Time for a Change

Once again it seems I've taken an extended leave of absence. And not for any good reason. Maybe I've been uninspired. Or maybe I've been busy. Or maybe this blogging thing has run its course.

It's been fun, and it was an all-consuming passion for a while. But for now, it's just a source of frustration, because I'd really like to post but the words just aren't coming like they used to. And, let's face it, Memphis is just too small of a town to talk about people like I want.

So I'm killing off Musings of a Man in Memphis. I'm going to slip quietly into blogging retirement, and maybe recharge the blogging batteries, be an ardent observer of culture and maybe in a little while, I'll resurrect myself in a new place with a new name and a no-holds-barred vengeance.

Or maybe I won't.

Who knows?

Who cares?

We just never know what the fuck life has in store, do we?

Be good, because I'll be keeping my eye on you.

Dude, You're Getting Screwed

I noticed that Dell has changed its tagline to "Purely You." Given the frustration I've had for the past two weeks, I'd like to change it to "Purely the Worst Customer Service Experience You'll Ever Have."

And honestly it really has surprised me. Before two weeks ago, I thought Dell was a great product and I've been a faithful customer for four years, buying cameras, computers, PDAs and blah blah blah from Dell and never really having an ounce of trouble.

But the trouble started three weeks ago when my current computer took a nosedive. I hit the power button and it refused to boot Windows. And, not really knowing what I was doing, I fucked myself by reinstalling Windows, and it seems I lost everything. So I decided it was a sign to retire the four-year-old laptop and get a new one.

I placed an order online for a new laptop with all the bells & whistles, and got the email stating that my order had been acknowledged and that I would soon get another email saying that the order would be processed. The second email never arrived.

Two days went by, and when I called to check on it, I got tangled up with not one, not two, not three but four different customer service reps who told me in their broken English the order was lost, and that I would need to place the order again. Oh wait, no it isn't lost, the last one says. It just showed up in the system and my order would be shipped within three to five days.

Last Monday, I get an automated call from UPS saying that my package would be delivered that day by 7 p.m. The package never arrived. Using the tracking number only told me that "UPS has electronically received billing information from the shipper." That was the status for more than a week, and still no laptop.

Yesterday, I became an irate customer. The first customer service rep told me that UPS had an "address issue" and returned the package to Dell, but not to worry because my account would be credited, and that if I had further questions about the "address issue" I needed to contact UPS.

UPS told me that the package was supposed to be delivered on the day they called, but they couldn't explain why it wasn't or if delivery was even attempted. I called Dell again and the second customer service rep researched and told me that UPS never received the package from Dell, and then upon further research, told me that Dell had never actually shipped the package in the first place. But I shouldn't worry because my account would be credited within 10-15 days and I could place the order again.

But wait, I said, why wasn't I notified about all this? And why can't you just go find the damn package and ship it out to me again, and forget the whole crediting my account thing?

I'm sorry, sir. We can't do that.

Why not? Oh because the credit is already being processed and the computer is being placed into Dell's refurbished inventory.

I'm sorry for the inconvenience, but don't worry, I will personally make sure you are kept apprised of the status of the credit reversal.

And that's where I basically called her a liar because Dell had done such a lousy job at keeping me notified of the status thus far.

I'm sorry for the inconvenience, sir. Were you happy with the level of service I provided to you today?

The more I thought about it yesterday, the madder I got. So at Hotass' urging, I called Dell one more time last night and ended up talking to two more customer service reps who put me on hold for 2-3 minutes every other exchange so they could update my record.

Finally, Dell agreed to ship a replacement product (but I'm not sure how it could replace something I never had in the first place) and ship it overnight at their expense. Now why couldn't the first person I talked to done that, and saved me three hours of being on hold that I will never get back?

I should have my fancy-schmancy Dell Inspiron E1705 within 3-5 business days.

Assuming they don't screw me over again.

Is He Fuckable?

So the starting point in determining a guy's FDM score is to decide whether or not he's fuckable. And while you might be able to answer the question with a simple yes or no, the 10-question quiz Hotass and I developed is designed to go beyond whether or not you'd merely have sex with him. The fuckable score represents the sexual chemistry, the level of physical attraction, and how much he turns you on.

Score one point for every yes. No's get zero points.

1. Would you lick his face?
2. Would you lick his ass?
3. Would you go to his place for a 2AM booty call?
4. Is this someone with whom you could act out one of your sexual fantasies?
5. Do you like the way he looks?
6. Would you blatantly flirt with him?
7. Do you or could you think about him while you're masturbating?
8. Does he exude an undeniable sexual energy?
9. Do you "go to your dirty place" when you think about him?
10. Would you fuck him more than once?
Bonus question: Is this your ideal fuckable person? Score two points if the answer is yes.

Remember this is just the first draft. I'm open to suggestions for questions. We're still working on the quizzes to determine dateable and marryable. Stay tuned.

Your Top 5 Friends

Actually I guess the point of this meme is that I'm supposed to post it on my MySpace page, but I didn't want to. So I won't.

So in case you have a MySpace page and want to play along, here are the rules. Post the names of your top five friends, and answer the questions below. No fair changing your top five.

Number 1: Jon
Number 2: Sweet Wade
Number 3: Dusty
Number 4: Char
Number 5: Tuffy

Have you ever done anything illegal with 4? Actually, I have, but I won't tell.

Have you ever loved 5? Love might be a little strong, but I think about him a lot.

Have you ever thought about kissing 1? Yep.

Have you ever danced with 5? I don't remember it if we did.

Have you ever hugged number 2? Yes.

Have you ever gotten drunk/high with 5? Um, we drank vast quantities of alcohol.

Has 4 been to your house? Not the new one, but she's invited.

Have you ever played a sport with 3? Are you kidding?

Have you ever had an inside joke with number 2? He took to bed for three days.

Has any of your top 5 ever seen you naked? At least three of them

Have you ever taken a shower with anyone in your top 5? As a matter of fact I have.

