The Gaggle Goes to The Fair

What would a trip to the fair be without a cocktail? Not quite the fair I remember from my childhood, trying desperately not to spend all of my money in the first hour I was there and getting giddy at the mere thought of being flipped upside down.

Friday evening found me sitting at T-man’s, flipping through the Halloween issue of Martha Stewart Living. I ooh-aah’ed at Martha’s ideas for post-prison Halloween décor and food. Pumpkin lobster bisque served in hollowed-out squash. Artificial ivy spray-painted black tacked against Turkey Hill while tattered lawn-and-garden Hefty bags billowed in the windows.

Buffy entered the front door and gave hugs all around.

“Do you have anything to snack on,” Buffy asks, and then reconsidered. “What am I thinking? There’s gonna be all that food there. Do you have anything to drink?”

“We have gin. And gin, and gin,” Hotass offered. “How about a gin and Sprite?”

I sipped my drink while I marveled at Martha’s pillar candles wrapped with gauze and safety-pinned.

“That Martha. She is so fucking clever.”

Halloween is a big deal because it is a time to stick shit in the chandeliers. Hotass was already discussing plans of sticking tree branches in the chandelier to create an ominous canopy of reaching arms. Last year, ravens perched above the dining room table and Styrofoam skulls grinned down in the kitchen.

The Chef and the Artist arrived, fresh from their honeymoon, just as T-man bounded down the stairs, fresh from a healthy poop generated by his newfound love of all things organic.

After a quick discussion about riding arrangements to the Fairgrounds…

“We might as well take one car and save on parking.”

“We can but I’m on call.”

…we loaded into two cars, three by three, passing through tree-lined neighborhoods with the windows down, sunroof open, and back window down. Buffy shouted “nice ass!” to boys as we passed. It was truly a great day to be alive.

We had yet to even pull into the parking lot before we spotted the beefy security guard we believed to be text-messaging his boyfriend, and the Christian Brothers University’s baseball team, directing cars into the spaces.

“Well, what’s the point of going in? All the rides are out here.”

Walking to the fairgrounds, these 30-something men transformed into giddy adolescent boys. I swear I saw somebody skip.

We purchased our tickets, and the never-ending debate of food-versus-thrills resumed.

“Do ya’ll wanna eat first?”

“Let’s ride something first so that nobody pukes fresh corn dog.”

We couldn’t argue that point, and dazzled by bells, buzzers, hawking carnies and flashing lights, we moved down the Midway toward the first remotely-thrilling ride we came upon. Chalk one up for thrills.

Two rides later, we were reminded that we were not adolescent boys. We might have been squealing schoolgirls, giggling about the prospect of being thrown out into the middle of Arkansas and how hot that guy would be if he had teeth.

Or we might have been 30-something men, painfully reminded throughout the evening as we passed hydro-massage tables and hot tubs in the exhibit hall that carnival rides jostled our bones in ways that we just weren’t cut out for anymore.

We headed to the restrooms.

“Is this the one where there’s a gloryhole?”

“No, that’s the one on the other side.”

“Whatever happened to the old troughs?

“Hey, your name is still written in my stall.”

We stood and wondered about our next direction. A young couple passed by, the man swilling beer from a bottle.

“Hey, where can we get beer?”

“Do ya’ll want to eat now?

“Since we’re here, we might as well ride the Zippin’ Pippin.”

Thrills, two. Food, zero.

“This was Elvis’ favorite ride. He used to rent out Libertyland and bring his…hey, where can we get roasted corn?”

It didn’t take long for the eating binge to begin. Hotass and I stopped for Pronto Pups, slathered in mustard. T-man disappeared for a roasted turkey leg. Buffy returned with a boat of French fries covered in cheese from a jar. We turned the corner, and Hotass and I pitched our sticks and napkins in the trash. Up ahead, we spied a place with roasted corn, gyros, butterfly fries and more goddamn turkey legs.

