In the Past 31 Days...

...I've had one cigarette, but that was within the first ten days of the month, and I've had one puff at two different times during the month. Is the ashtray licked? At least for the moment. I'll take one day at a time and start a new countdown tomorrow.

...I've seen Dreamgirls and Smokin' Aces. Dreamgirls was infinitely more fun, more attractive and less bloody. Plus the Dreamgirls soundtrack lends itself to a full month's worth of drag moments. You try singing "And I'm Telling You I'm Not Going" and not breaking into a rendition worthy of the best drag queen you've ever seen.

...I've had two dates with two different guys. I saw Smokin' Aces with one, and went to Tunica with the other. One date was two years in the making, if you can believe that, and it was a gamble that paid off.

...the Pink Lady found out she is a candidate to be contestant on a certain reality show, and we helped her shoot her second application video and inappropriately destroy another German chocolate cake. The final cast will be selected by mid-February and we're hoping that she's a "loser."

...I've helped the Artist and the Chef begin their move back to Memphis, by helping move their Mardi Gras float of a bed and paint the bedroom Parisian taupe.

...I've helped Sweet Wade and assorted company fend off Bridezillas at a bridal show. Sweet Wade has started his own catering business, and catering to the whims of indecisive brides is part of the job. And serving up pomegranate fizz and macerated strawberries in balsamic vinegar with creme fraiche on a Sunday afternoon is part of my job as friend.

...I'm learning to dislike my job more and more with each passing day.

...I've decided to start yoga. In February.

2006: The Year In Review

I figure I've got a small window of opportunity to discuss the year that was before it's passe.

So what was 2006 for me? Well, after all of my thinking and wishing and contemplating, I still don't know. Perhaps 2006 can go down as the Year of Uncertainty. It was a year of big changes. There was a new job. A new place to live. The splintering of the Gaggle, which was a lot more traumatic than you might expect.

In moments, it was an emotional year. I think I found myself crying more than the Chef ever did. I tried to laugh a lot but at the same time, there were several moments that the need to cry completely overtook me. Like the morning that HotAss and I had breakfast at Brother Juniper's, and somewhere in the middle of a San Diegan omelet, I cracked up for no good reason.

I cried a lot in 2006, and I felt sad a lot more often than I cried. Hotass could probably describe me as a perfect horror to live with because I cried or felt sad too much. Maybe I cried because they were gossiping. Maybe I cried because the elastic was shot in my pantyhose. Who knows? I cried at the drop of a hat in 2006.

But on a personal level, I can confess that most of the year was a time of a midlife crisis for me, although I'm too young for a midlife crisis and I'm too old for a quarter-life crisis. At any rate, it's a crisis of age that has not quite run its course.

For me,thirty-four is that age where you realize it's time you get your shit together (referred to as "fecal cohesion") but you're still drawn to the stupidity and the carefree times of your youth. There is an overwhelming part of me that longs for the La Vie Boheme - waiting tables at a non-chain restaurant (even though I would grow tired of working for tips in less than a day) and renting a house in Midtown, sparsely decorated with roadside sofas and Che Guevara prints (although I couldn't tell you what Che did, but they seem like they're the thing to have if you're a bohemian). But there is a part of me that wishes I had a carefree life. A big part of me.

Instead, I drive a Honda to my very respectable job that requires me to keep regular haircuts and a sensible wardrobe.

So if anything, 2006 might be the year of trying to find myself (again), and when 2007 rolled around, I realized I might still be missing. Only my face isn't on milk cartons.

So in 2006, I did NOT find myself. Nor did I lose myself anymore than I already was. In fact, I think I was probably right where I had been all along. Sitting here. Waiting. Wishing and still trying to figure out what the next step was.

Here's hoping that 2007 will be better.

It's Not About the Size; It's About the Fit.

It's not normal to be this excited about underwear. Especially not underwear obviously designed for someone 15 years younger with a broomstick waist. But I'm here to tell you...I couldn't be more thrilled about my new GinchGonch pretty panties.

At first, I wasn't so sure I could be sold on the grown-up Underoos. After all, the first salesperson told Hotass, Artist and I that he has "a 28-inch waist and wears a medium." It was difficult for the three of us not to roll our eyes and call him a "bitch" under our breath. If this little waif of a boy wore a medium, there was certainly no chance for more...um...robust men, like myself.

But, Artist purchased a pair for his beloved. Hotass got a pair, and since they're just so darn fun (and since everyone else had some), I had to get mine. After much deliberation and consultation, and knowing that there is a strict policy about not returning underwear to the store, I opted for a large. Merry Christmas to me.

New Year's Eve found the three of us with our pants down, showing off our new special-occasion underwear.