Have you ever had a crush on number 2? No, not really.

Have you ever gone shopping with 1? He's a shopping machine.

Have you ever had a class with 3? Are you kidding? Neither one of us has class.

Have you ever seen 4 in a swimsuit? Nope

Have you ever ridden in a car with 1? Yep

Have you met 5's family? Nope

Have you ever eaten anything in front of 1? Yes, there were a couple of weekends where we had every meal together.

Have you ever hated 4? Not a chance.

Have you ever fought with number 2? No way.

Have you ever seen 3 do something embarassing? There was the time that he drank so much, he threw up. And there was the other time he drank so much, he threw up.

Has 2 ever given you a present? Yes, a gift card last year for my birthday.

Have you ever seen anyone in your top 5 cry? Nope.

Has anyone in your top 5 seen you cry? Of course. I cry every time we catch the last five minutes of Extreme Makeover: Home Edition.

Have you ever done something dangerous with number 4? Nope

Have you ever slept in the same bed as number 1? Yes, I don't like to talk about it, but he gets a kick out of embarrassing me by discussing it.

Have you had a crush on anyone on your top 5? Yep, I kinda sorta got one now.

Have you done anything illegal with number 2? I think it was a misdemeanor.

The Mating Scale

This is what happens when Hotass and I have deep philosophical conversations, and drink too much in the process.

Last night, when I should have been packing, Hotass and I went out for dinner at Young Avenue Deli (which happens to be on Young Avenue in case you're wondering)and three pints of beer. Followed by a couple of more at The Pumping Station. It was almost sad that we were at the PS at 9:30 on a Tuesday night.

But over dinner, we started talking about guys, no one in particular, but just the guys in our pasts and presents -- what did or didn't work with in the relationships/affairs/flings, what was wrong with the guys, what was wrong with us.

For example, in our experience, why does a guy who looks good on paper - attractive, smart, good job, mentally stable, a perfect match in every way -- ignites no sexual chemistry? Or why do fuckbuddies remain only fuckbuddies and never graduate to boyfriends or husbands? What keeps an OIF (occasional intimate friend) from becoming man of your dreams?

I had told Hotass a while ago that I believe that every man is either fuckable, dateable or marryable. Usually he's only one. Sometimes he scores at least two of them, but if he's special, he scores on all three, and you've got a match on your hands.

Now of course it's hard to tell, based on appearance alone, if the guy standing at the bar is anything more than fuckable. But after a date or encounter, when you feel like you know him a little better, you subconsciously evaluate the guy to determine the next step - where does he fall in the FDM rating system?

Fuckable - would you have sex with him?

Dateable - we debated this point for a while, deciding what the criteria was for making someone dateable. We eventually agreed that dateable is determined by what you have in common, and basically if you enjoy his company outside the bedroom.

Marryable - is this guy the settling-down kind? Can you see yourself in a long-term relationship with him?

Somewhere in the middle of the third pint, we referred to someone we both know to illustrate our point.

Let's call him JD. Is he fuckable? Definitely. We'd both been there at separate times, and agreed that we would return if the opportunity presented itself. Is he dateable? Eh, maybe. He's a friendly guy, and might make for an enjoyable date or two. But after that, we didn't have much in common with him, and soon the well of things to talk about would run dry. Is he marryable? Probably not. He has a handful of children that live with him. He's definitely stable, but the idea of marrying into a ready-made family didn't intrigue either of us.

By the time we got to the Pumping Station, we had acknowledged the system has a couple of flaws. There were a few exceptions to the rule, such as the guys who scored three yes's on the FDM scale, but still it never progressed the way we wanted. That's when we introduced the Reality Factor.

He's perfect in every way - the sex is great, you like spending time with him, and you can almost see yourself watering roses behind a white-picket fence while he writes the check for the shared mortgage on the front porch swing. The reality is that he lives six hours away, or he's not ready for the mortgage, or he's got a hairy mole on his back that you just can't quite stop thinking about. The Reality Factor puts FDM in perspective.

Then it got complicated. Detailed calculations on cocktail napkins. Formulas, averages and fractions. And since neither one of us is a math whiz and had a few by this point, multiplying complex fractions was a serious problem. But the result was a complex scoring system: grade a man on a 10-point scale for fuckabilty, dateability and marryability, add the scores together, divide by the reality factor, and "x" equals the probability of a love connection.

Leaving nothing to chance, by the time we left, we had derived a 10-question quiz to determine the F score, and planned for similar questionnaires to get the D and M scores.

Obviously, we have too much time on our hands. If only we had devoted those brain cells to solving the crisis in the Middle East, or coming up with alternative forms of energy.

But when you bring your spreadsheet and calculator on your next date, you'll thank us.

Just Catching Up

I know I've been MIA lately but, apparently, I was so stunned by Dick McKay that I lapsed into a month-long coma. I just haven't felt there was much that was blog-worthy lately, hence the absence. But when I think about it, there has been quite a bit going on.

First, there's the new job. It's been a little more of a challenge than I thought it was going to be. I went from working for one of the largest nonprofit organizations in the country, to a two-and-a-half-person local staff. I went from battling cancer to protecting an organ that not many people think about (but you should!) And by the way, who knew that the title of this post would allude to the job that I would interview for a week later?

In my old job, there was somebody for every function, and I admit that I was spoiled. Now I feel like chief cook and bottlewasher. Plus, I kind of feel like I've been picked up by the seat of the pants and tossed right into it. There hasn't been a whole lot of formal training, and not a whole lot of resources to turn to. But I keep telling myself that this is what I wanted: more challenge, more autonomy, a good career move. So I've been pretty overwhelmed in the adjustment, and have doubted that I made the right move, but all in all, this will work out. It's good experience, right?

And then there's the house. No, I still haven't moved in yet, but Hotass has. I've been packing the last two days in preparation for the move this coming weekend. And like last year's move, and every move before that, this too is a source of great anxiety. I don't know if it's common among everyone else, but every time I change residences, I nearly have a complete and total come-apart. I hate the idea of being unsettled even if for a day, and the prospect of putting my life in boxes strikes sheer terror in my heart.