I have this incredible aversion to eating meat off a bone that I have to pick up with my hands. Not only am I afraid I’ll choke on a bone, but I just feel barbaric gnawing at meat and slinging grease and barbeque sauce on my face. Ribs are out of the question. As are fried chicken and turkey legs.

The Dynamic Duo got gyros and fries and Hotass got a roasted ear of corn, generously dipped in a butter-like sauce. I got butterfly fries, a spiral cut potato thinly sliced and deep-fried. A little ketchup and it was positively divine. And I started to feel the sludge moving through my veins.

We wandered a little further down, and like eyes first looking up on the face of God, we stopped, mesmerized by the prospect of deep-fried junk food. Yes, battered and deep-fried Twinkies, Oreos, Three Musketeers bars, Snickers bars, Milky Way bars, and sprinkled with powdered sugar. At least one of each was ordered and we placed the paper plate around, sampling and reveling in the decadence.

Food scored a comeback, trumping thrills for a good 30 minutes, while we ate our way around the Midway.

“Let’s go into the Creative Arts Building before it closes…hey, look, mounted police.”

Inside the Creative Arts Building, there wasn’t so much art as it was people selling “You As a Cartoon!” portraits and scented candles.

We did see a real-live black Republican who was recruiting people for the Dark Side. Forming our solid alliance as Jedi warriors bravely facing the rise of conservatism, we moved deftly through the crowd and away from the men offering the smiley-faced “Smile! Jesus Loves You!” stickers on behalf of the First Fundamental Church of God Hates Fags.

Preventing an ugly scene, Hotass also managed to navigate me away from the snake on the fish and wildlife table before we made our way back out to the Midway.

As we stood in line for the Ferris wheel, we spotted the panties. We stood as a group for at least 15 minutes, laughing hysterically as parents re-directed their children away from the raspberry-colored panties that lay crumpled in the middle of the Midway.

From high atop the Ferris wheel, we called the Pink Lady, just to let her know that we were high atop the Ferris wheel.

We roamed the entire fairgrounds, deciding if we should eat or if we should ride something else.

“How about the Himalaya? I always wanted to be guy who ran the Himalaya.”

“Do you wanna go faster?!?” the Artist howled in a crazed rock-star voice.

“Do you wanna go backwards?!?” HotAss howled back.

“Remind me before we leave I want to get one of those Fiddlesticks.”

“Oh, and I need to pick up some salt water taffy for Big Linda.”

We all paid our 25 cents to see the spider girl. It was the discounted rate as we all saw that it had been a dollar earlier in the night. We literally stood transfixed as we tried to figure out how this lady’s head seemed to grow from the spider sewn together from pieces of black shaggy fabric. Then, the Chef pointed the mirror out to us.

“You know, that would have been a lot more believable if the spider had looked more realistic.”

“Do ya’ll wanna go out tonight?”

“We’ve done the fair. We might as well do the freak show too.”

Tag. I'm It!

The Rules:
1. Go into your archive.
2. Find your 23rd post.
3. Find the fifth sentence (or closest to).
4. Post the text of the sentence in your blog along with these instructions.
5. Tag five other people to do the same.

I saw a creature, naked,

Interesting. I'm afraid my taggable friends are diminishing. HotAss will probably never blog again. Dusty has already been tagged. Char's the one who sent me this. Ummm, Virginia??

W.W.J.D.? - #1

My “Woof-Worthy” series has been wildly popular, at least among my 10 or so regular readers, and has even stirred a little controversy (Remember the Cingular Triplets?). And as it goes with any good idea, people seeking to roll in the fame and fortune will milk that idea to death. So here is my idea for a spin-off for “Woof-Worthy.”

“Woof-Worthy” is just looking/lusting from afar. Not to say I wouldn’t get the chance, but finding Larry the Cable Guy laying line in my bedroom or blowing Robbie Williams backstage probably isn’t going to happen to me.

