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."

Lightning Crashes

Something happened this week. Nothing extraordinary, but have you ever had those moments when something clicked, and it was from that moment that things suddenly started to make a bit more sense.

I'll admit. The last two years have been incredibly difficult for me. The emotional rollercoaster that was my last relationship, a thrill ride that ended last May. But like dumbasses, we continued to live with one another. And then there was the job offer that would bring me to Memphis. And it was also something that brought out the worst in us. Then there was the move to Memphis. While it was something that I wanted, it was a big move for me. The job was a promotion into unchartered territory for me. Managing newbie employees under everyone's watchful eyes, and honestly wondering if I was up for the challenge. Frankly, the stress has reached an all-time high, and my self-esteem has taken a terrible nosedive.

This week, I've been out of town all week in Nashville for a division-wide supervisor's conference. Lots of pep talk. Lots of work talk. Lots of seeing co-workers I see a few times a year and lots of hearing "How's Memphis." For me, lots of being "on."

One night while I was there, I had one of the most vivid dreams. In the dream, I was following a group of about six people, around the edge of a lake at some sort of camp or resort. Behind us, I could see the lights of the cabins. The sky through the trees was a dark purple, and the air smelled as though a storm was about to roll over the lake. The thunder was rumbling more frequently, and we see the occasional flash of lightning behind a cloud.

I don't remember who was in the group, except T-man and the girl in the gauzy floral skirt and cute flip-flops. We were half-running, half-speedwalking through the woods around the edge of the lake away from the cabins.

T-man was leading the group and was just a few steps ahead of me. While he was leading, he was extremely hesitant, fretting about how close the lightning was and how we were surely going to be struck.

In the dream, I remember thinking how foolish that was. Sure, people get struck by lightning, but what are the chances that we would be hit?

About that time, a bolt of lightning landed squarely in my back. I was thrown forward, and landed face down in pine needles. After making sure I wasn't dead, I noticed the most excruciating pain, and spewed forth a stream of cuss words in bizarre combinations.

"CUNTSHITMOTHERHELLGODDAMNTOALLTOMOTHERCOCKSUCKINGSHITJESUSCHRIST! OHMYGODTHATFUCKINGHURTS!"

The rest of my party kept their distance. I think, mostly, because of the cussing.

The next part of the dream is a little fuzzy, but it seems like I was at a picnic table in a large hall. Perhaps the main lodge at the camp. The ceilings were high and the sheetrock walls were yellow. People were sitting around me, asking about being struck by lightning. And while I heard their questions, I still wasn't quite ready to answer because I was focused on the tingling. And I knew I just had to try something.

I pointed my hands out in front of me, like a goober, and concentrated, and moved the salt shaker across the table.

"Sweet," I think. I pointed across the room and moved a glass of water across someone else's table. I began to think of what my superhero name should be, even though all I could do is move a table setting to the person sitting next to you.

To develop my skills, I stepped into the hallway and pointed my hands at the overhead lights. The bulb slowly dimmed, flashed and went out. The girl in the floral skirt gasped and jumped up and down.

And then the wake-up call woke me up.

I've felt different since then. More energized and empowered. So maybe I had a sub-conscious turning point. However, there are still a few details to be clarified. LIke why was T-man there. Where were we going? And what made the girl's flops so cute?

At any rate, I hope this feeling lasts.

In other news...
The move to the new apartment is tomorrow. Hotass can attest how panicky a move makes me. Back in Nashville, he and I moved three times, and each time the anxiety attacks came more and more frequently. Since then, I've noticed that my best defense against moving is denial and avoidance. Anyway, TimeWarner has told me that they won't transfer my cable and Internet service until next Friday. This move is more stressful than it should be.

***
According to Blogger, this is my 100th post. I can't think of any activity but one that I've done at least 100 times. And I contributed to this spinoff - memphisgaggle.blogspot.com.

***
Last but not least, I want to tell you folks that drop by on a regular basis how much I appreciate you. Thanks for thinking my life is interesting enough to read about.

Finally, We're Getting to the Bottom of Things

I can't say I'm necessarily surprised by the results. And, after last weekend's impromptu song about my sexual preferences sung to the tune of Pink's "God Is A DJ," my friends probably won't be surprised by the findings of this peculiar quiz.

In an effort to further probe the depths of my personality (assuming I have any), I took this quiz: Which Gay Sex Act Are You?

If my personality were to be a gay sex act, I would be:

Getting Fucked in the Ass! You have always been attracted to Eastern philosophies, since your attitude is to take things as they come. Some would say you bend over when the going gets tough; you prefer to see it as rolling with the punches. And you have always been open to new things — particularly big ones.

Woof-Worthy #9 - Silent but Deadly

The Transporter was one of those movies that managed to quietly slip by most everyone. But one Sunday afternoon, I was stuck at home and I happened to catch it on one of the movie channels, and a new lust was born.

Jason Statham. He doesn't say much in the movie, but he kicks some serious ass. And I swoon with every punch, kick and snarl.

In case you missed The Transporter, he's been in a couple of Guy Ritchie movies (ah, a Madonna connection) - Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels, Snatch, as well as The Italian Job and Cellular. None of which I have seen.