Okay so maybe "terror" is a bit dramatic, but I probably could stand a bit of therapy to help me with my moving issues.

The renovations so far... we've painted with the help of the Gaggle. Brown Teepee in the living room and dining room. Porpoise in the bathroom. Sparrow in Hotass' bedroom. Subtle Touch in the hallway. The first color that went up in my bedroom was Ocean View, but it turned out a little too blue and juvenile for my taste; the color seemed more appropriate for a five-year-old boy who liked to play with trains. So I repainted it a pleasant grayish-blue appropriately named Skipper.



We've ripped out all the carpet and sold it on Craigslist, and the hardwood floors are in remarkably good condition. We've single-handedly remodeled the bathroom. A new vanity light. Installed an electrical outlet. A new medicine cabinet. New light switches (with a dimmer of course). New vent fan. Ripped out the old vanity and installed a pedestal sink. We've replaced the stove, the washer, and the dryer, and, painting a picture of pure white trash, the old ones are sitting on the patio. If you want to take them off our hands, let me now. And I think we've done a fine job with the work so far; not bad for two queer boys who have never done this sort of thing before.

I'd like to propose that our new neighborhood become Memphis' new gay ghetto because don't you think there's something homoerotic about living in a gayborhood called Sherwood Forest? What gay man wouldn't want to call Wil Scarlet Road, Maid Marian Lane or Robin Hood Road home? Of course, we need to get the appliances off the patio before any self-respecting gay man would want to call us neighbors.

And there's been a few other things going on. There was the boy that came to visit from Connecticut, a torrid, all-consuming infatuation until there was the realization that he was there and I am here. And let's face it. I consider anything outside of Midtown a long-distance relationship. He's a wonderful person, but then there's the reality of the situation. A reality that I allowed myself to ignore for a few weeks, but it was a nice few weeks, allowing myself to get caught up in the blush of a crush.

The Dynamic Duo moved to Nashville last weekend, and left a pretty big void here in Memphis. Granted they're only three hours away, and while I was in Nashville this week for work, I stayed overnight with them, but dammit, I'm gonna miss those boys.

So, um, what else? Oh, I saw Pirates of the Caribbean today, after two Bloody Mary's and a crab-Swiss-spinach omelet at Bayou Bar & Grill. The omelet was good and I was unimpressed with the movie. And I'm really kinda diggin' Christina Aguilera's new song, and I'll give it my vote as the Summer Song of 2006. And I don't care how wrong it is, but I really feel sorry for how white-trash Britney Spears has become. I just want Madonna to take her aside and give her a good talking-to. And I'm really sorta worried about this thing in the Middle East.

So that's what's been going on with me. What's been going on with you?

ohmygod

Two of the best places in the world to boywatch are Home Depot and the airport. And if there are two places I've been spending a lot of time lately, it's Home Depot and the airport.

With the traveling this week and the home remodeling, Hotass and I have had a lot of opportunity to spot some really fine specimens of eye candy. And we're usually on the phone with each other.

In the middle of shopping for medicine cabinets or arranging for him to pick me up at the airport, the conversation stops mid-sentence.

"I'll just give you a call when my plane...ohmygod."

"What is it?" But we already know what it is. It's a hairy. brawny, rugged, masculine handsome man. We don't even ask for further details. God walks on by and the conversation picks up where we left off.

Earlier this week, I spotted Dick McKay on Queerclick. Consider this post my own little "ohmygod" from me to you.

So, um, what were you saying?

Leavin' on a Jet Plane

Normally these musings are from a man in Memphis, but for the first time ever (and probably the last time), these are musings from a man in Detroit.

At least I think it's Detroit. It's supposed to be Detroit, but it could very easily be an airport in Des Moines or Duluth. I'm only in the first hour of a three-hour layover on my way home, and I just really want to get back to Memphis.

I've spent the week in Connecticut. At least I think it was Connecticut. There wasn't much indication that I was in a place with any type of personality. It looked fairly scenic through the window of the car that picked me at the airport, and I could almost kinda sorta see the river from my hotel room.

This was the first trip with my new job. I started a week ago today, and I've been at a staff conference since Monday, trying not to look bewildered and desperately trying to fake competence. People are swift to judge the new guy and I didn't want to look like a dumbass. It was a good chance to meet the other folks I'll be working with from around the country, but I can't tell you how many times I had to whisper to the person sitting next to me, "What the hell does that mean?"

I can tell you that this new organization is a refreshing change from my last one. Our accommodations? A casino, but it was quite plush. Our meals? Divine and on the company dime, much better than the usual penny-pinching chicken and vegetable conference fare. Our alcohol? Well, I can at least say, that everyone I told that I was coming to work for this organization asked if I could still drink. That answer is a resounding yes. And most of this week's booze was on someone else's tab. That's just fantastic. I don't care who you are.

On the flip side of things, there were way too many Jewish grandmothers playing the slot machines. I think there was almost a geriatric revolt when our group was escorted to the front of the buffet line. My Southern ears didn't adapt well to the Midwestern and Northeastern whang of my new coworkers. I'm craving a redneck drawl, and being around mostly straight people all week, I'd love to just have a total "nell spell" and squeal at the top of my lungs. Just to get it out of my system.

I do feel like I haven't seen the sun all week, except through a window. And I'm pretty protective of my me-time and I get downright exhausted when I don't have recharging time. Trying to impress, soaking in new information and falling into bed late at night only to do it all over again early the next day has really taken a toll on my internal batteries.

So yeah -- a new job, a new house, big changes in the Gaggle (not only has Tman left but the Dynamic Duo are moving away too), traveling, I just don't feel like I've had much downtime lately, and I'm just worn the fuck out.

Two Queers and a Hammer

So now we've done it. Hotass and I have become homeowners.