And just for the record...I had to wash my delicates in hot water and dry on high heat twice to take up some of the slack.

Tell that bitch with the 28-inch waist to eat a freakin' biscuit and that a medium would have worked just fine.

Cold Turkey

I am a smoker.

I have been for many, many years, and it is a label I have resisted just as long. But like the millions of other Americans who will be raving bitches by this weekend because they have sworn off nicotene on January 1, I too am quitting.

I started smoking when I was 18. It was the summer I was home between my freshman and sophomore years in college, and I was working a crappy job in my hometown. Just after school let out for the summer, some rednecks broke into the high school and tried to set fire to it. The library was mostly destroyed and the rest of the school had smoke and water damage. So my summer job was working on the clean-up crew, sponging down the walls and wiping soot off books and desks.

This was not a hard job. It was monotonous, spending a full 8 hours meticulously wiping down cinder block walls floor to ceiling. And one afternoon when I was leaving work, I was struck by an overwhelming craving for a cigarette. So I stopped at the QuikSak that afternoon and bought my very own pack. Marker Ultra Light 100s. Generic brand.

It must have been working around the smell of smoke and charred wood all day, because up to that point in my life, I had barely smoked. I had only experimented.

My father smoked. Salems. And I remember the comforting mix of cigarette smoke, coffee and aftershave. And I remember smoking butts from the ashtray just to know what it was like.

My cousin and I played a game that could be likened to hillbilly Ker-Plunk! He covered the mouth of a Mason jar with a couple of layers of paper towels and secured them to the jar with a rubber band. And then we placed a stack of quarters on the paper towels. We passed a Vantage cigarette back and forth, taking turns burning holes in the paper towels. Whoever caused the coins to fall through, lost. It was usually me, and I usually made him inhale for me since it made me hack.

The Christmas before I bought that pack of cigarettes, I was drinking fuzzy navels, and a high school girlfriend offered me one of her Virginia Slim menthols. And to this day, I still think a menthol cigarette tastes like you've lit up a stick of Doublemint gum.

Ever since that day in 1991, I've been a closet smoker. Admittedly, I've never been a heavy smoker. I can only remember a couple of times - in college - that I was a pack a day smoker. Usually I could make a pack last three or four days, especially the past couple of years.

Actually for the past several years, I've been like one of those politicians, publicly decrying homosexuality but sucking dick in every rest area along Interstate 40. I worked for one of the nation's largest opponents of smoking, but giving Big Tobacco my share of their fortune every three or four days. My excuse was "I've spent all day fighting cancer. Right now, I just want to make friends with it."

And I had probably been smoking in denial for several years. I didn't consider myself a smoker because I had rules. I didn't smoke at work. I didn't smoke in the house. I didn't smoke in my car. I rarely smoked before work. I didn't light up in restaurants unless I was with another smoker. I didn't really smoke around people who didn't smoke. Even in Memphis' bars, where the smoke is so thick you smell like a filthy ashtray when you leave, I tried to step outside when possible.

And most of the time I was okay with all that. I didn't go out of my mind with nicotene cravings. For most of the past eight or nine years, I had no problems with finishing a pack of cigarettes and going for a week or more (once I went six months) without smoking another. I could just quit.

But eventually the craving would return. And rather than resist the craving, I bargained with myself. "Hey, you finished that pack four days ago and you're just now wanting one? Treat yourself. It's the weekend."

Honestly, I enjoyed smoking. It was sort of relaxing, and it was a good excuse to step outside and collect your thoughts for a minute. But there are the obvious unfortunate side effects. I need to only think of my father who has emphysema and is permanently attached to an oxygen tank to remind me that smoking is not a good idea.

So I smoked my last cigarette shortly after midnight on January 1, 2007. And two days later, I'm still okay with it. I'll still have to contend with the real challenge which is a Saturday night at The Pumping Station with a cocktail in hand. That's when the urge hits hot and heavy, and my will power is the weakest.

Twenty-eight days is the magic number. Two down. Twenty-six to go.

I'm Coming Out - Part Deux

Yeah. It was too good to last. So I've decided to come out of retirement. Or maybe it was a sabbatical. Or hiatus. Or whatever the fuck you wish to call it, but at any rate, I'm coming out. I want the world to know. Got to let it show.

I'm coming back. I have this funny feeling that there will be lots of things to talk about in coming months. It's a new year and I'm determined to make 2007 one of the best ever. This is the year I turn 35. I want to be a much more pleasant and contented person who makes use of the gifts and talents I've been given and who appreciates the many blessings in my life. I want to be happier. I want to be whole, and it's been a very long time since I've felt that way. But that is my new year's resolution.

To feel whole again.