And then there are those real people, with pictures or profiles all over the Internet, who are woof-worthy in their own right. And, let me say, I like a variety of men, but there are some varieties I like more than others. Some of these guys I’d just want to look at. There are men I’d f*ck. And there are men I’d let f*ck me like a Louisiana hurricane.

And occasionally it happens; I run across a man I’d date, marry in a beautiful ceremony like the Dynamic Duo’s, and rock with on the front porch in our golden years while dogs slept at our feet, water trickled down the sides of our plastic tumblers of gin and tonic, and the sun set in the west in a dazzling array of golds, reds and purples, reminding me it was time to change his diaper.

And sometimes, when the stars align just right and the universe decides it’s my time, it’s all of the above.

So here is the first installment of WWJD. The fun part for you, dear reader, is to figure out what I’d do.

(Disclaimer: Not all links are workplace-safe. If you're going to surf the Internet and read crap like mine, surf responsibly.)

WWJD #1

Oh L'Amour

In what was the most beautiful, inspirational and touching wedding I have ever witnessed, the Artist and the Chef formally became The Dynamic Duo, emotionally tethered to one another til death do them part.

Congratulations, boys. On behalf of the Gaggle, thanks for letting us share your day with you.

What Sound Does the Crazy Train Make?

Instead of "choo-choo," the Crazy Train Says "Stuuu-Stuuuuu-pid!"

I'm still on the crazy train for this stupid boy. And it sucks.

So far, it's been four very promising dates, but I'm getting the feeling he's a little bit of a flake.

He never calls when he's supposed to. Last night when we talked, he said he would call this afternoon and we'd get together. To me, "afternoon" implies a time period between noon and approximately 5:30 or 6:00 p.m. It's almost nine and no word from the sonofabitch. What the fuck? And like a schoolgirl, I broke down and called him at 8:30. No answer, and no, I didn't leave a stupid message.

And the really stupid thing is...this is part of an on-going cycle with me. See my post from Sunday, February 6.

According to He's Just Not That Into You, this boy is just not that into me.

Calling when you say you're going to is the very first brick in the house you are building of love and trust. If he can't lay this one stupid brick down, you ain't never gonna have a house, baby. And it's cold outside.

Prick.

What Happens When Your Magic 8-Ball Fucks Around with Your MP3 Collection

YAY! Another fun blogging game! You can guess who is going to get named to keep the game alive. Char. The Artist. HotAss. Dusty. Virginia.

Here are the rules: Go to your media player/mp3 player and put it all on shuffle. Say the following questions aloud, and after each one press play. Use the song title as the answer to the question. And then elaborate...

One more thing...I swear to God I can't make this shit up.

1. What do you think of me?
Beautiful Stranger - Madonna

To know you is to love you. You're everywhere I go. Everybody knows. To love you is to be proud of you...If I'm smart then I'll run away.

2. Will I have a happy life?
Cinderelly, Cinderelly - Disney's Cinderella

When dancing at the ball/She'll be more beautiful
than all/In the lovely dress/we'll make for Cinderelly

3. What do my friends really think of me?
Macho Man - The Village People

Every man ought to be a macho macho man, To live a life of freedom, machos make a stand, Have their own life style and ideals, Possess the strength and confidence, life's a steal, You can best believe that he's a macho man He's a special person in anybody's land.

4. Do people secretly lust after me?
Absolutely Not (Thunderpuss Remix) - Deborah Cox.

Well, that seems like a pretty definitive answer. And while my ego was crushed for a second, I found some strength.

Should I wear my hair in a ponytail? Should I dress myself up in Chanel? Do I measure me by what you think? Absolutely not, absolutely not

5. How can I make myself happy?
Caribbean Blue - Enya

So the world goes round and round with all you ever knew. They say the sky high above is Caribbean blue. If every man says all he can, if every man is true, do I believe the sky above is Caribbean blue, if all you told was turned to gold, if all you dreamed were new, imagine sky high above in Caribbean blue

6. What should I do with my life?
Bohemian Rhapsody - Queen

I'm just a poor boy. I need no sympathy because I'm easy come, easy go. Little high, little low. Any way the wind blows doesn't really matter to me, to me.