Two months ago, I was content to live in my apartment, gladly paying rent for the convenience and peace of mind knowing that if something broke, it wasn't my problem. When it came to my home, I was a little commitment-phobic. Yes, I was aware of all the pro's of owning a home. The tax breaks. The investment. The security. The freedom. But the possibility of being dragged into a money pit and giving up my weekends for yardwork scared the daylights out of me, so I considered myself a terminal renter.

But then Tman decided to sell his house and move, and Hotass needed a roof over his head. And there was that nagging thought that I should probably grow up and get over my fears. And so when he proposed that we go in together and put down some roots, I agreed.

We found the perfect starter house, even if it was the first and only one we looked at. Affordable, but yet a place we can get a decent return on our investment in a couple of years. In a semi-quiet older neighborhood. Still inside the 240 Loop and close enough to Midtown that I don't get panicky. And yeah, there are upgrades and remodeling that needs to be done, but we have delusions that we can do the work ourselves.

The real estate agent handed us the keys to our new home yesterday afternoon, and by the time I got there after work, Hotass had already trimmed a single bush by the driveway and ripped out the bathroom medicine cabinet, leaving a gaping nasty hole in the bathroom wall. He said he needed some immediate gratification.

Last night we made our first trip to Lowe's as naive and eager do-it-yourselfers. Two and a half hours later, we left with a new pedestal sink, a vanity light, a faucet kit, wallpaper stripper, a bathroom vent fan, paint chips, and a lawnmower.

After I scored the seashell wallpaper in the bathroom, we stood around looking at what we could do next. We spied the tiled-in soap dish, toothbrush holder and towel rack. We might have watched too much HGTV.

"How do you feel about those?"

"I hate 'em."

Pieces of ceramic tile shattered and we started chiseling away at the remainder with a hammer and screwdriver, careful to not chip the surrounding tile and debating what we were going to put in the empty spaces and what color the wall would end up.

Tomorrow is my only day off before I start my new job on Thursday, and we'll spend the day, ripping out the vanity and installing the new sink and vanity light. This weekend, we're organizing a paint party for the rest of the house.

This home-ownership thing is going to be a blast. Stay tuned for photos and our progress.

A Cure for the Summertime Blues

It's not even officially summer, but already Spider has noted that several bloggers have the summertime blues. To cure the early summer blues, he's offered up a meme to break the blahs.

Here's how it works: Answer all of the original 20 questions (10 from Spider, 5 from Brad and 5 from me) that I have posted here, and then add five of your own.




Best summer: Maybe the summer of '95 - the first summer out on my own that finished with a road trip to New Orleans for Southern Decadence. That picture was made just before we got in the car to leave. Who were those boys? Oh, and the summer of '05 was pretty damn good too.

Best car I've ever owned: A 1985 Nissan 200SX

Best cruising song: "Where the Streets Have No Name", U2.

Favorite meal: Meatloaf and mashed potatoes

Favorite season: Fall

Proudest accomplishment: Landing the job that I start next week.

Best Christmas gift: Tickle-Me Elmo. No, seriously.

Most embarrassing moment: Taking a spill on the stairs at Backstreet.

Best slow dance song: "At Last," Etta James

Best night: The best night in recent memory is the night when the Gaggle went down to Beale Street.

These are the five that Brad added:
Favorite pet: Baxter, the stray daschund mutt I carried home, only to have to put him to sleep a week later because he was infested with worms.

Favorite crush: Mickey Brown. He sat across from me in high school Spanish class and would pretend to yawn to get me to yawn too. And he was just so damn cute.

Best vacation: The Outer Banks, 2001 and 2002.

Best relationship: Despite all of the heartache and drama, when my last relationship was good, it was great. When it was bad, it was dreadful.

Favorite dessert: Tiramisu. Or apple pie.

My questions
Favorite smell that reminds you of summer : Honeysuckle

Favorite song that reminds you of your first love: "Wicked Game" - Chris Isaak

Most memorable summer fling: Kevin Sherrill. Even though we had known each other since freshman orientation, I had no idea he was gay until we graduated. We first hooked up at my best friend's graduation party, and then again a week or two later. I remember talking to him on the phone during the series finale of "Melrose Place." The next week, he went to New York to make it big on Broadway, and I never heard from him again.

Best way to beat the heat: Taking a cool shower, and taking a nap in the coldest, darkest room in the house.

Favorite summer drink: Gin & tonic

A Bang-Up Weekend

Normally getting smashed involves copious amounts of alcohol. But that wasn't the case Friday afternoon, when a beige Mercedes ran a red light and started my weekend with a bang.

Truvy the CR-V wasn't driveable, so she spent the weekend in a tow lot, and I spent the weekend being picked up and dropped off by Hotass, until I could get a rental car today, a super-stylish and ultra-fashionable Toyota Corolla.

Aside from the inconvenience of not having a car and being pissed off because I had just filled up with gas ($40 wasted) and given Truvy her first bath of summer, it was a good weekend.

Most of the Gaggle had gone to more tropical, or at least sexier, settings: JonJon, Sweet Wade, Dusty and Bobo went to Pensacola. Tman went to IML in Chicago. The Chef and the Artist flew out Sunday morning for a week in Key West.

Hotass' "friend" from Birmingham, who the Gaggle has named BamaNut, and his best friend came to town Saturday. We had lunch at Huey's and then the four of us met the Dynamic Duo for an X-men matinee and Central BBQ before they went home to finish packing and haggle with the airline for changing their flight. Our schedules revolve around our feeding times.

After a early evening nap, the four of us started at the Pumping Station, there only long enough to have one drink and make an appearance, and then went to Backstreet.

There are a lot of reasons I can't go to Backstreet much. One, the recovery time from dancing til 3 in the morning is not what it used to be. Two, there are popped collars on Polo shirts everywhere, and I hope this is a trend that dies a quick and painful death. Three, I'm scared to death of the stairs after taking a tumble down them once before.