So I'm going to write more. And paint more. And squeeze the good stuff out of life more. And laugh more, and live more. Who knew that it would be so much work to just be and then so much more work to just be happy?

In a moment of joking last week, Hotass, the Artist and I started rewriting the Bible, and I believe there is a verse (that's the new Memphis James Revised Edition in case you're wondering) that says, "You have been given a great and powerful gift. Don't fuck it up."

That's probably one of the lmost important lessons we're put here on earth to learn.

Time for a Change

Once again it seems I've taken an extended leave of absence. And not for any good reason. Maybe I've been uninspired. Or maybe I've been busy. Or maybe this blogging thing has run its course.

It's been fun, and it was an all-consuming passion for a while. But for now, it's just a source of frustration, because I'd really like to post but the words just aren't coming like they used to. And, let's face it, Memphis is just too small of a town to talk about people like I want.

So I'm killing off Musings of a Man in Memphis. I'm going to slip quietly into blogging retirement, and maybe recharge the blogging batteries, be an ardent observer of culture and maybe in a little while, I'll resurrect myself in a new place with a new name and a no-holds-barred vengeance.

Or maybe I won't.

Who knows?

Who cares?

We just never know what the fuck life has in store, do we?

Be good, because I'll be keeping my eye on you.

Dude, You're Getting Screwed

I noticed that Dell has changed its tagline to "Purely You." Given the frustration I've had for the past two weeks, I'd like to change it to "Purely the Worst Customer Service Experience You'll Ever Have."

And honestly it really has surprised me. Before two weeks ago, I thought Dell was a great product and I've been a faithful customer for four years, buying cameras, computers, PDAs and blah blah blah from Dell and never really having an ounce of trouble.

But the trouble started three weeks ago when my current computer took a nosedive. I hit the power button and it refused to boot Windows. And, not really knowing what I was doing, I fucked myself by reinstalling Windows, and it seems I lost everything. So I decided it was a sign to retire the four-year-old laptop and get a new one.

I placed an order online for a new laptop with all the bells & whistles, and got the email stating that my order had been acknowledged and that I would soon get another email saying that the order would be processed. The second email never arrived.

Two days went by, and when I called to check on it, I got tangled up with not one, not two, not three but four different customer service reps who told me in their broken English the order was lost, and that I would need to place the order again. Oh wait, no it isn't lost, the last one says. It just showed up in the system and my order would be shipped within three to five days.

Last Monday, I get an automated call from UPS saying that my package would be delivered that day by 7 p.m. The package never arrived. Using the tracking number only told me that "UPS has electronically received billing information from the shipper." That was the status for more than a week, and still no laptop.

Yesterday, I became an irate customer. The first customer service rep told me that UPS had an "address issue" and returned the package to Dell, but not to worry because my account would be credited, and that if I had further questions about the "address issue" I needed to contact UPS.

UPS told me that the package was supposed to be delivered on the day they called, but they couldn't explain why it wasn't or if delivery was even attempted. I called Dell again and the second customer service rep researched and told me that UPS never received the package from Dell, and then upon further research, told me that Dell had never actually shipped the package in the first place. But I shouldn't worry because my account would be credited within 10-15 days and I could place the order again.

But wait, I said, why wasn't I notified about all this? And why can't you just go find the damn package and ship it out to me again, and forget the whole crediting my account thing?

I'm sorry, sir. We can't do that.

Why not? Oh because the credit is already being processed and the computer is being placed into Dell's refurbished inventory.

I'm sorry for the inconvenience, but don't worry, I will personally make sure you are kept apprised of the status of the credit reversal.

And that's where I basically called her a liar because Dell had done such a lousy job at keeping me notified of the status thus far.

I'm sorry for the inconvenience, sir. Were you happy with the level of service I provided to you today?

The more I thought about it yesterday, the madder I got. So at Hotass' urging, I called Dell one more time last night and ended up talking to two more customer service reps who put me on hold for 2-3 minutes every other exchange so they could update my record.

Finally, Dell agreed to ship a replacement product (but I'm not sure how it could replace something I never had in the first place) and ship it overnight at their expense. Now why couldn't the first person I talked to done that, and saved me three hours of being on hold that I will never get back?

I should have my fancy-schmancy Dell Inspiron E1705 within 3-5 business days.

Assuming they don't screw me over again.

Is He Fuckable?

So the starting point in determining a guy's FDM score is to decide whether or not he's fuckable. And while you might be able to answer the question with a simple yes or no, the 10-question quiz Hotass and I developed is designed to go beyond whether or not you'd merely have sex with him. The fuckable score represents the sexual chemistry, the level of physical attraction, and how much he turns you on.