However, he is coming soon to a theatre near you in The Tranporter 2 and The Brazilian Job. It might be worth the eight bucks to catch this man in action again.

Q&A

Q: Why is The Pink Lady so shocked?

A. Because somebody has a big mouth.

Hot Diggity

Yes, that's a weenie roller.

Just like you'd find in the 7-11. And yeah, that's a nacho box with the cheese dispenser. Just like you'd find in the 7-11.

Somehow, the 7-11 themed birthday party for the Artist really was a surprise. Hell, I blogged about it. We've teased him about it for months. And when the weekend before his birthday and the actual birthday came and went without a function, he was fit to be tied. The Chef says he sulked all week.

And so he was actually surprised to find 7-11 logos all over the house. And to find his picture plastered on a 3'x3' sign. And red, orange and green streamers festooning the dining room chandelier. And all the guests took turns having their photos made behind a cut-out that said "7-11 Employee of the Month." And interspersed in the evening's music were commercials urging the guests to take home a gallon of milk, try a Big Bite hot dog or a Slurpee. And all party-goers received t-shirts with the 7-11 logo, courtesy of Pistol Pete.

However, I am disappointed we didn't play Duck, Duck, Mongoose.

Oh well, I guess there's always next year.

Suds and Duds

I don't mind doing laundry as long as I have a washer and dryer at home, but since I moved to Memphis, I haven't had a set. Naturally, laundry is now a chore. Making sure I have quarters for the machines. Lugging clothes to the laundry room. Hoping there are enough machines available. Going back every 30 minutes to check on them, which means you never really get anything else accomplished. Folding. Hanging. Matching. Putting away. I hate the process.

But today, I treated myself to a small luxury. Laundry service.

It's been several weeks since I've had everything clean at one time. I've only been doing it on an as-needed basis. Out of underwear? Let's wash some. But the pile of dirty clothes growing in the closet bugs the hell out of me, because you find yourself recycling jeans, and planning your wardrobe days in advance because you know all the good tshirts are already dirty.

So by today, I had amassed quite a laundry load, and this morning before work, I gathered it all up and trucked it down the street to the laundromat that also does bundle service. A dollar per pound. Tshirts folded so neatly I almost wept. Socks already matched up. Shirts and jeans on hangers. All I needed to do was put the things away.

Sometimes you just need to make things easy on yourself.

Taking a Trip Down South

All in all, the decision wasn't a hard one. I certainly didn't want to move out the building and have to deal with the moving truck and looking for a place to live.

I certainly didn't want to mooch off my friends for six or more weeks, and not be able to get into my stuff.

So, I've decided to take an apartment in the South Tower. The floor plan is essentially the same. Looking at the empty apartment, it seems smaller. The windows are different. The bathroom fixtures are peach instead of seafoam green. And I face south and east instead of north and west. It should be cooler in the summer because of all the shade on that side. And instead of the skyline view (which I will miss terribly), I do have an idyllic view of the parklike setting behind the building.

The move on July 30th should be relatively easy, since I'm just moving down the elevator, across the lobby and up the other elevator. In fact, I'm considering just moving by putting stuff in a plastic crate to carry it across.

And the more help I have (hint, hint), the less time it will take. Hell, when I moved in, I was moved and unpacked in a matter of hours. That's the test of true friendship!

High Rollers

So I can't resist, but...

VIVA LAS VEGAS!

Yeah, I know that has been shouted by every sorority girl getting drunk in the airport lounge before her flight to Sin City took off.

Hotass and I are going to Vegas, baby!

Well, it's still a few months away but we're going in November.

Can Sin City handle us? My God, that's probably been shouted by a few drunken Deltas too.

So I'll get married while I'm there. But no worries.

What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.

Bear Hug

I've started growing a beard.

And this is a big deal for me. I've always thought I carried off the clean-cut look, and I guess I've always been pretty hung up on making sure that people saw me that way.

For at least the last six years, I've always had a goatee, and I've been disappointed in it. I was in awe of those guys who had a dark, thick but neatly trimmed goatee. My dad could do it, even though he always had a thick moustache. My brother can do it, too. I don't understand why it skipped me. Mine always seemed two shades lighter than my hair, and grew rather sparsely.

So I never thought I could grew anything more than a goatee, a Van Dyke, a soul patch, or any of the other variations of a fuzzy chin and lip.

But in a moment of desperation and laziness, the beard started to develop. Now, granted it's not thick or bushy, but it finally has developed into one continuous line of hair from sideburn, chin and sideburn.

Is it coincidence that I noticed, at about the same time as my beard began to grow, that so did my belly? Maybe my postured worsened. Or maybe I am getting more rotund. And Hotass and I observed over the weekend that I carried all of my weight in my stomach - in a nice little round food-baby pouch on my waistline.

Maybe I'm learning to embrace my inner bear. Grrr.

What Happens If I Break It?

Today, on two separate occasions, I had two separate people tell me something under "the cone of silence." And then they raised their arms above their heads to make a big Conehead-point.

What the fuck?

Did I miss a pop culture reference?

And what would have happened if I had refused to set foot inside the cone?