The Sunday morning recovery was just what I had expected: exhausted and a little hungover. And I guess that's why BamaNut asked me if I was always that grumpy on Sunday mornings. We hit a couple of Memorial Day cookouts, but I don't think any of us were quite feeling up to it. By five, I was ready for another nap.

The boys came over later in the evening, armed with pizza and cookies, and we played poker til after midnight.

BamaNut and Chris went back to Birmingham Monday morning, and I spent the day doing laundry and watching a "Flip That House" marathon on TLC with Hotass.

And the weekend ended like it began. BamaNut had just gotten back to Birmingham when a lady ran a red light and ripped off his front bumper.

Hope you had a smashing weekend too.

Let Them Eat Cake

While another season of Desperate Housewives ended, the Gaggle closed a chapter as well.

In case you're curious about who got killed on The Gaggle's season finale, it was the caramel cake from the Commissary.

It wasn't the first cake to disappear from the streets of Memphis in the past year and a half. There was an angel-food cake in the shape of a sand castle. Half of a German-chocolate cake. I distinctly remember a half-dozen birthday cakes, a couple of gallons of ice cream, and easily two trifles.

But Sunday night's caramel cake wasn't just killed. It was slaughtered. Perhaps some of the worst carnage we've ever left in our path.

At least the going-away cake on Friday was given the dignity of being sliced and served.

T-man has taken a job in Austin, and in true Gaggle fashion, we threw him a cowboy sendoff. Complete with hay bales, margarita punch, a beer keg, a cowboy cake and linedancing lessons. I really wanted pony rides and a mechanical bull too, but that never came to pass.

Not only did we wish "happy trails" to a good and always-hospitable friend, but it was a good-bye to the house, the site of many Gaggle gatherings and pool parties. And we definitely haven't had enough warm days in Memphis yet this year to warrant jumping in the pool.
On Sunday, we gathered for the last time in the Homo-comb Hideout to watch tv, eat and close out a season. With T-man's move West and the selling of the house, we're left with a few cliffhangers.

Can the Gaggle ever replace the irreplaceable T-man? What will happen to poor Hotass now that's he's homeless? Are Skipper & Hotass ready to sign on for another season of Laverne & Shirley? What will happen with Skipper's new job? Will the Dynamic Duo give up Memphis for the Conch Republic? Where did that Dale Evans-wannabe-in-the-powder-blue-cowboy-hat get her outfit?

And more importantly, given their appetite for cake, will the Gaggle let Jenny Craig join the group?

Fortunately, no one has to wonder through a summer hiatus.

Say Good Night, Grace

I actually missed the series finale of Will & Grace. And I shouldn't have; I should have been there in that Manhattan apartment. But instead, I was standing in line at Wal-Mart to pay for a six pack and a 30-piece Western playset, complete with cowboys, Indians and a covered wagon, but that's another story.

Earlier today, Hotass and I talked about watching it, since we were there in the beginning, taping every single episode. But we both agreed that we had lost touch with Will, Grace, Jack and Karen over the years, and if we felt the need to get caught up, we could pick up the DVD tomorrow.

About the time that Will and Grace debuted, I met my Grace, an always-nutty, frequently-impractical, sometimes redhead expertly played against my always-practical, frequently-cynical, and only-once-platinum blonde Will. And we had standing Thursday night dates to drink gallons of wine and watch our imagined lives played out.

She is the only person in the world who, in a game of Password, will respond to "jaunty" with "scarf." She knows why me being terribly effusive for cheese bread is funny. She's witnessed drunken emotional purges on stormy North Carolina beaches. I know that on vacations she doesn't want to go to historic landmarks, because it's just someplace where stuff used to happen.

But the show jumped the shark at some point. Maybe when Will and Grace decided to have a baby. Maybe our lives didn't closely resemble what we saw anymore. Or maybe our lives just got too complicated for TV. Whatever the reason, we lost interest.

I hadn't watched since Karen scattered Stan's ashes from the boat. So I didn't feel so guilty about missing the final episode.

When I got home from Wal-Mart, I had this e-mail from Grace.

Tonight is it. The last night we'll be together, me with my flaming red hair, cooky wardrobe and curiously large baby belly, with a dork of an exhusband who looks remarkably like that jazz singer. You with your quips, smarts, savvy wardrobe and expensive shoes. Your plethora of hair care items will sit alone in the bathroom that the rest of the world has only seen once. I'm sorry to have had relations with your older brother, even though Sam was a hottie. I'm sorry we fought and had to make up in a vomit-soaked inflated castle at a child's birthday party. I'll always remember our talks, our jaunts, our watching gay porn until the wee hours of the morning; our shared coffee with the loudmouth, brash drunk, and the loudmouth brash actor/dancer/nurse/tvexec/host. You are my friend, my love, my split apart, my psychic word game partner, my right arm, the right side of my brain and my rock. I'll always love you.

Now I feel guilty about missing it, but Grace, I'll see you July 1.

Living on the Fault Line

"The probability of magnitude 6.0 or greater in the near future is considered significant; a 90% chance of such an earthquake by the year 2040 has been given."

Within the next 34 years, assuming I still live in Memphis, I have a 90 percent chance of being caught in a devastating earthquake. Surprisingly, my chances of being shot on Sam Cooper Boulevard or in Orange Mound are considerably less.

The Big One could happen tomorrow. And it's not like a tornado-spawning thunderstorm or a hurricane; you can't tune in to The Weather Channel and find out it's headed right for you. All you can do is duck and cover when the floor starts to wobble.

It's not like we live in fear, but everyone knows we're living on shaky ground.

Almost everyone I know seems to be experiencing their own personal little earthquakes. It seems like the tremors have already started. Just strange little signs and major life changes.

Tuesday morning, after the receptionist at work greeted me with a good morning, she asked if I felt like there was some weird vibe in the air.

"Everyone seems so on edge, and I don't like it."

I agreed with her.

The Gay Questionnaire

I saw this on Spider's blog, and thought I'd play along too.

