Les Ombres Part Deux: Colton Steele Gets Trapped

Les Ombres Part Deux: Colton Steele Gets Trapped

The Great Tank Top Rebellion

It was a rare, beautiful weekend in Memphis.

I mean not just beautiful, but picture-perfect. The skies were blue. The clouds were fluffy and white. The temperatures hovered around 80. And it was late on a Sunday afternoon. We had been out at the ballfield to watch Hotass play softball. (The Pumping Station Heat won their two games. Go Heat!) And it was still early enough in the afternoon that we were hungry and feeling like we could pack away a drink or four.

One of the best patios in Memphis is Bosco's. Conveniently located in Midtown, Bosco's serves up some good homebrew as well as a kick-ass pizza. So on this late spring Sunday afternoon, we thought we'd blow up into Bosco's and enjoy the afternoon.

Now mind you, we were dressed casually. Shorts. Sandals. And, yes, some among us were wearing tanktops or at the least a muscle shirt.

Five us of walked in. The hostess looked right us and proceeded to walk away to the bar, where she said to the bartender, "I need to ask you a question." The bartender noticed us and pointed at us as if to say, "You dumb girl, you've got a table of five ready to be seated." She came back, grabbed some menus and proceeded to lead us to the patio.

We passed a table of Bosco's servers, probably on their break or ones who had just been cut. And one shouts out as our hostess leads us to the patio, "Hey! No tank-tops!"

As our polite, but seemingly oblivious, server showed us to a table on the patio, which was sparsely occupied by smokers and a few others, another one of Bosco's staff burst through door and reiterated what had been shouted out by the off-duty servers. "I'm sorry but you can't wear tanktops."

Wha?

"We don't allow tanktops but we'll be glad to give you a t-shirt to wear."

Excuse me? But what about girls with their skinny little spaghetti straps and their cleavage hanging out over their Flaming Stone?

Apparently, boobs are ok.

We all declined the Bosco's t-shirts and quickly made our exits, muttering to everyone within listening distance how stupid and decidedly sexist the Bosco's dress code was.

To Bosco's credit, they do post on their front door "Appropriate Attire Required." But that's it.

I agree that businesses reserve the right to decide what dress is appropriate for their customers. For example, I wouldn't expect Paulette's, right next door to Bosco's. to let us in wearing only t-shirts, sandals and shorts. That's why we chose Bosco's, because Bosco's has a casual menu, a full homebrewed beer selection and a fairly casual atmosphere.

But at Bosco's there is no definition of what exactly is appropriate attire. Is it coat and tie? Perhaps it's Japanese kimonos? Maybe only Eskimo parkas are appropriate? Who can say? It's pretty commonplace for "No shirt, no shoes, no service." But come on. We were wearing sandals (as were most of the women, and a few of the guys.) And it's not as if manboobs were exposed to everyone. And our only sin was that our sleeve-line rose up two inches above where it could have been.

Secondly, if this was a Bosco's policy, how come our hostess and the bartender,who so politely pointed out to her that we were ready to be seated, weren't aware of this policy? It would seem like the hostess would be the first line of defense against the undesirables who come through the front door in tanktops.

Thirdly, let's talk about the assholes who were on break or had recently been cut. If we were indeed in violation, was it really good customer service for the cut staff seated at a booth drinking their pints of beer and counting their tips to shout out "Hey! No tank tops!" as we walked by?

The bottom line is that a business can adopt any policy it wants for its customers. If you only want black people in line green plaid sportcoats, it's a free country. Whatever you think will make you money or satisfy your cockeyed sense of capitalism.

However, be consistent and be sensible. So a girl wants to walk in a spaghetti strap tank dress with her tits bulging out of it. Big deal. Just don't be indignant when a guy walks in a tank top. At the worst, he's showing his pit hair and maybe some side flaps. But I've seen some girls who show the same damn thing.

So tell me... who was in the "wrong" in this scenario?

Guess What I'm Thinking About

maninmemphis.muxtape.com

Just a Passing Reminder

What follows sounds like it came from one of those passed-along email forwards, and if I didn't forward it to five of my friends by midnight, gorillas would eat all the cheese in the world and I wouldn't find love until I was 40. I usually delete those emails without regard for the world's cheese supply.

Nevertheless, I got a random friend request on mySpace (from some guy who already has 6,313 friends) and when I went to his page, one of the first things I saw was this:

As we grow up, we learn that even the one person that wasn't supposed to ever let you down probably will.

You will have your heart broken, probably more than once and it's harder every time. You'll break hearts too, so remember how it felt when yours was broken.

You'll fight with your best friend.

You'll blame a new love for things an old one did.

You'll cry because time is passing too fast, and you'll eventually lose someone you love.