A Follow Up to the Most Personal Post Ever

I used to think that gay men were the most sexually liberated people on the planet.

However, the women have proved me wrong. Kimdog and Char have commented with the contents of their sex stash.

Woof-Worthy #8 -- That's Hot

On Friday, the Gaggle performed our own little Live 8 to aid the the sagging Hollywood economy and saw "Fantastic Four."

Hey, you know, it wasn't bad. And if the only reason it wasn't bad was for Chris Evans as The Human Torch, well...then...big deal.

The Human Torch is living proof that even flamers can be attractive.

You'll Have Things You Want to Talk About

In what had to be one of the most profound conversations the Gaggle has ever produced, over the weekend, as we floated on noodles and caught speeds up to 30 m.ph. in the pool's current, the topic turned to Mr. Rogers.

I'm not sure how that happened, but at any rate, all of us being Generation X'ers, Mr. Rogers and his Xanax-drugged neighborhood were a big part of our childhood. And, we unanimously agreed, probably because Mr. Rogers was a just a little creepy, that the Land of Make-Believe was our favorite part of public television. And remembering all the characters took us on the way-back machine.

"And what was the queen's name?"

"Queen Saturday."

"Oh yeah. And Prince Wednesday."

"Wednesday? His name was Prince Tuesday."

"Well, what was the princess's name?"

"Princess? There was no princess."

"I always loved the part about the ping-pong balls."

"What? Ping-pong balls?"

"Yeah, and the moose."

"You dumbfuck. That was Captain Kangaroo."

"Oh, and remember Henrietta the Pussycat."

"Oh yeah! Meow-meow."

"Meow-meow-meow-meow."

"Oh, meow kitty meow-meow pussy on fire meow-meow."

Tragically, we weren't even high to achieve this level of stupidity.

And the conversation didn't stop there. We discussed Lady Elaine, Daniel the Tiger, the Platypus family, and what was the damn owl's name? And there were real people. But we couldn't remember their names either.

It's bothered me all weekend. So to refresh your memory...

• Lady Aberlin
• Handyman Negri
• Chef Brockett
• Mr. McFeely "the Speedy Delivery Man"
• Robert Troll
• Police Officer Clemmons
• King Friday the XIII
• Queen Sara Saturday
• Prince Tuesday
• Lady Elaine Fairchilde (who ran the Museum-Go-Round)
• Henriette Pussycat
• the shy Daniel S. Stripped Tiger (who lived in a clock)
• X the Owl
• Donky Hodie
• Cornflake "Corny" S. Pecially (who owned a rocking chair factory)
• Henri de Tigre (Grandpere)
• William Duckbill Bagpipe Platypus the IV
• Dr. Tadpole Frog
• Harriet Elizabeth Cow,and
• a ventriloquist dummy, Hischer Booptrunk.

The Most Personal Post Ever

Since I started my blog, I've wondered several times if I was being too superficial, barely probing below the facade I show to the world. Am I showing the world the real "me?"

Who cares?

At any rate, I believe if you really want to know a person, look in his or her nightstand drawer. That's where people keep their dirty laundry. Their secrets. Their deepest fears and secrets and desires scribbled in the most recent of a series of diaries kept since they were 13.

Or that's where most people keep their sex stash.

So this is where I reveal the contents of my nightstand drawer with my exclusive commentary. I will warn you, stop reading now if you are under the age of 18, if sexually-explicit content is forbidden in your area of the world, or if you simply don't wish to know this much about me.

And if you read beyond this point, you are never, ever, ever allowed to mention this to me in private or in public. Comment if you want but don't mention this post to me. I couldn't withstand the embarrassment.

Although, I know each and every one of you have a "sex stash" you are afraid to reveal.

Here it is...the contents of my nightstand drawer.

1. A bottle of lube. Wet Platinum.
2. A small bottle of Eros Pjur bodyglide. The Rolls-Royce of personal lubricants.
3. A small bottle of K-Y warming liquid. I was sorely disappointed in this. No warmth. Little satisfaction.
4. A full tube of ManDelay male genital desensitizer. I think that like most men, I have this fear of going too soon. Second only to the fear of not going at all. Or not even getting to the gate. So once upon a time I bought this stuff. But I never got to use it. That's a good thing, right?
5. A nearly-full tube of Anal Glow. Apparently, it provides something akin to the KY warming liquid when applied to the butthole. I decided the cream was more akin to Ben-Gay. Think about it.
6. Nine Lifestyles ultra-sensitive spermicidally lubricated with Nonoxynol-9 latex condoms.
7. A bottle of Rush Liquid Incense.
8. A purple rubber cockring. My favorite.
9. A leather cockring.
10. A leather ball-stretcher and ball-splitter.
11. A combination leather cockring, ball-stretcher and ball splitter with D-ring for ball weights. This is way more complicated than sex should be.
12. Two metal cockrings. One small round one. One thick, flat-edge one. The thicker, rounded-edge one happens to be on the vanity in the bathroom.
13. A set of rubber-tipped nipple clamps. My nipples are hot spots and this works for me. Well, sometimes.
14. A personal cock & ball guide #1 published by Spartacus Enterprises. It came out of one of the leather goods packages and I couldn't figure out where else to put it. So the nightstand drawer it was.
15. One set of anal beads. Blue plastic beads secured by tiny knots. This was the first toy I ever bought, back in college. I thought this would be cool, but not really. Cheap construction.
16. A booklet of Hot Gay Sex Coupons. I spotted these in Borders around Valentine's Day and I thought it would be fun, in the event I had a boyfriend again, to give him one or all. For example, "With this coupon, you can beg me for anything and I won't give it to you, until you beg me for it -- again and again and again and again."
17. One black vibrator. This was a gift to myself on my 23rd birthday. The batteries have died and it barely buzzes, but I keep it for sentimental reasons.
18. One black butt plug. One of the wisest choices I've ever made.
19. One pink translucent dildo. It's huge. Apparently my eyes were bigger than my ass. It never gets much use.
20. One 12" double-ended dildo. The ex and I had one of these and it was amazing. One of the bright spots I'll take away from that relationship. I bought one since and it was STILL amazing.
21. One set of vibrating eggs. The T-man got a set of these for Christmas. And I was jealous.

