a quandary, for sure. Exactly what is the right choice? Let me tell you...make sure the paper towel dispenser is well-stocked before you choose to squat. Because Merciful God... THAT'S what it looks like when the shit hits the fan.

But the best story of the evening goes to T-man. He arose one morning and tied on his robe. He got a phone call from his boyfriend and he strutted about the kitchen, making coffee and other morning stuff. While he's on the phone, he has a guess-if-it's-dry-or-wet moment. He opts for dry. He was wrong, dressed in his robe in the middle of the kitchen.

"Fuck!" he cries.

"What's wrong?" asks the gentleman.

"I just shit in the floor!"

Everybody's Got a Story

After my last post, I didn't want anyone to think that I was an anarchist or unpatriotic. I can't even begin to express my (sadness, anger, disbelief, frustration, etc) after September 11th.

My story isn't that extraordinary like most of us living outside NYC or DC. But it made me think about how every generation has its story. For the Gen X'ers, we always remember where we were for September 11th and the day the first space shuttle exploded.

For my parents, I liked the stories they told about where they were when JFK was assassinated, or MLK shot, or when Elvis died. My mother, father and brother were living in Toledo and Mom was making lunch or dinner (I forget which) with the television on in the background when she heard that JFK had died. For my grandparents, it was Pearl Harbor.

On September 11, 2001, I was pretty bummed that day as I went to work. The Ex and I had broken up the day before (for the 196th time). We had been to the Janet Jackson concert on the Friday night before, and it was awkward. We had been to see Madonna a month before and I thought that all was right with the world.

I got to work that morning just a little after eight. I was working at a inner-city community center in Nashville. I powered up my computer, checked e-mail and fired up Yahoo! messenger. A friend almost immediately messaged me and told me that a plane had crashed into the World Trade Center. I went to CNN.com and MSNBC.com to try to find out what was going on, not that I expected a terrorist attack. Their Web sites were so busy, the pages wouldn't even load.

I didn't give it that much thought but periodically I went back to check. Before 9 a.m., the CNN site loaded, and I saw the story. I tried to go on about my business, but I wasn't successful. I had an appointment to check a proof at a printer that morning. As I drove to the printer, I could see the BellSouth building of the Nashville skyline and could almost see the planes crashing into it, and could envision the EX in the plane. Not that I was vindictive or anything.

I tried to work that morning but I kept going back to the breakroom to watch the television, and I sobbed uncontrollably when the first tower went down.

For weeks afterward, I watched CNN and fell asleep to NPR, listening for updates or new attacks until I woke up to Morning Edition the next day. The second week in October, I took vacation on the North Carolina coast. It was still new enough that Blackhawk helicopters were still patrolling the coastline. And that week, I had one of the most cathartic, emotional experiences of my life.

Even if I was drunk, it was still a good way to purge the emotions.

Hypocrite

If there ever was a face of stupidity and ignorance, it just might be that one. In case you missed Pat Robertson's latest proclamation, the zealot has called for on television, in front of millions of Christian viewers, the assassination of the Venezuelan president, Hugo Chavez.

I didn't even realize Venezuela was a threat. I guess we've been too busy watching the east to not see the evil rising in the south.

Robertson believes that the Venezuelan president is supporting communists and Islamic extremists. And he furthermore believes that the U.S. should assassinate the South American leader because "it's cheaper than starting a war."

Killing little old ladies and stealing their groceries is cheaper than me going to the grocery store, too. But I still don't think it's a good idea.

"We have the ability to take him out, and I think the time has come that we exercise that ability," Robertson, the founder of the Christian Coalition, said in his Monday broadcast of The 700 Club. Do you think that's what the Pontius Pilate said about Jesus? That it's time to take him out?

So let me get this straight, Mr. Robertson, although you have professed that you believe that every little boy and girl in America should be taught the Ten Commandments because that would have prevented God's wrath and the September 11th attacks, you still support violation of the Sixth Commandment, thou shalt not kill. Is that correct, Mr. Robertson?

Of course, the White House was quick to respond saying that Robertson's views do not represent the views of the U.S. government, and that private citizens have the right to say whatever they want.