Score one point for every yes. No's get zero points.

1. Would you lick his face?
2. Would you lick his ass?
3. Would you go to his place for a 2AM booty call?
4. Is this someone with whom you could act out one of your sexual fantasies?
5. Do you like the way he looks?
6. Would you blatantly flirt with him?
7. Do you or could you think about him while you're masturbating?
8. Does he exude an undeniable sexual energy?
9. Do you "go to your dirty place" when you think about him?
10. Would you fuck him more than once?
Bonus question: Is this your ideal fuckable person? Score two points if the answer is yes.

Remember this is just the first draft. I'm open to suggestions for questions. We're still working on the quizzes to determine dateable and marryable. Stay tuned.

Your Top 5 Friends

Actually I guess the point of this meme is that I'm supposed to post it on my MySpace page, but I didn't want to. So I won't.

So in case you have a MySpace page and want to play along, here are the rules. Post the names of your top five friends, and answer the questions below. No fair changing your top five.

Number 1: Jon
Number 2: Sweet Wade
Number 3: Dusty
Number 4: Char
Number 5: Tuffy

Have you ever done anything illegal with 4? Actually, I have, but I won't tell.

Have you ever loved 5? Love might be a little strong, but I think about him a lot.

Have you ever thought about kissing 1? Yep.

Have you ever danced with 5? I don't remember it if we did.

Have you ever hugged number 2? Yes.

Have you ever gotten drunk/high with 5? Um, we drank vast quantities of alcohol.

Has 4 been to your house? Not the new one, but she's invited.

Have you ever played a sport with 3? Are you kidding?

Have you ever had an inside joke with number 2? He took to bed for three days.

Has any of your top 5 ever seen you naked? At least three of them

Have you ever taken a shower with anyone in your top 5? As a matter of fact I have.

Have you ever had a crush on number 2? No, not really.

Have you ever gone shopping with 1? He's a shopping machine.

Have you ever had a class with 3? Are you kidding? Neither one of us has class.

Have you ever seen 4 in a swimsuit? Nope

Have you ever ridden in a car with 1? Yep

Have you met 5's family? Nope

Have you ever eaten anything in front of 1? Yes, there were a couple of weekends where we had every meal together.

Have you ever hated 4? Not a chance.

Have you ever fought with number 2? No way.

Have you ever seen 3 do something embarassing? There was the time that he drank so much, he threw up. And there was the other time he drank so much, he threw up.

Has 2 ever given you a present? Yes, a gift card last year for my birthday.

Have you ever seen anyone in your top 5 cry? Nope.

Has anyone in your top 5 seen you cry? Of course. I cry every time we catch the last five minutes of Extreme Makeover: Home Edition.

Have you ever done something dangerous with number 4? Nope

Have you ever slept in the same bed as number 1? Yes, I don't like to talk about it, but he gets a kick out of embarrassing me by discussing it.

Have you had a crush on anyone on your top 5? Yep, I kinda sorta got one now.

Have you done anything illegal with number 2? I think it was a misdemeanor.

The Mating Scale

This is what happens when Hotass and I have deep philosophical conversations, and drink too much in the process.

Last night, when I should have been packing, Hotass and I went out for dinner at Young Avenue Deli (which happens to be on Young Avenue in case you're wondering)and three pints of beer. Followed by a couple of more at The Pumping Station. It was almost sad that we were at the PS at 9:30 on a Tuesday night.

But over dinner, we started talking about guys, no one in particular, but just the guys in our pasts and presents -- what did or didn't work with in the relationships/affairs/flings, what was wrong with the guys, what was wrong with us.

For example, in our experience, why does a guy who looks good on paper - attractive, smart, good job, mentally stable, a perfect match in every way -- ignites no sexual chemistry? Or why do fuckbuddies remain only fuckbuddies and never graduate to boyfriends or husbands? What keeps an OIF (occasional intimate friend) from becoming man of your dreams?

I had told Hotass a while ago that I believe that every man is either fuckable, dateable or marryable. Usually he's only one. Sometimes he scores at least two of them, but if he's special, he scores on all three, and you've got a match on your hands.

Now of course it's hard to tell, based on appearance alone, if the guy standing at the bar is anything more than fuckable. But after a date or encounter, when you feel like you know him a little better, you subconsciously evaluate the guy to determine the next step - where does he fall in the FDM rating system?

Fuckable - would you have sex with him?

Dateable - we debated this point for a while, deciding what the criteria was for making someone dateable. We eventually agreed that dateable is determined by what you have in common, and basically if you enjoy his company outside the bedroom.

Marryable - is this guy the settling-down kind? Can you see yourself in a long-term relationship with him?