So take too many pictures, laugh too much, and love like you've never been hurt because every sixty seconds you spend upset is a minute of happiness you'll never get back.

Don't be afraid that your life will end, be afraid that it will never begin.

LIVE SIMPLY.

LOVE GENEROUSLY.

CARE DEEPLY.

SPEAK KINDLY.

LEAVE THE REST TO GOD.

And on a day when I'm really tired, borderline cranky and generally feeling unappreciated, it was a good reminder to slow down and enjoy the little happy's in life.

Tonight, I promise to take too many pictures.

Highlights of the Day

I left work at noon today because I had an appointment at the "happiest place on earth." No, not Disneyland. The happiest place on earth has to be 201 Poplar. Yes, that was sarcasm dripping on you.

For you non-Memphians, that would be the county courthouse, and it is positively the most - as my friend Pink Lady would say - unfortunate place in the city. Seriously, there are some sad, sad people down there, and really, what do they have to be happy about? They're in court. They're going to jail, or they're paying fines -- unless they were me and had the ticket for expired registration and not having valid proof of insurance dismissed.

But seriously, just because you're going to jail, does that give you an excuse to look bad?

When I left court, I got a massage. You see, I pulled a muscle in my lower back over the weekend, and it's gotten sore-er and worse-er since Saturday. Yesterday at work I couldn't stand up straight. It hurted. Bad.

Last night, LarryD bought me dinner and Darvocet. Yes, that's sweet, but what's sweeter is that when he called to ask what I wanted for dinner, I said something from Jason's Deli. He asked what side I wanted. Soup? Chips? Fries?

Fries?, I said. I want fries but Jason's doesn't have fries, so just get me potato salad.

When LarryD showed up with dinner, he had fries. Nothing says love like french fries. I love that man.

Last but not least, today is the day I've been looking forward to for a couple of months now. Madonna's latest album, Hard Candy, was released today. Guess what I'm listening to?

Tootie's Jellybean Holder

I don't know why I don't remember this. This was my favorite TV show in the early 80s.

In this light, treehugging Has Never Looked Better

Okay, so I apologize that I missed the Earth Day post, but in my web wanderings yesterday, I came across this, what simply must be the most fabulous eco-friendly item this year: ILLUMINATED WALLPAPER.

The inventor has yet to make it clear how it works, but somehow this wallpaper uses e-ink and organic light-emitting diodes (very low energy consumption) to make the electronic components paper-thin and capable of being rolled or flattened into a two-dimensional surface.

You can turn it off and on like a lamp, and when it's off, you can't even tell that it's a light source.

Summer Came Crashing to a Halt

In case you've been checking out the blog of MFLFWAAA (my favorite lady friend with an Adam's apple), you already know that our boys on the Heat softball team didn't play so hot. They lost their first and second games, but by golly, they gave it their best effort. Perhaps Heat refers to what they are supposed to apply to their sore muscles after every game.

And in the case of one member of the team, the first and second games of the season were also his last. During what can only be described as a valiant effort to safe third base, my Larry-D fractured his right shoulder. He played the rest of the game, had drinks at the Pumping Station, grilled out kebabs with the boys -- all the time in some serious pain.

He's out of commission from work for the whole week, and is all strapped up in a sling (not that kind of sling!!).

So perhaps he'll sit this summer out, joining Andrew Joseph and I in stands with Black Box wine.

Boys of Summer

So it seems that summer Sunday afternoons will find Andrew Joseph and I as softball wives.

Yes, the men we love -- Rob-Day, LarryD and Hotass/Miss Yellowpants too -- have signed up to play gay softball. And since Andrew Joseph and I would rather die than play team sports (okay so I'd rather die; he'd rather wear synthetic fibers), we have designated ourselves as the unofficial cheerleaders. And that means we intend to sit in lawn chairs with a wine & cheese basket, fanning ourselves and swatting mosquitoes the size of tanker trucks.

So far, we have accompanied the boys of summer to the batting cage. After they batted (I even got in a swing or two and, to my surprise, I don't always swing like a girl), they went off to play miniature golf; AJ & I entertained ourselves with a round of LaserTag. See, LaserTag is not a team sport, and we had the best time.

This past Sunday, we had every intention of watching the team (the name? the Pumping Station Heat) practice, but apparently there was no heat in Memphis. It was just fucking cold in Memphis on Sunday, so we gave up on the boys and went shopping.

Their first game is Sunday (it's a double-header, and I can't even say that without smirking), and I really hope I can be there for it. My duties as co-editor of the Memphis fag rag have me committed to layout, but perhaps I can get out of there early enough in the afternoon so that I can watch my beloved play. The weather is supposed to be beautiful on Sunday (of course!), so I may shirk my responsibilities and be the good boyfriend. And I know that he'll be wearing an orange jockstrap which makes the game better. At least from my perspective.