I think that your nightstand drawer is one of the most personal part about you. It's the thing you don't want your parents to find should you happen to die before them. It's the thing that you have an unwritten plan in place for. I've actually said to my friends and given them keys with the instructions that in the event of my death, they are to get to my apartment and remove all of the lusty evidence.

Okay, so now it's your turn. Publish for the world the contents of your stash.

Right Down the Toilet (Which Happens to Be Basking in Afternoon Sun)

Today, the edict I dreaded came down from on high. The letter was slid under the door.

I have to move, even if temporarily.

Because the elevator repair is estimated to take four to six weeks (although there are no promises), and the property management company cannot guarantee "reasonable access and services," I have been given the following three options:

1. Permanent relocation - They tear up my lease, and I move somewhere else, with a return of my deposit and moving expenses.
2. Permanent relocation to the other tower - Vacate my apartment and move to an apartment in the other tower with a brand-new lease and two months of free rent.
3. Temporary relocation - Pack up the things I need for at least six weeks. Turn in my keys. And mooch off friends until I can return to my old apartment under a new lease and two months of free rent. However, there is no rent or utilities to be paid during the time away.

At this point, options #2 and #3 are looking good. But only #2 if I can get an equally fabulous apartment on the other side. And if the Gaggle can reserve a couple of hours on a Saturday to stuff all my stuff in shopping cart, push them across the lobby, and lug it up to the other side in its fully-functional elevator.

I have until July 15th to decide, and August 13th to be out. Stay tuned for the edge-of-your-seat conclusion.

Freedom to Eat And Drink Anything You Want

So the illness seems to be passing (no pun intended). Finally some sleep, some rice and a cup of tea, and I feel better.

I wish there was some way to provide a recap of the last four days, and as Hotass said, I wish we had kept an inventory of everything the Gaggle ate and drank over the weekend. There were Hebrew National franks, lasagna, burgers, chips and salsa, French onion dip, pasta salad, and Cheddar and Sour Cream Lay's potato chips. One day there was even breakfast with biscuits, bacon and fruit salad.

Oh yeah, and there was the half of German chocolate cake that didn't stand a chance when the Chef passed out forks, set the cake in the middle of the table, and we were all over it like Golden Girls on cheesecake. We didn't even bother to slice and serve.

And we made batch after batch of summer beer in a five-gallon cooler, a refreshing beverage made with beer, vodka, lemonade concentrate and ginger ale. Of course, we ran out of vodka and used whatever random liquors we could find, creating some concoction with rum and juice.

Is it any wonder my stomach decided to turn on me? Am I really surprised I needed to give my digestive system a day to recover?

Happy Fifth of July

It's 3:45 a.m. on the fifth of July, and I have the worst case of insomnia I've ever had. Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that every time I close my eyes, my stomach cramps and gurgles, and my guts start to get their booty flu on. I've read for several hours and have taken Tylenol PM, but everytime I get comfortable and nearly asleep, I have to make a mad dash to the potty.

I'm actually going to take a real-live sick day.

Memphis Wide World of Animals - Part 2

A few weeks ago, I posted about the armadillo insurgency into West Tennessee. The critters are getting pretty ballsy to swim the Mississippi and end up in someone's pool.

But perhaps no varmit is as ballsy or as ferocious as the mongoose.

Now, I know what you're thinking. Surely that thing isn't running around wild in Memphis? Well, actually, the mongoose has been spotted at a few Gaggle gatherings. And I'm not sure what draws the carnivore to the Gaggle, but this is my theory.

Given our love of theme parties, we look for opportunities to exploit something...anything. The next birthday is the Artist's on 7-11. And how fun would a Kwik-E Mart party be? We could drink 94-ounce Big Gulps. Eat nachos and hotdogs roasted on the rolling hotdog-cooker.Wear nametags. And play games we played in our native Pakistan.

Like "Duck, Duck, Mongoose." You know the game where everbody sits in a circle. And "It" walks around the circle tapping everyone between the eyes hard enough to leave a red dot and saying "Duh-ck. Duh-ck." Until someone is lucky enough to be deemed "MONGOOSE!" And Mongoose chases It around the circle, shouting "lalalalalalalalalalala" until someone claims the mongoose's spot.