Really? I have the right to say whatever I want? And if I said that I believed that President Bush should be assassinated as quickly as possible to prevent spending anymore unnecessary dollars in Iraq and to avoid sacrificing our nation's well-being and our nation's young soldiers? I can say that it's time to for us to take President Bush out? And the Secret Service is okay with that?

And remember how quickly President Bush made the connection between Osama Bin Laden and Saddam Hussein. How they were in cahoots, plotting to sink democracy and freedom, even thoughthe evidence was sketchy at best. Come on, now couldn't even a political novice like me make a connection between Pat Robertson and Bushy-boy and justify a righteous assassination of President Bush? Of course, the killings would have to trickle down to Cheney and rest of the conservative cronies, just to sever the bloodline.

Now, let me clarify. I think Pat Robertson and Jerry Falwell and others representing the Religious Right and Christian Coalition are idiots and hypocrites of the worst kind. I think Dubya is a crooked, beady-eyed, power-hungry, self-serving moron who deserves to be beaten to a bloody pulp in a barroom brawl after popping his mouth off too much. I'd like to believe that they are harmless, but I don't think they are. They've somehow managed to brainwash millions and have commanded them to listen to what they say. They're dangerous, and quite frankly, I live in fear.

Hell, all Janet Jackson did was flash a little flesh, and she's the anti-Christ according to the Religious Right. She influenced impressionable minds with her wantonness and sexuality. Pat Robertson made his comments on his nationally broadcast soapbox, and perhaps he influenced impressionable minds as well. Minds who now think we should invade Venezuela and kill their president.

Robertson has made no bones about his stance on homosexuality. According to him, people who support gay rights are a "malevolent force pushing this agenda that is perverse and evil" and homosexuality and abortion are the major reasons this country is headed for Hell in a handbasket.

It's easy to make the leap that Robertson, untamed, could next suggest that all homosexuals be shot on sight, advocate bombings of gay nightclubs, florists and antique shops, propose sinking all-gay cruise liners, or order the dropping of nukes on San Francisco, Key West and Midtown Memphis pool parties.

It's bad enough that I already want a car equipped with James-Bond-laser-beams to pulverize cars on the highway with "W: The President" stickers. But seriously, I'm harmless. My only weapons are my ability to speak my mind (thank goodness that is apparently protected for now) and my ability to vote (at least as long as I am allowed).

To my readers, say what you think, act upon your conscience, and resolve that you will do something to counteract the idiocy run rampant in our country.

And now...I would really be appreciative if someone would help me off my soapbox.

Let's Get Metaphysical

The dream about the lightning bolt still troubles me.

I believe dreams sometimes activate the dormant 90-percent part of our brains and allow us to "see" things. I also believe dreams sometime trick us by only trying to make sense of the brain's daily intake of images and sensations, resulting in a dream about buying cotton candy at a street festival from your best friend in big ol' high-whore drag. There is no deep meaning there. Just something funny to recount over brunch.

However, I've had several dreams in my lifetime that still stick with me today: the dream about the Rapture when I was in my early teens, the dream about the walls fading away for the cloaked man outside, the dream about being bitten repeatedly by rattlesnakes resulting in my current phobia of snakes, and the dream about flying just out of reach of Freddy Kruger's arms. But that might have been just my brain saying, "Hey! Watch this!"

So anyway...the lightning bolt.

Last night, Hotass and I made dinner - a good ol' Southern meal of white beans, turnip greens and cornbread. And because we're drunks, throw in a bottle of Pinot Grigio.

After dinner, while we sat around burping and wanting to fart but having way too much class to do it in front of each other, we lit some candles and incense, and did a quick tarot card reading for each other.

I've had my deck since I was in college, and while, I don't particularly think my readings are good since I still read the book for every card, the cards and the interpretations still are pretty insightful. The Pink Lady's first reading was, even if I do say so, pretty freaking amazing.

In his reading for me, he flipped the Ten of Swords over, and it took a few seconds, but it dawned on me. The card is represented by a prone figure, face-down, being struck by lightning and embracing another.

The image is similar to what I recall from my dream. Struck by lightning by a lake, lying face down...although the other person throws me for a loop.

In a traditional deck, the Ten of Swords is represented by a man face-down next to a lake with ten swords in his back. A pretty dismal scene if you ask me. Ten seems a little excessive.