And I guess that sounds better than "put a gun against his head, pulled the trigger and now he's dead."

7. Why must life be so full of pain?
Amazed - Lonestar

And it just blows me away. I've never been this close to anyone or anything.

8. How can I maximize my pleasure during sex?
One Less Bell - Gladys Knight

One less bell to answer. One less egg to fry. One less man to pick up after. I should be happy.

Well, masturbation is rather fun.

9. Will I ever have children?
Smooth (Tayar Radio Edit) - IIO

Smooth like the air, I take you into me. You're all I crave. Remain within me deep

10. Will I die happy?
(If Loving You Is Wrong) I Don't Wanna Be Right - Barbara Mandrell

My Mama and Daddy say, It's a shame. It's a downright disgrace, but as long as I've got you by my side, I don't care what my people
say.

11. Can you give me some advice?
The Theme from Laverne & Shirley

We're gonna make our dreams come true, doing it our way.

12. What do you think happiness is?
Look What You've Done - Jet

Give me back my point of view, 'Cause I just can't think for you. I can hardly hear you say what should I do. Well, you choose. Look what you've done. You've made a fool of everyone.

13. What's my favorite fetish?
If I Had a Million Dollars - Barenaked Ladies

If I had a million dollars, I'd buy you a fur coat but not a real fur coat. That's cruel. If I had a million dollars, I'd buy you a monkey. Haven't you always wanted a monkey?

14. What can you tell me about my true love?
More than A Woman - The Bee Gees
I'm not even going to justify this answer by posting the lyrics.

15. Where should I look to find true love?
The Sound of Silence - Simon & Garfunkel

Hello darkness, my old friend. I’ve come to talk with you again because a vision softly creeping left its seeds while I was sleeping. And the vision that was planted in my brain still remains within the sound of silence.

All Aboard the Crazy Train

There have been times in my life when I have gotten my ticket punched for the Crazy Train. I have been standing on the platform, waiting for the cars to pull to a stop so that I can get on board, well on my way to doing something stupid.

My bags were packed full of heated emotion, and at the last second, just as this runaway train was about to pull away from the station, I thought better of my trip to Nuttyville. And I retreated from the tracks as the train left in a dizzying cloud of steam and smoke.

And there have been times when I got on that train, punched the conductor right between the eyes, kicked the engineer in the nuts and took control. Wide-eyed with insanity and blind to rational thought, I blew the goddamned whistle, rang the fucking bell, and drove that train straight through Crazy Town and ended up in Downtown Uuuuuugly.

If you have ever created a master plan in which a potential lover would accidentally run into you at the grocery store, Starbucks, or a local gay bar, you were making plans for a trip.

If you have ever driven past a lover's house in the middle of the night just to make sure he was at home alone, your bags were packed.

If you have ever called his house just to see if he would answer and then hang up knowing he had Caller ID, you were making reservations.

If, like The Pink Lady a few months ago, you called a friend and asked in a semi-frantic voice mail for the friend to call the missing-in-action love interest at work just to make sure he was alive, your traveling companion might have been Glenn Close in "Fatal Attraction." Fortunately for The Pink Lady, she had the good sense to get off the crazy train before the situation escalated into boiling his bunny.

I like to think of myself as a semi-rational human being, capable of knowing the difference between genuine concern and stalking. But there is something about infatuation and blossoming romance that makes otherwise sane people jump on an out-of-control steam engine and pilot it for a one-way trip to Crazy. And the thing about it is, as my mother would say, you know better than that.

We've all taken that trip, and we've all watched our friends speed away on that train, thinking they had lost every bit of God-given sense. But what can you do but wish them safe travels and hope they make it back home alive?