1. How old were you when you knew you were gay? Probably around 11 or 12 is when it first dawned on me. About the time puberty struck, and I realized I was only jerking off to the guys in the Hustler magazines.

2. Have you ever had sex with the opposite sex? Not intercourse

3. Who was the first person you came out to? My best girl friend in high school - Kym Bilbrey. After I went to college, she heard a few rumors in the hometown, and she suspected that I was guilty by association. So I lied and came out as a bisexual. The faster the questions came about that, the harder it became to keep up with the lies. So I went ahead and told her I was gay

4. Are you out to your family? Nope

5. Do you want children? Probably not

6. Do you have more gay friends or straight friends? As friends go, I have definitely more of the gay persuasion

7. Were you out in school? Definitely not in high school, and not for the first few years in college. I had just started inching out of the closet when I graduated.

8. Is your best friend the same sex as you? Yes

9. If your best friend is the same sex, have you ever had sex with them? No

10. Have you ever done crystal meth? No

11. Have you ever been in a sling? Alas, no.

12. Have you ever done a 3-way? Um, yeah.

13. Have you ever dressed in drag? Do your homework.

14. Would you date a drag queen? Probably not again.

15. Are you a top/bottom or truly versatile? I'm about 20:80 on the top:bottom ratio. And according to the Gaggle, the real lyrics to Pink's song are, "God is a DJ. James is a bottom." It's kind of hard to deny that kind of poetry.

16. Have you seen an uncircumcised penis? My first one was uncircumsised.

17. Have you had sex with someone of a different ethnicity? Yes.

18. Have you ever barebacked? Yes

19. How many Cher CDs do you own? Three - Believe, Cher's Greatest Hits, and The Very Best of Cher. And I also have her picture stuck in the passenger side visor mirror.

20. Name of your first love? Johnai Einert

21. Do you still talk to them? Nope.

22. Does size matter? As Clinton and Stacy say on What Not to Wear, it's not about the size. It's about the fit.

23. Biggest turn on? Goatees, hairy chests, young cubbish guys with neat beards, jockstraps, beefy arms

24. Biggest turn off? Pretense. Materialism. Bushy balls.

25. Ever been harassed due to you orientation? Yeah

26. Worst gay stereotype that applies to you? Likes dance music and showtunes. Idolizes Diana Ross and Madonna. Dreams about Martha Stewart.

27. Ever been to a pride rally? Yes.

28. Would you marry if you could? Yes.

29. Would you rather be rich and smart or young and beautiful? Rich and smart.

30. Do you sculpt your eyebrows? My fear is I'd end up looking like Liza Minelli.

31. Do you trim your body hair? Nope. I gave it all up years ago, except the manscaping on the south lawn.

32. Ever had sex with more than one person in a day? In a 24-hour period, yes.

33. Ever been to an orgy? Yep.

34. Have you dated your best friends ex? An ex-boyfriend? No. An ex-trick or ex-affair? Yes.

35. Would you vote for Hillary Clinton if she ran for president? Depends on what the options are.

36. Do you want monogamy in your relationships? I think I do.

37. Do you believe in true love? Absolutely.

38. Do you have any tattoos? Yes, look right there above the crack of my ass.

39. Do you have any piercings? I was a total dork in 1991, and I got my ear pierced at the jewelry counter at Wal-Mart. And I did it because everyone else did it. I haven't worn an earring in it a long time and it's grown up mostly. There is still a hole in my left ear I see every morning to remind me.

40. Would you date a smoker? Yes.

41. Do you get HIV tests every 6 months? At least once a year.

42. Do you know anyone who has died from H.I.V.? Not really.

43. Do you know what Stonewall was? Yes.

44. Strangest place you have had sex? In the middle of a lake suspended by foam noodles.

45. Strangest place you've woken up? Under a pine tree.

46. Are your best years behind or in front of you? Please God, let them be in front of me.

47. Favorite porn movie? Men's Room: Gale Force - Titan

48. Are you in love now? No

49. Ever been in love with a straight guy/girl? Yes.

50. Did you ever have sex with them? No

51. Have you ever been to a nude beach? No.

52. Have you ever been to a bath house? Yes

53. Ever had sex in public? Yes

54. Have you ever been/stayed in a relationship for Money or Security, instead of Love and Friendship? Hell no

55. Have you ever keyed someone's car? I think maybe I did, but I distinctly spraying the doorhandle with copious amounts of pepper spray.

56. Have you ever fantasized killing someone not famous? Yep

57. Have you ever witnessed someone dying? No

58. Have you ever contemplated suicide? Yes

59. Are you glad you're still here? Absolutely. That which does not kill us makes us stronger.

Finishing Up the Househusband's Interview

2. What is the sexiest thing about being a gay man? And why?
The answer to this question goes hand-in-hand with the answer to the next. The sexiest thing about being a gay man is exuding confidence, and feeling immune to judgement. It's not a confidence that comes from knowing you're the best looking man in the room. It's the confidence that comes from not caring whether you are or not.

3. What is the ugliest thing about being a gay man? And why?
I'm guilty of it, and Hotass and I even joke about it. We judge. It's what we do. As gay men, we've fought most of our lives for some degree of acceptance, but yet the ugliest characteristic of being a gay man is our/my propensity to meet, greet and pass judgement.

It happens every Friday and Saturday night at the Pumping Station. We look around and we size up everyone in sight, mentally taking note of flaws and bad shoes. And it's ugly because we sure don't want that judgement cast back upon us.

4. As an artist you paint what is in your mind's eye. If you were blind, what would you paint and what would guide you?
If I had been blind since birth and had never seen the beauty (and the ugliness) of the world, I would paint how I imagine things to be. I think it would be pretty liberating to paint what you feel, instead of what you see, and not feel bound by conventional concepts of perspective, color and form. How does sunlight feel, and how do you represent that with color and texture?

If I had witnessed the world and then became blind, I think that would be more frustrating to me, because I would want the finished piece to accurately reflect what I saw in my memory. Not having the benefit of sight, how would I know when I was finished?