In my deck, the card represents ruin. An image that represents that this is the lowest possible moment and things can only improve from here. Some things are beyond our control, and our best possible solution is to endure.

When I asked Tarot.com for advice on this particular card, the answer was:

Protect yourself while the storm rages and focus on rebuilding after it passes.

The card in the Advice position suggests a course of action which will harmonize what you want with what is currently possible.

The Ten of Swords in this position advises that you lay low for a while. Don't make a move. Keep yourself as safe as possible until the drama, even the possible trauma, plays itself out. Once the turmoil dies down, then you can assess the damage and start to make repairs. The
situation can be compared to a hurricane moving through the neighborhood. You can't be sure whether it is going to pass over a corner of the field or whether it is going to slam into your house.

In the face of such unpredictability, protect yourself, hope for the best and wait it out. Sometimes, an extreme turn of events serves as a pressure relief valve for all the unexpressed and unresolved energy that had been building up. Trust the process even though things may seem pretty drastic right now.

The dream seems to make sense now. But it's what in the cards that makes me wonder now?

A New Showtime Original Series

Today, I met the last of my new neighbors. After the move to the south, I had to start all over with a brand-new set of neighbors.

Today, I met Tharah. The just moved here from Wathington, and she's an art hithtorian at the Univerthity of Mempthith. I met her as I was dropping trash off and nearly backed into her. She smiled and scurried to the elevator. She looks like what you think an art historian might look like: youngish, dark hair pulled back into a ponytail with loose curls along the side of her face, dark blouse and black coulottes, a backpack and as awkward as a big donkey Girl Scout.

I also was getting on the elevator, on my way to Walgreen's for soap. We had the chat on the way down where I learned all the pertinent facts. On my way to Walgreen's I saw her walking in this Memphis heat in her dark outfit. I drove by in air-conditioned comfort, and thought about how nice it was to have a new female on the floor - one who might make a nice new honey? Later, as I was checking out at Walgreen's, I saw her enter the store, and felt guilty. If I had known we were coming to the same place, she could have had a ride in air-conditioned comfort as well.

There's another female who lives on my floor, and to be honest, I've not met her to learn her name, nor do I particularly remember what she looks like. But I do remember her boyfriend. Maybe 27ish, reddish-brown hair, and goatee. Skinny hairy legs and almost always in white t-shirts and khaki cargo shorts. One night we made small talk about the white take-out bags he was carrying and the messy orange goo oozing out of one of them.

"Yeah," he said, "We wanted Indian and I couldn't come back without Mango Lassie."

"Whipped" is what it said to me.

The other neighbor that I met is Pissy Queer. He was moving in the day I moved in. And, bless his heart, he wasn't happy about anything that day.

I've run into him a couple of times since then. And he never seems to be happy.

"I sure do hate moving. But I just couldn't pass this up. I mean for $750 a month, even if it isn't perfect. I had all my stuff in a storage unit here and I got tired of paying $350 a month, especially with my condo in Nashville and another one in Birmingham. This place is all right, but I'll spend another $150 in paint, and $120 in new light fixtures, and another..."

He went on but I just nodded and smiled.

I've met one of my other neighbors, but I can't remember his name and my gaydar gets a major signal- a four- or five-pinger on a scale of one to five. The final person on my floor I've only seen once - a lanky fella. And my gaydar tracked a two-and-a-half-pinger on him.

Already I see the makings of a half-hour dramedy. Add in the supporting cast of characters from my building: Barbara, the cranky apartment manager; Lauren, the "leasing chick" (I swear that's how she introduced herself to me); Esther, the African-American and consistently jovial housekeeper: Henry, the African-American elderly groundskeeper who seems so frail he can barely push his grocery cart of trash; Mr. Charles, the also eldery and definitely gay gentleman who deserves his own post; the lady who plays the harp in the symphony, and the old lady who gets her exercise by making laps in the lobby.

Center it around the dramedy of the Gaggle...and it could be the next hit Showtime orignal series.

Queer As Folk - Memphis

WWSD: What Would Skipper Do?

Char posed a question on her blog. Yeah, I usually find the "deserted island" questions asinine. What would you want on a deserted island? Um, a boat. Or a working HAM radio. And really do people really end up stranded on a deserted island? If their ship sinks or their plane goes down, they're not really stranded these days. They're dead.

