Seven Things

When you feel like there's nothing else to blog about, there's always a silly game to play. So here we go.

7 things I plan to do before I die:
1) Visit New York City.
2) Visit a bathhouse for some crazy freaky circus sex on Ecstasy.
3) Skydive.
4) Spend a month in the UK.
5) Have an exhibition of my paintings.
6) Nap with the man I love in a hammock near the ocean.
7) Have a short story/novel/script published

7 things I can do:
1) A damn good tarot card reading
2) Make a mean carrot cake.
3) Kiss.
4) Make people laugh.
5) Write.
6) Paint.
7) Obsess.

7 things I cannot do:
1) Eat chocolate-covered cherries.
2) Tolerate ignorance.
3) Tolerate arrogance.
4) Balance my checkbook.
5) Deliberately make people feel bad.
6) Sleep with the closet door open.
7) Face the world without a shower.

7 things that attract me to the same sex:
1) Hairy chest
2) Hairy forearms
3) Facial hair
4) Compassion
5) Wit
6) Intelligence
7) A genuine smile

7 things that I say most often:
1) Are you fucking kidding me?
2) These people are driving me fucking crazy.
3) I need a cocktail.
4) In a perfect world...
5) My pussy's on fire.
6) Keys, wallet, phone. Three-point check.
7) And a pack of Marlboro Ultra Lights, please.

7 celebrity crushes:
1) Tim McGraw
2) Colin Farrell
3) The Edge from U2
4) Robbie Williams
5) Larry the Cable Guy
6) Henry Rollins
7) Johnny Knoxville

7 people I want to do this:
1) Hotass - if he ever decides to blog again.
2) Char
3) Dusty
4) Buffy
5) Virginia
6) Kimdog - when she comes back from hiatus.
7) The Artist

The Fairy Godmother

This past weekend, we lost a true treasure.

Miss Kitty passed away quietly at her home sometime Saturday night, and she will sincerely be missed. When she was late for Sunday lunch, one of her boys was dispatched to find her. And she was discovered having faded peacefully at her desk.

If there ever was a Southern genteel and elegant lady, it was Miss Kitty. Widowed with no children of her own, she adopted all of us as her own. She was tolerant. She was sweet. She was gracious.

One of the first times I met Miss Kitty, she was dressed coolly in summer linen, sipping Kitty martinis next to the pool while scantily dressed boys scampered about.

Every night, weather permitting, she climbed the spiral iron staircase to her observation deck with a shot of tequila to watch the sunset. She was a connoisseur of sunsets, and we could count on her to give us the latest report of the the latest and greatest sunsets over the Memphis skyline.

We loved being in the presence of Kitty. She elevated every get-together to something classy and fun. We loved her stories and her company. We loved her.

Two weeks ago, I had dinner with Kitty. She was spry and lively and seemed sincerely delighted to have me there. I wish I'd had more time with Kitty. She had so much to share - stories, laughter, compassion, smiles.

It's easy to imagine that she is watching over us all. And I'm glad that she is.

Woof-worthy #10 and #11 - The Cowboy and the Porn Star

A couple of years ago, I had a dream about Tim McGraw. We were in his trailer, and he was swearing that he would leave Faith for me. I was resting my head on his chest and Faith was banging on the trailer door, demanding to be let in.

Tim McGraw makes me swoon.

And then I discovered Kent Larson, the porn star who could pass as Tim's twin.

Day-um.

Facing the Music - The Disco Musical

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What Happens in Nashvegas...Stays in Nashvegas

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

>>>

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

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

Source: RealPlayer

Genre: Disco

Song: More, More, More - Andrea True Connection

Ooops! I Crapped My Pants!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Fuck!" he cries.

"What's wrong?" asks the gentleman.

"I just shit in the floor!"

Everybody's Got a Story

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hypocrite

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Let's Get Metaphysical

The dream about the lightning bolt still troubles me.

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

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

So anyway...the lightning bolt.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A New Showtime Original Series

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

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

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

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

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

"Whipped" is what it said to me.

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

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

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

He went on but I just nodded and smiled.

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

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

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

Queer As Folk - Memphis

WWSD: What Would Skipper Do?

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

But I'll humor Char and answer her questions.

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

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

So here are my answers.

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

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

The three movies?

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

A Reason to Upgrade?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So there's the post, the abridged version.

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

Weeds: A New Series About Dealing in the Suburbs.

The Boy I Might Have Been

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The New Crib

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

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

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

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



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









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









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









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

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

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

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

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.