For two weeks, I have been chest-deep in infatuation with a particular boy, and I've caught myself pacing the floor, waiting for a phone call or anticipating seeing him. We've had a handful of dates, so it's not as if I'm stalking from a distance (Red Flag #1 -rationalization). And I get the feeling he is genuinely interested, but it's been frustrating not being as engaged as I'd like (Red Flag #2 - desire). We have conflicting schedules, so obviously things can't move as quickly as I'd like either (Red Flag #3 - impatience). I've driven down his street on my way to get gas. Never mind that it was out of my way. (Red Flag #4 - stalkerish tendencies).

It's a rough rail to ride. How do you show interest without becoming a fucking basketcase? And how do you keep the madman, all-consuming thoughts at bay? And how do you keep from becoming giddy as a love-struck schoolgirl everytime his name shows up on the Caller ID?

So here I stand on the platform. My bags are packed. My ticket is in hand. I hear Crazy Train rumbling down the tracks. I'll either get off in the town of Embarrassment or I'll end up in the big city of Love.

Hmmm... after a sentence like that, the village of Shame seems a likely destination.

Further Stories from the WTF Department

Story #1: The fiance of a former employee called me this morning, asking to borrow money to take said former employee off on a weekend trip because "she's been working so hard lately."

And there is this item from the Associate Press:

SYDNEY, Australia - A man shocked authorities after he released so much static electricity from his jacket, he left burn marks in the carpet of a business.

Fire officials in Victoria state said the man, Frank Clewer, had built up at least 30,000 volts of static electricity in his jacket simply by walking around the city of Warrnambool, according to a report by the Australian Broadcasting Corp.

He received his first shock when he walked into a local business Thursday afternoon. "It sounded almost like a firecracker or something like that," Clewer told the ABC.

Burns less than an inch in diameter were left on the carpet where he had been standing, the report said. ABC did not say if Clewer was injured.

Fire officials evacuated the building, fearing the incident might trigger electrical problems, but let Clewer go, the report said.

When he got in his car, Clewer's problems continued.

"I actually scorched a piece of plastic I had on the floor of the car," he said.

Fire officials took Clewer's jacket and said it continued to give off voltage.

And in further shocking news.

Renee Zellweger and Kenny Chesney Split. After four months of marriage, Renee and Kenny have filed for annullment. Renee cites "fraud" but didn't elaborate. Well, of course it was fraud. Kenny was trying to make her believe he was heterosexual.

My Big Fat Gay Wedding

With the nuptials of The Artist and The Chef barely a week away, I can't help but be reminded of my big fat gay wedding. Yeah, so it didn't happen, but it was supposed to take place on April 24, 2004.

There was something symbolic or maybe just clever about 04/24/04, although if I did the numerology on it, it probably would have spelled out doom and disaster.

At any rate, the Ex and I were planning for that date. Invitation lists were starting to come together.

We were scouting out places. We really wanted the Japanese Garden at Cheekwood or possibly the Rathskeller of the Seelbach Hotel in Louisville. The Seelbach would have been perfect for the mood we wanted to convey.

As the first priority of gay men, we had selected the appropriate outfits - black suits with matching purple neckties. White tulips were the flowers of choice. Attendants were lined up - Hotass was mine, and his brother was his. I was looking into the getaway car - a classic 1930s convertible. The invitations were designed in purple, white and black Art Deco design. A year out, he gave me a couple of books about gay and non-traditional weddings for Easter.

And I was most excited about the music because it really does set the tone for the ceremony, doesn't it?

While people gathered, we had agreed on a collection of jazz vocal standards to keep with the mid-century feel of the day - "L-O-V-E" by Nat King Cole, "It Had to Be You" by Billie Holliday, "I've Got a Crush on You" by Ella Fitzgerald, "Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered" also by Ella, "Can't Help Lovin' that Man" again by Ella, "Isn't It Romantic" on the trumpet by Chet Baker, "The Man I Love" again by Ms. Fitzgerald, "What a Wonderful World" by Louis Armstrong.