But I'll humor Char and answer her questions.

If you were stranded on a deserted island...
Forever...What 3 songs would you want with you? What 3 movies would you want with you?(Yes, you were miraculously stranded with a DVD/CD player)

Really? All of the necessary stuff didn't survive the float to the island? But the DVD/CD player with a renewable source of energy did? COOL!

So here are my answers.

The three songs. This is hard because I'm a music whore.

1. I Will Survive by Gloria Gayor. C'mon, you gotta have a little inspiration to go find coconuts and bananas. What better song to keep you motivated as you haul palm fronds back to your hut, or spear fish in the lagoon?
2. Don't Fear the Reaper by Blue Oyster Cult. I gotta have a song so I can figure out the lyrics, and then ponder the meaning of life and death while I squat by the fire.
3. Jolene by Dolly Parton. A song to remember that the new emaciated me can steal any man in town once I get back to town.

The three movies?

1. Sordid Lives. A reminder of the folks back home.
2. Castaway. Proof that, if Tom Hanks can get back home, maybe even I will have a job waiting for me at FedEx. And a friend-slash-volleyball named Wilson.
3. The entire Star Wars epic. I got plenty of time. I could watch the whole series uninterrupted. And pretend to blast Ewoks out of the trees.

A Reason to Upgrade?

I had this great post about how when I was at The Dynamic Duo's, I picked up some fag rag while the Artist was scooping up Abby poop in the kitchen and saw a full-page ad for this new show on Showtime. Well, I failed to notice that Blogger was performing maintenance and that post disappeared into the blogosphere.

Frankly, I don't have the energy to re-create it. So here are the basics.

Showtime has a new show called Weeds. It's like Desperate Housewives with a new character named Mary Jane. And which Gaggle member (also known as a "Goose") wouldn't be intrigued and entertained by that?

The premise of the show is that Nancy (played by Mary-Louise Parker) loses her husband and seeks a way to support her upscale suburban family, so she becomes a pot dealer. Add in a diverse cast of characters and whoa, watch the dramedy ensue.

I went on at length about how it was disappointing that broadcast television couldn't get by with the same stuff that the pay networks could. And my point was that conservative America was controlling the airwaves. Funny how I went from dog poop to Republicans with "family values" in just six paragraphs.

At any rate, the rebellion against conservatism wasn't going to lead me to subscribe to Showtime which would require a massive financial upgrade on my part.

Therefore, I proposed mooching. How about Gaggle gatherings at those who have Showtime already on Mondays at 9 until Desperate Housewives came back after summer hiatus? Or how about Dusty and Bobo Tivo'ing it and saving it DVD for proper sharing among friends?

So there's the post, the abridged version.

And incidentally, just as I finished this post, a commercial for Weeds came on CBS during CSI: Milwaukee or some other city. And the tag line is great.

Weeds: A New Series About Dealing in the Suburbs.

The Boy I Might Have Been

Maybe it's because I was a rule-follower most of my life, especially my teens. Looking back and knowing now what I wish I had known then, I can't help but wish I had been someone else in high school. At least to know that I had I been inclined to do things differently, what kind of person would I be now?

And sometimes I wish I was 16 in this day and time with a whole lot of rebellion and black eye liner tossed in. I think I might have been the scary kid who sat in the back row of your algebra class. I would have been Hot Topic's target demographic, shopping there for everything with a healthy dose of The Cure, The White Stripes, Good Charlotte, and Led Zeppelin in my iPod. I might have submitted dark stuff about blood and steel for the literary magazine, and the only picture in my yearbook was my headshot. I wore black, and all the cheerleaders thought that I'd be the one that I was packing an assault rifle under my trenchcoat. Even though I was a kind and gentle soul who loved black-and-white photography and farmed butterflies in the darkness of my bedroom.

Well maybe that character was too harsh. But it's way too hard to imagine myself as the class president and football quarterback who got straight A's and got to wash the principal's car on the weekend. No matter which life I might have been, even I still can't envision myself as a Stepford fag, unless I had a clandestine affair with the football coach. That would change things considerably.