Little did we realize this game is also played to summon the killer mongoose out of the brush.

Woof-Worthy #7 - The Boy in the Band

A few months ago, Hotass and I broke from a typical routine met JonJon and Wanda at a place down on Beale Street. Now Beale Street is usually the typical straight tourist place in Memphis, and there's not usually much to look at. But on this particular Friday night, it was eye-candy galore. And the band that played was chock-full o'woofy.

They were Gabby Johnson. And while the whole band was cute, the guitar player, Juno, was the cutest. I'm such 14-year-old girl.

Anyway, Juno was hot, and when he played the guitar, he looked like he was having an orgasm.

Home is Where the Heart Is

I love my apartment.

It's cheap. It's in this great Art Deco building. I have great windows. I'm in Midtown Memphis. I'm two blocks from work. I have great afternoon sun in the bathroom that makes you feel like you're bathing outdoors. I have parquet floors. My tub and sink are a quirky sea-foam green. I have a fucking-fantastic view of the Memphis skyline. I'm across the street from Danver's and Office Max. I can see the Pyramid and the M Bridge to the west. And I can see the Sears Building to the north. I can see Piggly-Wiggly to the north-east. And, oh, I almost forgot... there's a liquor store on the first floor.

But I'm learning there are oh-so-many reasons to dislike this place.

When the upstairs neighbors flush their toilets, it sounds like the building is screaming.

During the winter, I had this freak infestation of ladybugs. And I continue to find ladybug carcasses near the windows.

My elevator is so slow, we all think Otis is a tiny old man pedalling on a bicycle to heft the elevator to the seventh floor.

Being so close to work, I get the great honor of being on the security list. In the event that the office building's alarm goes off, I'm the first called.

In the corner of Kimbrough and Union, Memphis Light Gas and Water has decided to dig a hole, and until they're finished with said hole, they have placed a metal plate. Which rattles with every car that drives over it. Nightmarish.

There's some bizarre elevator work on the south tower. It's been closed for three months, and they've moved everyone out. And there's rumor that our tower is next. So help me God, don't make me move.

The Boys of Summer - Part 2

I don't want to get my ass kicked.

They look like the gay Mafia coming for me. So that the FBI doesn't try to squeeze me into some witness protection program in Beataqueer, Kentucky, I've attempted to obscure the Mafia's true identities.

The Boys of Summer

Refreshing.

The Artist's truck smells like cum.

Chemically, that's the scent you get when you combine chlorine, suntan oil, summer beer and new car smell.

Saturday marked the beginning of summer. Yeah, a week late but the pool was finally open and ready for business. So the Gaggle gathered at HotAss and T-man for a pool party.

We splashed. We drank. We ate. Oh my God, we ate. And a summer thunderstorm put us out. So we do what boys are apt to do. We needed to shop. In the pouring rain.

So we piled into the Artist's new Pathfinder. Sweaty and greasy and more than a little drunk. All seven of us. In the pouring rain.

And with all seven of us packed into that car, jabbering and whining back and forth, the Artist might as well been the soccer mom he longs to be, and we were the bratty neighborhood kids on our way to Chuckie Cheese.

Woof-worthy #6 - Part 2 - The Return of Larry

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

You won't believe the hell I caught for deeming The Cingular Triplets woof-worthy. And you won't believe the show of support I got for thinking that Larry the Cable Guy is hot in a redneck kinda way.

So to redeem myself, I present Larry the Cable Guy - again. Only this time, topless!

Insert Thumb-Twiddling Here

Lately, by the time Friday rolls around, my mind is mush. For example, I sit at my desk right now. I spent most of the morning developing an agenda for a 2006 planning meeting, but I got bored with it sometime around noon. Since then, I've been trying to look busy.

I checked e-mail (my work account and my two personal accounts) every few minutes to see if there's something I should act on. I've been to the bathroom three times. I've snuck by someone's desk and stole chocolate out of the candy dish. My Dove milk chocolate foil said "Keep the promises you make to yourself." I've read and re-read the blogs of friends and strangers. I've entertained a sexual fantasy or two. I've randomly surfed photos on bigmusclebear.com.

It's not that I don't have more important things to do at work, but dammit, I'm bored with all of them.

Cocktails: The Way to Survive Summer

Cool refreshment

Yes, you might be an alcoholic if you think that the way to survive the heat is to simply become numb to it through a carefully selected cocktail. And somedays, that works for me.

Something icy. Something cool. Something refreshing. That's how summer afternoons should be spent, so without further adieu, here is my list of the best summer cocktails.

1. Gin and tonic. Without a doubt, this is my favorite. The ice. The lime. The faint taste of pine needles. I was introduced to G&T's by Memphis friends and from that point forward, I categorize it as the perfect summer drink. Substitute vodka if necessary.

2. Tequila Punch. Ahhhh, this crazy bitch sneaks up on you. Tastes like easy margaritas, but after a few, you can't find your sombrero, and the burro is in some serious trouble. Email me for the recipe.