Somewhere in the middle of the third pint, we referred to someone we both know to illustrate our point.

Let's call him JD. Is he fuckable? Definitely. We'd both been there at separate times, and agreed that we would return if the opportunity presented itself. Is he dateable? Eh, maybe. He's a friendly guy, and might make for an enjoyable date or two. But after that, we didn't have much in common with him, and soon the well of things to talk about would run dry. Is he marryable? Probably not. He has a handful of children that live with him. He's definitely stable, but the idea of marrying into a ready-made family didn't intrigue either of us.

By the time we got to the Pumping Station, we had acknowledged the system has a couple of flaws. There were a few exceptions to the rule, such as the guys who scored three yes's on the FDM scale, but still it never progressed the way we wanted. That's when we introduced the Reality Factor.

He's perfect in every way - the sex is great, you like spending time with him, and you can almost see yourself watering roses behind a white-picket fence while he writes the check for the shared mortgage on the front porch swing. The reality is that he lives six hours away, or he's not ready for the mortgage, or he's got a hairy mole on his back that you just can't quite stop thinking about. The Reality Factor puts FDM in perspective.

Then it got complicated. Detailed calculations on cocktail napkins. Formulas, averages and fractions. And since neither one of us is a math whiz and had a few by this point, multiplying complex fractions was a serious problem. But the result was a complex scoring system: grade a man on a 10-point scale for fuckabilty, dateability and marryability, add the scores together, divide by the reality factor, and "x" equals the probability of a love connection.

Leaving nothing to chance, by the time we left, we had derived a 10-question quiz to determine the F score, and planned for similar questionnaires to get the D and M scores.

Obviously, we have too much time on our hands. If only we had devoted those brain cells to solving the crisis in the Middle East, or coming up with alternative forms of energy.

But when you bring your spreadsheet and calculator on your next date, you'll thank us.

Just Catching Up

I know I've been MIA lately but, apparently, I was so stunned by Dick McKay that I lapsed into a month-long coma. I just haven't felt there was much that was blog-worthy lately, hence the absence. But when I think about it, there has been quite a bit going on.

First, there's the new job. It's been a little more of a challenge than I thought it was going to be. I went from working for one of the largest nonprofit organizations in the country, to a two-and-a-half-person local staff. I went from battling cancer to protecting an organ that not many people think about (but you should!) And by the way, who knew that the title of this post would allude to the job that I would interview for a week later?

In my old job, there was somebody for every function, and I admit that I was spoiled. Now I feel like chief cook and bottlewasher. Plus, I kind of feel like I've been picked up by the seat of the pants and tossed right into it. There hasn't been a whole lot of formal training, and not a whole lot of resources to turn to. But I keep telling myself that this is what I wanted: more challenge, more autonomy, a good career move. So I've been pretty overwhelmed in the adjustment, and have doubted that I made the right move, but all in all, this will work out. It's good experience, right?

And then there's the house. No, I still haven't moved in yet, but Hotass has. I've been packing the last two days in preparation for the move this coming weekend. And like last year's move, and every move before that, this too is a source of great anxiety. I don't know if it's common among everyone else, but every time I change residences, I nearly have a complete and total come-apart. I hate the idea of being unsettled even if for a day, and the prospect of putting my life in boxes strikes sheer terror in my heart.

Okay so maybe "terror" is a bit dramatic, but I probably could stand a bit of therapy to help me with my moving issues.

The renovations so far... we've painted with the help of the Gaggle. Brown Teepee in the living room and dining room. Porpoise in the bathroom. Sparrow in Hotass' bedroom. Subtle Touch in the hallway. The first color that went up in my bedroom was Ocean View, but it turned out a little too blue and juvenile for my taste; the color seemed more appropriate for a five-year-old boy who liked to play with trains. So I repainted it a pleasant grayish-blue appropriately named Skipper.



We've ripped out all the carpet and sold it on Craigslist, and the hardwood floors are in remarkably good condition. We've single-handedly remodeled the bathroom. A new vanity light. Installed an electrical outlet. A new medicine cabinet. New light switches (with a dimmer of course). New vent fan. Ripped out the old vanity and installed a pedestal sink. We've replaced the stove, the washer, and the dryer, and, painting a picture of pure white trash, the old ones are sitting on the patio. If you want to take them off our hands, let me now. And I think we've done a fine job with the work so far; not bad for two queer boys who have never done this sort of thing before.

I'd like to propose that our new neighborhood become Memphis' new gay ghetto because don't you think there's something homoerotic about living in a gayborhood called Sherwood Forest? What gay man wouldn't want to call Wil Scarlet Road, Maid Marian Lane or Robin Hood Road home? Of course, we need to get the appliances off the patio before any self-respecting gay man would want to call us neighbors.

