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?