3. Margaritas. On the rocks. With salt. 'Nuff said.

4. Beer. Yeah, so this isn't a cocktail. But it fits in so well with a summer cookout. And why do we wait til the hottest days of the year to cook meat over an open flame? I don't get it.

5. Pinot Grigio. Well chilled. Again, 'nuff said.

6. Bullfrogs. Mojitos. Mint Juleps. I haven't quite developed a taste for these yet, but they're still refreshing. I was recently introduced to South American Bullfrogs which are made with limeade, fizzy lemon-lime soda like 7-Up or Sprite and Absolut Peppar vodka. Interesting.

If you have other suggestions, I'd love to hear them.

Summertime and the Livin' Is Damn Hot

One of the greatest moments in Memphis' history...

Yesterday was the first day of summer, and it arrived in Memphis with a vengeance. Already I'm tired of the moisture in my armpits. Today I made the mistake of not wearing a t-shirt under my polo shirt, and several times I had to wipe away the sweat drops that fell out of my sleeves and on to my desk calendar. That's just gross.

The temperature rose above the mid-90s today and there wasn't a drop of rain for miles. Tomorrow threatens more, if not worse. One of the things that scares me about Memphis is the heat. As long as I have a cool place to retreat, I'm good. And I only hope that my apartment can withstand the heat, and can maintain a comfortable 72 degrees.

But it's not just the heat. It's the humidity. By the time July and August rolls around, the air is downright choking. And try getting in the car after it's sat in the sun all day. You'd be happier if you burst into flames, and collapsed in a pile of ashes and charred bones.

From now until late August/early September, there will be no relief. But there are -- no pun intended -- bright spots. Cold cocktails that sweat on the patio table. Shirtless boys. And some breath-taking sunsets.

The sunset above is two weeks old and took place just before a thunderstorm (and the photo was shot from my kitchen window - damn I have a great apartment). Granted, we might not see much rain this summer, but even in the intolerable heat and humidity, the sunsets are a wonder of nature to behold.

Lickable #1 - A Deviation from the Norm

The reason I pay my cell phone bill.

One of my favorite blogs is Sardonic Bomb, and that's where I stole the idea of doing "boys of the moment." And because my tastes coincide with Scott at Sardonic Bomb, I inevitably steal pics from his site.

So hence the Cingular triplets have made their way to my corner of the web. See those boys up there? They did a commercial about calling home from college for Cingular? Yeah, they don't meet the mature, hairy, beefy men I typically drool for, but damn, they're hot.

Or maybe it's because there's three - count 'em - three of them!

Correction: As Gucci Butterfly has pointed out, these boys are not WOOF. They might be more aptly described as Lickable or Yummy or Twinkish Eye Candy. But they certainly aren't woofy.

Yet Another Theme Party

More pink than should be allowed by law.

As I've indicated in previous posts, the Gaggle loves a theme party. The occasion of The Pink Lady's 30th proved no exception.

The Pink Lady is as girly as they come. And what better place to have her 30th birthday gathering than at The Beauty Shop? The Beauty Shop is a great restaurant here in Memphis in a 1940s-style beauty shop. You can even eat your $22-lamb chops under a hair-dryer, if you desire.

Anyway, in homage to the Princess, we all dressed in pink.

Crack Whore Training

C'mon, bitch. Take it! If you want it, work for it.

If that picture doesn't make you chuckle at least a little, then you aren't my friend.

Woof-Worthy #6 - Ned's Rectum

Git R Dun!

One night, not too long ago, HotAss and I were sitting around being silly. Perhaps we'd been sipping on Vivacious Vicky a little too long. HotAss felt the need to start downloading Pink Floyd. After "Stairway to Heaven," "Money," "Comfortably Numb," and "Another Brink in the Wall," I tipsily turned to HotAss and said, "We have achieved a new level of Ned's rectum."

Of course, that caused a few moments of bewilderment, because neither of us knew Ned. But what I meant to say was, "We have achieved a new level of redneckdom."

Redneckdom is known by almost everyone who considers themselves somewhat sophisticated and thinks he or she might be beyond that point in their lives. For example, I occasionally crave deep-fried catfish, hushpuppies and cole slaw. I love to hear some Lynard Skynard "Sweet Home Alabama." HotAss drives his white pick-up truck like he's late to pick up his pregnant bottle-blonde girlfriend. And I know that the two of us have been known to say, "Aw, hell naw!"

So I'm not a stranger to Ned's rectum. And, recently, I have discovered that nothing gets my cornfed juices flowing like a redneck man. And nothing epitomizes "redneck man" like Larry the Cable Guy.

And he gets me hot. Call me a freak. Call me a first-class weirdo, but I am coming out of the closet as a Larry-Lover. I watch Blue Collar TV just for a glimpse of Larry. I wish I could explain why I find that fat camo-wearin', deer-huntin', gravy-spillin', beer-guzzlin' man sexy, but I can't even begin to try.

It is what it is.

Music Makes the People Come Together

One of my greatest fears is that my laptop will crash and that I will lose more than 240 hours of borrowed music. Yes, that's 10 continuous days. Almost 3,000 songs. I could be in some major trouble with the RIAA.