No, I'd be a hippie of the 21st century. I'd think "Napoleon Dynamite" was genius (and mind you, I've not seen this). I'd have shaggy hair and intellectual glasses and a scruffy beard. I'd write the movie reviews for the school newspapers, and I'd wear lots of plaid, khakis and Birkenstocks. I'd take art class and graphic arts, and I'd challenge my English teacher on the symbolism in Hamlet's soliloquy. I'd play guitar in the Quad or I'd listen to The Sundays or The Cranberries or REM or webcasts from the college radio station, while I journaled under a tall oak tree. And sketch pictures of the quarterback tossing the football in the cafeteria.

But I wasn't that person. And I think you reach a point in your life where you really can't go back. You'd be seen as immature, or the implications of changing aren't worth it. There's an income to consider, and family and friends. The movement isn't so much developing into something, as changing into something. And that's more of a deliberate movement.

It's amusing to ponder how that person in high school might have made me a different person today. Not that I'm particularly unhappy with who I am today. I know it's all part of a plan. But who doesn't wonder if things had been different?

I used to have a screensaver that scrolled the question, "Would the boy you were yesterday be proud of the man you are today?" If I think about it too much, a tear rolls down my cheek. It's a sobering thought when you think about how idealistic or imaginative we were before we got to the real world.

For the most part, the smart-ass kid I was -- the one who was president of the drama club, and wrote for both the literary magazine and the yearbook, the one who ironed his button-down shirts every night, the one who listened to Michael Bolton, Taylor Dayne and homemade mix tapes of the local radio station's Thursday night request hour, the one whose most rebellious act in high school was infiltrating the homecoming parade and breaking a bully's nose during his junior year, the one who fell asleep on the phone listening to his honey/hag sing her rendition of "Eternal Flame."

Is that smart-ass kid proud? Well, for the most part. Is this the life he thought he'd be living at 32? Not exactly. Hell, not at all. But that smart-ass kid. He was pretty naive. He had a lot to learn. So I think he learned to compensate.

This life ain't that bad. And chances are, when I'm 60, I'll be wondering if that 32-year-old man is proud of the 60-year-old he became.

The New Crib

At 9 a.m., we started the move to the new apartment. By 6 p.m., I was done. By 11 p.m., I'd had dinner with Hotass and the Dynamic Duo, had kidnapped Pistol Pete, and was swigging gin and tonics at La Estacion de Bombeo.

Needless to say, the move was successful and nothing was broken. And I feel all settled in. So here's your exclusive tour of the place I now call "home."

Enter the front door and immediately look left. And there's the gourmet kitchen. And possibly one of the things I miss most about my other kitchen. No, it's not that I cook, but there's barely enough room for one person there. You can't open the oven or the dishwasher without stepping to one side. And there's no room for the barstool, unless you climb over it.

However, at least I have a dishwasher, an oven and a barstool. There are poor children in China and starving artists in NYC who don't have anything.



Here's a look at the knick-knacks and trinkets that adorn the refrigerator door. Happy Bunny says, "I'm not mean. You're just a sissy."









Pass through the louvered doors into the dining room/living room/office. Yes, I know the wall behind the television needs something.









Here's a look back toward the dining room and the office.









Pass through a set of louvered bifold doors into a hallway, and lo and behold, there's the boudoir. This is shot from the doorway, and as you can see, the foot of the bed faces the doorway, but the head is also to the east. Therefore, it led to quite a fung shui dilemma, and much discussion among the Artist, Hotass and I. After consulting the Oracle at Delphi and rattling some bleached chicken bones, we decided that this position would result in positive energy.
This wasn't the only piece of furniture to warrant spiritual controversy. The original placement of the sofa placed the back against a large window. The Artist strongly disagreed, arguing that I didn't want to leave my head "exposed." As if I were JFK, and people would be taking sniper shots from the Cat's Music parking lot. However, when a large mirror went in place across the room from the sofa, it was okay because then I could see the assassins coming for me.

And last but not the least, the room that the booty wipes call "home." And isn't that view downright quaint? I'm sure the little Tudor bungalow across the park has a quaint view of me plucking my nosehair in the bathroom mirror.

Thanks to the boys who helped me move: The Artist; Hotass; Dancing Bear; and Buffy, the Goose formerly known as JonJon. Thanks to Shenandoah and Pink Lady who catered from Sonic.

And one last thing. The BabelFish translator translates "pumping" to "bombeo."