And before you start thinking that these boys have been recruited for some kind of Bad News Bears kind of team, you have to know that this is the same team that won the NATIONAL title last year for their division. Nothing to sneeze at.

This year Andrew Joseph and I might see our boys playing in the championships in Seattle. And even if they don't, I'm sure the wine and cheese will be delicious.

80 Days

In exactly 80 days, I will be in Key West. At some point on July 4, I will arrive at the Key West Airport (assuming my boyfriend ever gets the plane tickets). I will walk across the tarmac to pick up my suitcase, and will be whisked a few blocks away to haven in paradise.

There will be fruit and coffee every morning. There will be long lazy days relaxing by the pool with a book. There will be afternoon strolls down the quiet streets where the air is thick with tropical fragrance. There will be key lime pie and cocktails in the shade.

Larry-D and I will have our picture made in front of the Southernmost Point in the U.S marker, and we will sleep peacefully in our well-appointed and air conditioned room. We might even take a sunset cruise. We will enjoy fantastic meals with our friends, Rob-Day and Andrew Joseph, and we will check in repeatedly with our friend, Hotass, because we miss him.

And most of all, for seven whole days, I will pretend that I live in this island paradise and that I never have to come back to Memphis.

80 days...tomorrow there will only be 79...

Currently listening to: Zero 7 - Red Dust

Friday Can't Come Soon Enough

I'm not sure what's going on lately, but I live for Friday. No, more than usual. I mean really I LIVE for Friday. By the time Friday rolls around, I'm positively fit to be tied, and with each passing hour on Friday, I'm more and more fidgety, trying to think of an excuse to leave early and start the weekend.

Today, my boss was gone by the time I got back from lunch; he was off to play golf. Throughout the afternoon, people around me disappeared, their cubes empty, computers dark. And when your boss leaves early on Friday, that's a damn good sign. But I had some things to finish before I could leave...so at 3:45 I was out the door, and I'm fairly certain I skipped to the elevator.

I've always been eager to see Friday come, but since I started this new job in January, I've been feeling a little uninspired. I think I was so desperate to leave the old one that I didn't quite think about what I was jumping into. So now I'm a peon in corporate America, surrounded by accountants. Those accountants speak a language all their own and tend to be a little uptight. So after being around all that for 40 hours a week, it's really no wonder I can't wait for the weekend.

Being an adult sucks.

Currently listening to: Variety Lab - London In the Rain

Semi-Clean Bill of Health

So the doctor says to his patient, "I've got good news and I've got bad news. The good news is you have six months to live." The patient says, "If that's the good news, what's the bad news?" The doctor says, "Your test results are six month late."

Ok, so my follow-up doctor's appointment today wasn't that bad, but it was still a good news/bad news scenario. The good news is that after just a month on blood pressure medication, my BP is down from an all-time high of 140 over 100-and-ohmygod, down to a very, very healthy 100/80. Dr. Marty even checked it a second time after the nurse because he said it was too good to be true. But tis true.

The bad news is that my cholesterol is still far too high for someone my age and weight. And yes I may be packing a few extra pounds (I weigh 168, you nosy bitches, and even that is down from a month ago). So it's cholesterol medication for me -- at least for the next four months.

I guess that's not so bad. In addition to a trip to Key West in July, I've got blood pressure and cholesterol as motivation to diet and exercise.

Also, I think I'll start trying to pack as much gratutious male flesh into my posts as possible. We'll see how that works out.

Currently listening to: Alanis Morissette - Not the Doctor

Taking another swing at this blog thing

Well it almost seems ridiculous to think that once again I might actually attempt to maintain this disappointment called a blog. But every time Dusty sees me, he brings up how disappointed he is that my blog has died. And truth be told I've been itching to resurrect this thing...again.

Of course, at this point, I'm not sure who would even be dropping by to see what I have to say. Maybe Dusty. Maybe Artist. Maybe some random person from Beataqueer, Arkansas, I've never met before but who has been engaged in some hefty hand-wrenching, eagerly awaiting my return to the blogosphere. Maybe, but I doubt it.

So I'm going to try to not shoot my wad all in one post. I'll stretch out what's been going on in my life and pepper in some useful and not-so-useful stuff as I think about it. Hell, I have a camera phone. Maybe I'll just keep you updated on the holes in my socks.

So until the next post, here's my middle toe in the hole in my sock.

One more thing: I'll take a nod from Dusty and let you know what I'm currently listening to.

Currently listening to: Rent - La Vie Boheme "...bisexuals, trisexuals, homo sapiens..."