Somewhere in that catalog of popular music, only a lucky few have made my list of the best songs ever. Well, in this case, at least the genres in my Windows Media Player of Dance, Eurodance and Techno. But I am also indecisive so this list changes frequently.

So, here it is in no particular order, my list of and comments on My Most Super Favorite Songs Ever - Effective June 8, 2005 -- The Disco-Dancin' List. And I know that one of my regular readers has an avid disdain for disco-dancin' music.

Everybody, Everybody by Black Box: Hell yeah, it's as ol' skool as they come. But who can resist this one? And even pretending to be a black drag queen named Rita when you think no one is looking. And they were.

Believe by Cher: Man, that Cher knows how a boy feels. And that Cher knows how to give a boy hope.

Nobody's Supposed to Be Here by Deborah Cox: The "No-no-no's" at the crescendo kills me every time.

Girl From the Gutter by Kina: This song contains one of the most brilliant dance song lyrics ever written. "I hope your hell is filled with magazines, and on every page, you see a big picture of me. And on every one, the caption would read, Not Bad for Girl from the Gutter Like Me."

I Will Love Again by Lara Fabian: Ah, this song takes me back to a summer long ago in a tropical paradise when I knew that when I was starting to discover that the asshole I was with really was an asshole. Classic.

Be My Lover by La Bouche: Yeah, long before it was overplayed, this song really was the shit. And I feel cool because I knew it before the rest of the world. Well except Hotass.

Find Another Woman by Reina: She's calm but she's empowered, and she's telling him to kiss her ass.

Lola's Theme by Shapeshifters UK: I don't know who Lola is, but hey, everybody deserves a theme. When I hear this song, I picture myself in a crowded classy lounge sipping a Cosmopolitan that complements my new shirt. Lola's is the name of the lounge.

If You Could Read My Mind by Stars on 54: It's amazing how many great dance songs are covers.

Santa Maria by Tatjana: Another one that takes me back. I used to pretend she was singing "Ave Maria" and work hands folded in prayer and a genuflection into my dance move.

It's Love (Trippin') by Goldtrix featuring Andrea Brown: This song has "rollin' on x" written all over it.

Can't Get You Out of My Head by Kylie Minogue: If there were such a thing as celebrity queefs, Kylie's would be "la-la-la la-la-lala-laffffff." Yeah, that comment was random. Ask me about it.

Bizarre Love Triangle by New Order: Yet another oldie but a goodie. I go back to the five minutes I thought I might have been bisexual. HA!

Murder on the Dancefloor by Sophie Ellis Bextor: If you're singing along, it's a good reason to shout "Goddamn!"

Heaven by DJ Sammy, I See Right Through You by DJ Encore, Sandstorm by Darude, Put Your Hands Up in the Air, Days Go By by Dirty Vegas, Soak Up the Sun (remix) by Sheryl Crow, Rapture by IIO, One More Time by Daft Punk : I could put together a whole CD of music that takes me back to the summer I rediscovered myself. That's a good feeling. And yeah, that One More Time has "rollin' on x" written all over it.

Amokk by 666: Ah, air horns. All I can see is Dougie doing the Dougie Hat Dance.

And, appropriately, finally...

Finally by CeCe Peniston: I always see the scene from Priscilla, Queen of the Desert. This is another classic. Oughta be in every gay boy's hymnal.

Come Out, Come Out Wherever You Are

Is "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" too obvious a caption?

Happy Gay Pride Month!

Few things make my eyes roll more than Gay Pride. And maybe it's because I have never completely drank the rainbow-flavored Kool-Aid, but this whole gay pride thing kind of gets on my nerves. And while I totally acknowledge the leaps and bounds gays and lesbians have made in the 30+ years following the Stonewall riots as a result of demonstrating our gay pride, maybe we missed the boat somewhere. Okay, maybe I missed the boat.

My first gay pride parade in Nashville, I showed up in my t-shirt emblazoned with the rainbow flag. I marched in the parade. I shouted my highly-charged political protests, like "We're here! We're queer! Get used to it!" and "Two, four, six, eight! How do you know your kids are straight?" At some point midway through the afternoon of lesbian singer-songwriters and men in cuffed denim shorts and combat boots telling me how proud I should be and why the battle ahead would be a long and treacherous one, I began to feel a little uncomfortable. After a rousing rendition of "We Are Family," I turned to Hotass and said that I didn't want to be gay anymore. I'd had it up to here with pink triangles, rainbows, and PFLAG.

I looked around and I realized that we had been preaching to the choir all day. I was surrounded by gay men and lesbians who knew we'd been second-class citizens, who knew the pain of living a double life, who were mad as hell. But the people who needed to hear us weren't there. Our families who had disowned us. Our churches who had ushered us outside. Our legislators who had no interest in us.

Sure, our parade brought out the assholes with the "God Hates Fags" signs. And the news cameras were there to shoot the signs, and the drag queens, and the leathermen with their asses hanging out of their black shiny chaps. And the weekend anchors made a mention of our show of support for equal rights. But the folks at home were still too fixated on the man in the dress.