And there's been a few other things going on. There was the boy that came to visit from Connecticut, a torrid, all-consuming infatuation until there was the realization that he was there and I am here. And let's face it. I consider anything outside of Midtown a long-distance relationship. He's a wonderful person, but then there's the reality of the situation. A reality that I allowed myself to ignore for a few weeks, but it was a nice few weeks, allowing myself to get caught up in the blush of a crush.

The Dynamic Duo moved to Nashville last weekend, and left a pretty big void here in Memphis. Granted they're only three hours away, and while I was in Nashville this week for work, I stayed overnight with them, but dammit, I'm gonna miss those boys.

So, um, what else? Oh, I saw Pirates of the Caribbean today, after two Bloody Mary's and a crab-Swiss-spinach omelet at Bayou Bar & Grill. The omelet was good and I was unimpressed with the movie. And I'm really kinda diggin' Christina Aguilera's new song, and I'll give it my vote as the Summer Song of 2006. And I don't care how wrong it is, but I really feel sorry for how white-trash Britney Spears has become. I just want Madonna to take her aside and give her a good talking-to. And I'm really sorta worried about this thing in the Middle East.

So that's what's been going on with me. What's been going on with you?

ohmygod

Two of the best places in the world to boywatch are Home Depot and the airport. And if there are two places I've been spending a lot of time lately, it's Home Depot and the airport.

With the traveling this week and the home remodeling, Hotass and I have had a lot of opportunity to spot some really fine specimens of eye candy. And we're usually on the phone with each other.

In the middle of shopping for medicine cabinets or arranging for him to pick me up at the airport, the conversation stops mid-sentence.

"I'll just give you a call when my plane...ohmygod."

"What is it?" But we already know what it is. It's a hairy. brawny, rugged, masculine handsome man. We don't even ask for further details. God walks on by and the conversation picks up where we left off.

Earlier this week, I spotted Dick McKay on Queerclick. Consider this post my own little "ohmygod" from me to you.

So, um, what were you saying?

Leavin' on a Jet Plane

Normally these musings are from a man in Memphis, but for the first time ever (and probably the last time), these are musings from a man in Detroit.

At least I think it's Detroit. It's supposed to be Detroit, but it could very easily be an airport in Des Moines or Duluth. I'm only in the first hour of a three-hour layover on my way home, and I just really want to get back to Memphis.

I've spent the week in Connecticut. At least I think it was Connecticut. There wasn't much indication that I was in a place with any type of personality. It looked fairly scenic through the window of the car that picked me at the airport, and I could almost kinda sorta see the river from my hotel room.

This was the first trip with my new job. I started a week ago today, and I've been at a staff conference since Monday, trying not to look bewildered and desperately trying to fake competence. People are swift to judge the new guy and I didn't want to look like a dumbass. It was a good chance to meet the other folks I'll be working with from around the country, but I can't tell you how many times I had to whisper to the person sitting next to me, "What the hell does that mean?"

I can tell you that this new organization is a refreshing change from my last one. Our accommodations? A casino, but it was quite plush. Our meals? Divine and on the company dime, much better than the usual penny-pinching chicken and vegetable conference fare. Our alcohol? Well, I can at least say, that everyone I told that I was coming to work for this organization asked if I could still drink. That answer is a resounding yes. And most of this week's booze was on someone else's tab. That's just fantastic. I don't care who you are.

On the flip side of things, there were way too many Jewish grandmothers playing the slot machines. I think there was almost a geriatric revolt when our group was escorted to the front of the buffet line. My Southern ears didn't adapt well to the Midwestern and Northeastern whang of my new coworkers. I'm craving a redneck drawl, and being around mostly straight people all week, I'd love to just have a total "nell spell" and squeal at the top of my lungs. Just to get it out of my system.

I do feel like I haven't seen the sun all week, except through a window. And I'm pretty protective of my me-time and I get downright exhausted when I don't have recharging time. Trying to impress, soaking in new information and falling into bed late at night only to do it all over again early the next day has really taken a toll on my internal batteries.

So yeah -- a new job, a new house, big changes in the Gaggle (not only has Tman left but the Dynamic Duo are moving away too), traveling, I just don't feel like I've had much downtime lately, and I'm just worn the fuck out.

Two Queers and a Hammer

So now we've done it. Hotass and I have become homeowners.

Two months ago, I was content to live in my apartment, gladly paying rent for the convenience and peace of mind knowing that if something broke, it wasn't my problem. When it came to my home, I was a little commitment-phobic. Yes, I was aware of all the pro's of owning a home. The tax breaks. The investment. The security. The freedom. But the possibility of being dragged into a money pit and giving up my weekends for yardwork scared the daylights out of me, so I considered myself a terminal renter.