Processional music was to be Pachelbel's "Canon in D Minor" played on guitar. At least we agreed on that.

I wanted something unconventional, something fun, for the recessional music - "How Sweet It Is (To Be Loved By You)" by James Taylor and Carly Simon, "This Will Be (An Everlasting Love)" by Natalie Cole, "All You Need Is Love" by The Beatles, or "Marry Me" by Dolly Parton.

It was a source of disagreement as you might imagine. He didn't think his mother would take kindly to the "Marry Me" lyrics that said "His momma don't like me one little bit/ But you know I don't care/ Let her pitch her hissy fit/ Cuz I ain't marrying her."

We were leaning toward Natalie Cole. How ironic. Because that love oh-so did not last.

But my reception, my reception. Well, that would have been the party of the season. And really, isn't that the reason that gay men want a wedding? Isn't it really all about the party?

The groom and the groom got the first dance - "At Last" by Etta James. And we decided on that song before Celine Dion ruined it.

Every wedding reception I've ever been to has been devastated by stupd songs like "YMCA" or "The Chicken Dance." You can count that gay weddings will never be marred by such insanity. So our wedding reception was to have tasteful music, well at least not retarded music that you hear at every reception.

Note to the Dynamic Duo - "The Chicken Dance" is a party-killer. Your friends will think you're straight. Seriously, it's not really that fun. It's stupid.

So what happened to my big fat gay wedding? Good question. I think as we got closer to the date, he got cold feet. Well more like Birdseye-frozen-food cold feet. And the conversations about the wedding became more and more infrequent. And the plans fell by the wayside, and April 24, 2004, came and went without much excitement.

We broke up a month or so later.

"Cry Me a River" - Julie London

The F-Bomb

Before you begin this post, I have to tell you that this is Not Safe For Work (NSFW).

I fucking love the word "fuck."

Not necessarily in the sexual context but in the exclamatory, I-want-to-make-a-point context. It works in so many situations. Disappointment? Say "fuck." Disgust? Anger? Annoyance? A moment of sheer sexual ecstasy? "Fuck" works with a variety of emotions

Here lately, my favorite fucking phrases have been:

"Fucking-fuckity-fuck..."

"Fuckthatnoize...sheeeit"

"What in bloody fucking hell..." As if this makes me more British.

"I need a fucking cocktail."

"Fuuuuck."

"You fucking people are driving me fucking nuts."

"Two tears in a bucket. Motherfuck it."

And when I get really creative, I combine phrases to say crass things like:

"What the bloody fucking-fuckity-fuck are you fucking thinking, you bloody stupid fucking retard? This fucking shit is bananas! B-A-N-A-N-A-S. FUCK! If somebody doesn't fucking give me a fucking cocktail now, I just might go fucking nuts on their fucking asses."

I do try to exercise some restraint, and only use the word when I'm around people who will truly appreciate its emphasis. But occasionally I slip up and drop the F-bomb in front of people who I shouldn't use that word around. At work, for example. Most recently, I used the word "fuck" to describe my feeling of angst at forgetting to do something important. The people I used it in front of froze for a second and then laughed nervously. I apologized and they informed me that almost any word was acceptable except the F-bomb.

I've been trying to do better. But seriously, fuck it.

What I've Been Up To

In another moment of boredom, I Googled my name and found out some interesting facts about myself.

Did you know that...

• I have been the host of BBC's "The World This Weekend" since 1994?
• I was first introduced to marijuana following two operations for testicular cancer that metastasized to my stomach?
• I have an art gallery in Woodstock, NY, and apparently it is one of the best fine art galleries in the Hudson River Valley?
• I have been the governor of Ohio, and the airport in Dayton is named after me?

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."