Gay pride is a damn fun party. As an instrument of social change, I'm not sure these gay pride things work. And I don't profess to have better ideas. We can vote and select the lawmakers that we feel best represent our interests, and hope they win. As gay men and lesbians, we can be socially responsible and let our actions show the rest of the world that we aren't freaks of nature or perverts.

But it's a catch-22. It's difficult for a lot of us to be ourselves until the world is a safer place for us. And the world won't be a safer place until we can be ourselves.

I have to tell ya... the political and social climate in this country fucking scares the daylights out of me. And I don't know what it takes to change it, but I do know that it's up to each of us to do our part, whatever that is. Write a letter. Get registered to vote. Come out of the closet. Show the world that gay men and lesbians really are good people.

Stop being a fucking cliche, and be an individual.

Alice is Mary Jane's Middle Name

She's a bitch.

Once upon a time, there were two gay boys. Both pretty straight-laced, as descriptions go. But you see, one had a job as a drag engineer. The other was doing his dog-goned best to live a respectable life.

As a drag engineer (HotAss) had the good fortune to encounter lots of types backstage, especially those types who were purveyors of chemical enhancements. And on the occasion in question, HotAss brought home marijuana.

Now, at this point, neither gay boy was a stranger to marijuana. My first smoke was about three or four years earlier, and I had several in between. It was never something I just loved, but it was always an interesting experience.

Now when HotAss brought that solitary joint home that night, we decided to save it for a special occasion. And so it went...in the freezer in a plastic baggie.

It was rare when the two of us had a Saturday night at home. Usually there was a bar involved. But on one particular free Saturday evening, we found ourselves at home. So we watched a movie, Scream, on VHS (that tells you how long ago this was). After it was done, we got the bright idea that tonight, two months later, would be an ideal time to smoke the joint in the freezer. Oh, and why don't we watch Alice in Wonderland, just for shits and giggles.

So we lit up, flicking the ashes in the giant zodiac ashtray, just as the movie started.

Life was good, as we proceeded the first 30 minutes of the movie. And then there was the part that still unsettles me.

There's the vignette about the Walrus and the Carpenter. It's about desire and their desire for the young oysters. Somehow during the course of this tell-tale story, I found it to be so captivating, that each second found me closer and closer to the TV screen. Just prior to the Walrus and the Carpenter devouring the baby oysters, I was on my knees in front of the TV screen with tears streaming down my face.

I had a moment of clarity and turned to HotAss.

"I've really fucked up now."

HotAss laughed uncontrollably.

For the next what seemed like four hours, HotAss placed his hands on my shoulders and we walked in circles, puncutated by his question. "Where are you?"

I don't know where I was. I was tripping backwards through my mind. And it was more than just a little scary. It was 911 scary.

When he felt comfortable to lay me in the dining room floor, HotAss called our resident expert, who arrived with the sage advice.

"Put him in a cold shower. He'll be fine."

I took a shower, and remarkably, I felt fine afterward. But I sore off Mary Jane for several years. At least until recently.

The next day, I went to my part-time job at This Disney Store, and prayed that Alice in Wonderland wasnt' playing on the big screen.

They Ain't Much, But I Love 'Em Anyway

The Whole God-Famn Damily

There's really only two things I remember most about the movie It's My Party. One, it's fucking depressing as hell and I weeped for days. Two, there's a line by Margaret Cho in the movie that still hangs with me.

"When you're gay, sometimes you get to choose your family. And he chose us."

For whatever reasons, sometimes we just aren't close to our blood relatives, and sometimes we're fortunate enough to have people in our lives to fill the void.

Now, I'm on pretty good terms with my family, but I'm not out to them, and it's seems like there's oceans of difference between us. And so those guys (and one girl) are my family here in Memphis. And we smooth over the rough edges as family is apt to do, and they get on my nerves sometimes, and we also generate more than our fair share of drama.

Every Sunday night for the past two months, we get together. We gather for margaritas at Cafe Ole. We dish. We watch Desperate Housewives. And yes, we each have a character we identify with most on the show. You see, I'm Lynette. The Artist is Bree VandeCamp. JonJon is Susan. HotAss is Edie. And we eat fabulous desserts. The Pink Lady is still upset she didn't get to get off her drunk ass to see the angel food cake in the shape of the sand castle, surrounded by "dunes" of brown sugar.

We aren't bound by blood. But we are bound tight.

And boy do we love our theme parties. Christmas was a Christmas Village party, and each of us dressed as our favorite "village" person. The Artist and The Chef were the village candy makers, passing out candy canes. Valentine's Day was a chocolate party. We had a birthday party not too long ago with a Cinco de Mayo theme. Memorial Day, as a salute to the troops, was a camouflage party. A birthday party on March 21 was a toga party in homage to the Roman rites of spring. For my and HotAss's birthday, it was a black party.

They're good guys. And I am grateful to have them in my life. And I am especially grateful they have chosen me to be in their family.

So...HotAss, T-man, Artist & Chef, Dusty & Bobo, JonJon, Wanda, Sha-Nay-Nay, Peter, Pink Lady...I love you. Thanks for being my friend, and thanks for being my new family.

[Hey Virginia and Baby Gyrl, don't think I've forgotten about you or written you out of the family will. I love you just the same. As Diana Ross once said, someday we'll be together.]