But then Tman decided to sell his house and move, and Hotass needed a roof over his head. And there was that nagging thought that I should probably grow up and get over my fears. And so when he proposed that we go in together and put down some roots, I agreed.

We found the perfect starter house, even if it was the first and only one we looked at. Affordable, but yet a place we can get a decent return on our investment in a couple of years. In a semi-quiet older neighborhood. Still inside the 240 Loop and close enough to Midtown that I don't get panicky. And yeah, there are upgrades and remodeling that needs to be done, but we have delusions that we can do the work ourselves.

The real estate agent handed us the keys to our new home yesterday afternoon, and by the time I got there after work, Hotass had already trimmed a single bush by the driveway and ripped out the bathroom medicine cabinet, leaving a gaping nasty hole in the bathroom wall. He said he needed some immediate gratification.

Last night we made our first trip to Lowe's as naive and eager do-it-yourselfers. Two and a half hours later, we left with a new pedestal sink, a vanity light, a faucet kit, wallpaper stripper, a bathroom vent fan, paint chips, and a lawnmower.

After I scored the seashell wallpaper in the bathroom, we stood around looking at what we could do next. We spied the tiled-in soap dish, toothbrush holder and towel rack. We might have watched too much HGTV.

"How do you feel about those?"

"I hate 'em."

Pieces of ceramic tile shattered and we started chiseling away at the remainder with a hammer and screwdriver, careful to not chip the surrounding tile and debating what we were going to put in the empty spaces and what color the wall would end up.

Tomorrow is my only day off before I start my new job on Thursday, and we'll spend the day, ripping out the vanity and installing the new sink and vanity light. This weekend, we're organizing a paint party for the rest of the house.

This home-ownership thing is going to be a blast. Stay tuned for photos and our progress.

A Cure for the Summertime Blues

It's not even officially summer, but already Spider has noted that several bloggers have the summertime blues. To cure the early summer blues, he's offered up a meme to break the blahs.

Here's how it works: Answer all of the original 20 questions (10 from Spider, 5 from Brad and 5 from me) that I have posted here, and then add five of your own.




Best summer: Maybe the summer of '95 - the first summer out on my own that finished with a road trip to New Orleans for Southern Decadence. That picture was made just before we got in the car to leave. Who were those boys? Oh, and the summer of '05 was pretty damn good too.

Best car I've ever owned: A 1985 Nissan 200SX

Best cruising song: "Where the Streets Have No Name", U2.

Favorite meal: Meatloaf and mashed potatoes

Favorite season: Fall

Proudest accomplishment: Landing the job that I start next week.

Best Christmas gift: Tickle-Me Elmo. No, seriously.

Most embarrassing moment: Taking a spill on the stairs at Backstreet.

Best slow dance song: "At Last," Etta James

Best night: The best night in recent memory is the night when the Gaggle went down to Beale Street.

These are the five that Brad added:
Favorite pet: Baxter, the stray daschund mutt I carried home, only to have to put him to sleep a week later because he was infested with worms.

Favorite crush: Mickey Brown. He sat across from me in high school Spanish class and would pretend to yawn to get me to yawn too. And he was just so damn cute.

Best vacation: The Outer Banks, 2001 and 2002.

Best relationship: Despite all of the heartache and drama, when my last relationship was good, it was great. When it was bad, it was dreadful.

Favorite dessert: Tiramisu. Or apple pie.

My questions
Favorite smell that reminds you of summer : Honeysuckle

Favorite song that reminds you of your first love: "Wicked Game" - Chris Isaak

Most memorable summer fling: Kevin Sherrill. Even though we had known each other since freshman orientation, I had no idea he was gay until we graduated. We first hooked up at my best friend's graduation party, and then again a week or two later. I remember talking to him on the phone during the series finale of "Melrose Place." The next week, he went to New York to make it big on Broadway, and I never heard from him again.

Best way to beat the heat: Taking a cool shower, and taking a nap in the coldest, darkest room in the house.

Favorite summer drink: Gin & tonic

A Bang-Up Weekend

Normally getting smashed involves copious amounts of alcohol. But that wasn't the case Friday afternoon, when a beige Mercedes ran a red light and started my weekend with a bang.

Truvy the CR-V wasn't driveable, so she spent the weekend in a tow lot, and I spent the weekend being picked up and dropped off by Hotass, until I could get a rental car today, a super-stylish and ultra-fashionable Toyota Corolla.

Aside from the inconvenience of not having a car and being pissed off because I had just filled up with gas ($40 wasted) and given Truvy her first bath of summer, it was a good weekend.