5. Being a "spiritualist", what guides you down your path to enlightenment?
You might not think of Oprah as a spiritual leader, but what guides me is something I heard her say or read in O magazine. Live your best life. And to me that means I ask myself if I am truly enjoying my life. Am I being the best person I can be? Have I been kind to others and to myself? Have I appreciated and been grateful for the gifts I have? And can I do better tomorrow?

And now the rules:The Official Interview Games Rules:
1) If you want to participate, leave me a comment below saying, "interview me".
2) I will respond by asking you five questions - each person's will be different.
3) You will update your journal/blog with the answers to the questions.
4) You will include this explanation and an offer to interview others in the same post.
5) When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.

Martha and Me

Last night I dreamed about Martha Stewart and me just hanging out in her kitchen, baking cookies.

It wasn't the first time we had met. We both remembered our first meeting a few years ago. Hotass had given me a visit with Martha shortly after he and I met in Nashville, and I got to hang out with her then, baking cookies. But I was all nervous and stuff, and she got frustrated with me, because I was making a mess with the frosting. She apologized to me last night. Prison has a way of changing a person, she said, but she still didn't think I had given the frosting job 100 percent.

Her demeanor seemed rushed and aloof, but we still talked openly and honestly about the meaning of life, while she broke eggs and mixed cookie dough. I asked her how she managed to stay cold and collected, and make everything so perfectly.

"Cold?" she asked. "You think I'm cold?"

"No, I meant cool. You actually seem very warm and inviting on your new show. But you always seem to have it together."

"Didn't you see me fall apart when I got sent to prison?"

And then she asked me to get her a platter for the cookies, the one on the bottom shelf. It was a Christmas platter with red poinsettias on it.

"Martha, are you sure you want to use this one? It's ugly."

"Yes, I'm sure. The lady we're giving these to... well, I don't like her very much."

And then I woke up.

If You Have a Liver to Spare...

Then there's a trash can on Beale Street that will gladly take your your spare organs. Just slide it right there in the deposit box.

Tonight, we went to Pat O'Brien's, and we sang along to the dueling pianos in the bar. We sang along, at special request from our table, to "Dancing Queen." Actually we requested "Mamma Mia" but apparently that was outside their repertoire. "Dancing Queen" was as good as it got.

And the pianists never played the gospel hymn "Just As I Am" leading into the gay anthem, "I Am What I Am." We certainly asked and it should have been an easy transition to make, but our pianists stuck to the mainstays like "Uptown Girl," The Rose" and "Rocky Top."

Then, for our stumble down Beale Street, Hotass bought a dive bucket from Silky O'Sullivan's. And while we're still not quite sure what the ingredients are, we're fairly certain the drink in the orange gallon bucket is made up mostly of beer (althought all of the other ingredients are in question), and more than five straws. The straight out-of-town drunk women over 40 are always eager to know what's in the bucket and where you got it.

"She's an ex-cop and her ex-husband is a state trooper in Illinois."

"How do you know that?"

"That's what her mother said," T-man said, jerking his head in the direction of the woman with the camera.

And if you call out "Lisa!" to a pack of hot slutty girls, one of them is bound to turn around. As that's what happened with the girls out on the bachelorette party. At least the bride pretended to be Lisa as Jerry gnawed a peppermint LifeSaver from her tank top.

Sunday Bloody Sunday 2006

As a kid, the most exciting thing about Easter was the stuff in the basket. Granted, most of the goodies were things that I wouldn't dare eat. I wasn't a fan of hard-boiled eggs, or the jellybeans, or even Peeps. Most of the time I could only bring myself to eat the sugary shell, picking around the marshmallow fluff. Even after I gnawed the ears off the chocolate bunnies, I lost interest quickly.

I was more interested in the stuff with the longer shelf life (although God knows that Peeps were so full of artificial preservatives they would stick around until Christ's second coming.) I wanted the goods - the coloring books, the fresh pack of Crayola 64, the Silly Putty, the fuzzy rabbit that played "Frere Jacques" when I turned the key sticking out of its butt. Oh, and don't forget about the new Easter outfit - something cute, something pastel, something to get one good wear out of before I outgrew it.

Who says childhood was a simpler time? As an adult, I only want one thing for Easter: a good bloody mary.

I lamented to the Artist on Saturday as we were playing voice mail tag that I wished the Gaggle had planned some Easter Sunday festivities so that we could enjoy some quality time together. Ok, ok, it was all a guise to drink bloody marys. The Artist called back with a message that he and the Chef would be happy to pull something together for the afternoon, and that I should rest assured there would be bloody marys.

Insert unbridled glee here.

However, there were a few tense moments when I retrieved another voice mail message from the Artist saying that he had remembered to pick up all of the fixin's for bloody marys, but he had forgotten the vodka. How does one forget the vodka??

I glanced at the clock. It was 11:00 p.m., and as mandated by Tennessee state law, all liquor stores in Memphis had just closed til Monday. I told Hotass I'd squeeze potatoes if I had to.

Only an Easter miracle could save us now.

But like the miracle of loaves and fishes, everyone scraped together a few partial bottles of rotgut and Absolut managed to produce enough bloody marys to get the Gaggle through the afternoon and into the evening.

So instead of hiding eggs or celebrating Resurrection, we ate. Big surprise. There's always food involved. Like the Chef's homemade upright bunny cake with the sky blue almond M&Ms protruding alien-like from its frosted head. There were grilled burgers, potato salad, coleslaw, and the best baked beans I've ever had.

And the debate continues as to whether Sweet Wade's ambrosia salad is pink or orange.

And a pre-Desperate Housewives game of Hilarium and, the newest Gaggle inductee, Stick's portrayal of a queen, gave rise to a new catchphrase:

"I'm gonna read you bitches! I'm gonna read you bitches!"

All in all, I had fun stuff in my basket this year.

Thank you, Easter Bunny. Bawk-bawk!

The Interview Continues - The Hearthusband Questions

Turnabout is fair play. So after I quizzed the Artist, I made sure that he came up with a few questions of his own for me.

1. Who do you consider to be your positive gay role model? If multiples, list. And why?
This is a really hard question for me. So I thought it might be easier to describe the qualities that my positive gay role model would have.

My gay role model is comfortable with his sexuality, physically, emotionally, and politically.

As a sexual gay man, he doesn't hide it, nor does he make a big deal out of it. He recognizes that being gay goes beyond who he has sex with. But he's also comfortable with whatever his "thing" is. Every gay man has his "thing" (and in some cases, "things") that turns him on. Married men. Furry men. Twink boys. Men who wear frilly panties. Nipple play. Ass play. Leather or latex. Hey, it's your thing. Whatever floats your boat. Even if my schooner isn't set out to sail by it. I admire those gay men who are who they are, and aren't ashamed or embarrassed about who they are in the bedroom. And they talk honestly about it, but not like they're bragging about it or going for shock factor.

Mentally, he's okay with the way he's wired. He's not carrying around mountains of guilt, nor does he carry around some internalized homophobia that makes him despise or, at least, mistrust all of the gay men who aren't like him.

Politically, he knows when the time is right to stand up and be counted. And he knows when he needs to shut up and sit down.

For example, last night at the gay and lesbian center, I heard SYD (Skinny Young Dyke), - the same one Sweet Wade bid on at the auction - describe an encounter she had with a girl who gave her a ride home from school.

"I just don't get why some people are so oblivious to their own oppression," SYD said as she rolled her bike into the room.

Earlier in the afternoon, as they were loading SYD's bike into the "oppressed" girl's car, the girl said, "It would be so much easier if a guy were here to help us." Naturally, SYD was appalled, and she went on a 15-minute tirade about "white male privilege."

The poor girl could only say, "Is this where I turn?"

I admire SYD's outspokenness, but I think she might have missed the point. When the time is right, write a letter, vote, carry a picket sign outside the Republican National Convention. But when someone is helping you load your bicycle into their car, shut up and enjoy the kindness.

Socially, he's not exclusively gay. He's balanced. And he can easily transition from one degree to the other.

Maybe I've just described the most well-adjusted gay man. And I'm not so sure he exists. But it's a nice ideal to shoot for.

I'll get to these other questions later.
2. What is the sexiest thing about being a gay man? And why?
3. What is the ugliest thing about being a gay man? And why?
4. As an arist you paint what is in your mind's eye. If you were blind, what would you paint and what would guide you?
5. Being a "spiritualist", what guides you down your path to enlightenment?

Sprung

It must be spring. I know this not because the flowers are blooming and the trees are budding. But because within 20 minutes of washing my car yesterday afternoon, it was covered with a fine layer of yellow-green pollen.

Today, it was blue skies and 81 degrees in Memphis.

And it's funny how not only does spring make the world wake up, but people too. More than in springs past, I notice this year how everyone seems to be rubbing the sleep from their eyes, and coming to back to the land of the living.

I've been a little restless and bored the last few weeks, and that's what prompted another template for my site. And I've been too bored with the site to even think about posting much. And because everyone seems to be waking up, there have been a few other things to occupy my time.

There was the Chef's birthday party. While not as wild as last year's Greco-Roman toga orgy, what would a Gaggle gathering be without a theme and costumes? This year's theme was "Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil" and the dress was Southern eccentric. So it was flowers, candles and Southern Comfort punch in JonJon's backyard. And naturally, there was lots of seersucker. And the ladies thought Southern eccentric meant big floppy hats, big swinging necklaces, and lots of makeup. However, I can't believe there wasn't a Lady Chablis. And I think my outfit was more Drum Eatenton in Mayberry.

Last week, I found myself being auctioned off in the Memphis Gay & Lesbian Center's bachelor and bachelorette auction. And there's nothing like the prospect of being sold off to the highest bidder like a piece of furniture to make you feel like either a scratched-up end table or an antique English armoire. However, two grande gin and tonics later, I didn't really care that much. Don't get me wrong, though; I'm pretty impressed with the fact that I brought in $425.

And one of the best moments of the night was when this cute slim character came out on stage, white shirt, tie, short haircut, and glasses. Wade has a soft spot for twinks so he threw up his hand to bid $105.

"Wade, that's a girl!"
"What? No, it's not!"
"Yes, it is."
"Oh dear God, somebody please bid 110."

Tomorrow, Hotass and I are headed to Nashville for a three-day weekend. Hopefully, this will quell any feelings of wanderlust and spring fever for a while

Lastly, a song much less annoying than "Popular" has gotten stuck in my head. While it was intended to be the Dixie Chicks' big giant fuck-you to the conservatives who trashed them after Natalie Maines said they were ashamed to be from the same state as George W. Bush, the song translates pretty well into a big giant fuck-you to anyone who has ever pissed you off, and lets you know it's okay to hold a grudge.

Dixie Chicks - Not Ready to Make Nice

No One Mourns the Wicked

Since he doesn't watch tv or read, I'm not sure how Hotass discovered Wicked. And one of our recent therapy sessions happened to coincide with his purchase of the soundtrack.

Lately, we've had a couple of mutual counseling sessions to help each other figure out life, but the latest one turned into a dissection of the story of Elphaba (aka The Wicked Witch of the West) and Galinda (alias: Glinda the Good Witch).

I read the book and hated it, and because of that, I couldn't understand how the musical could be the least bit entertaining.

So instead of trying to psychoanalyze each other last Thursday, Hotass replaced the video card in his computer, and we listened to Kristin Chenoweth and Idina Menzel.

And I hate to admit that I can't get these fucking songs out of my head. I've downloaded (and that's downloaded legally in case you're wondering) "Popular," "For Good," and "I'm Not that Girl," and they've been in heavy rotation lately.

And it's gotten so bad that instead of driving down Poplar Avenue, I'm now driving down Pop-YooHoo-Lar.

Popular-Wicked Soundtrack