Most of the Gaggle had gone to more tropical, or at least sexier, settings: JonJon, Sweet Wade, Dusty and Bobo went to Pensacola. Tman went to IML in Chicago. The Chef and the Artist flew out Sunday morning for a week in Key West.

Hotass' "friend" from Birmingham, who the Gaggle has named BamaNut, and his best friend came to town Saturday. We had lunch at Huey's and then the four of us met the Dynamic Duo for an X-men matinee and Central BBQ before they went home to finish packing and haggle with the airline for changing their flight. Our schedules revolve around our feeding times.

After a early evening nap, the four of us started at the Pumping Station, there only long enough to have one drink and make an appearance, and then went to Backstreet.

There are a lot of reasons I can't go to Backstreet much. One, the recovery time from dancing til 3 in the morning is not what it used to be. Two, there are popped collars on Polo shirts everywhere, and I hope this is a trend that dies a quick and painful death. Three, I'm scared to death of the stairs after taking a tumble down them once before.

The Sunday morning recovery was just what I had expected: exhausted and a little hungover. And I guess that's why BamaNut asked me if I was always that grumpy on Sunday mornings. We hit a couple of Memorial Day cookouts, but I don't think any of us were quite feeling up to it. By five, I was ready for another nap.

The boys came over later in the evening, armed with pizza and cookies, and we played poker til after midnight.

BamaNut and Chris went back to Birmingham Monday morning, and I spent the day doing laundry and watching a "Flip That House" marathon on TLC with Hotass.

And the weekend ended like it began. BamaNut had just gotten back to Birmingham when a lady ran a red light and ripped off his front bumper.

Hope you had a smashing weekend too.

Let Them Eat Cake

While another season of Desperate Housewives ended, the Gaggle closed a chapter as well.

In case you're curious about who got killed on The Gaggle's season finale, it was the caramel cake from the Commissary.

It wasn't the first cake to disappear from the streets of Memphis in the past year and a half. There was an angel-food cake in the shape of a sand castle. Half of a German-chocolate cake. I distinctly remember a half-dozen birthday cakes, a couple of gallons of ice cream, and easily two trifles.

But Sunday night's caramel cake wasn't just killed. It was slaughtered. Perhaps some of the worst carnage we've ever left in our path.

At least the going-away cake on Friday was given the dignity of being sliced and served.

T-man has taken a job in Austin, and in true Gaggle fashion, we threw him a cowboy sendoff. Complete with hay bales, margarita punch, a beer keg, a cowboy cake and linedancing lessons. I really wanted pony rides and a mechanical bull too, but that never came to pass.

Not only did we wish "happy trails" to a good and always-hospitable friend, but it was a good-bye to the house, the site of many Gaggle gatherings and pool parties. And we definitely haven't had enough warm days in Memphis yet this year to warrant jumping in the pool.
On Sunday, we gathered for the last time in the Homo-comb Hideout to watch tv, eat and close out a season. With T-man's move West and the selling of the house, we're left with a few cliffhangers.

Can the Gaggle ever replace the irreplaceable T-man? What will happen to poor Hotass now that's he's homeless? Are Skipper & Hotass ready to sign on for another season of Laverne & Shirley? What will happen with Skipper's new job? Will the Dynamic Duo give up Memphis for the Conch Republic? Where did that Dale Evans-wannabe-in-the-powder-blue-cowboy-hat get her outfit?

And more importantly, given their appetite for cake, will the Gaggle let Jenny Craig join the group?

Fortunately, no one has to wonder through a summer hiatus.

Say Good Night, Grace

I actually missed the series finale of Will & Grace. And I shouldn't have; I should have been there in that Manhattan apartment. But instead, I was standing in line at Wal-Mart to pay for a six pack and a 30-piece Western playset, complete with cowboys, Indians and a covered wagon, but that's another story.

Earlier today, Hotass and I talked about watching it, since we were there in the beginning, taping every single episode. But we both agreed that we had lost touch with Will, Grace, Jack and Karen over the years, and if we felt the need to get caught up, we could pick up the DVD tomorrow.

About the time that Will and Grace debuted, I met my Grace, an always-nutty, frequently-impractical, sometimes redhead expertly played against my always-practical, frequently-cynical, and only-once-platinum blonde Will. And we had standing Thursday night dates to drink gallons of wine and watch our imagined lives played out.

She is the only person in the world who, in a game of Password, will respond to "jaunty" with "scarf." She knows why me being terribly effusive for cheese bread is funny. She's witnessed drunken emotional purges on stormy North Carolina beaches. I know that on vacations she doesn't want to go to historic landmarks, because it's just someplace where stuff used to happen.

But the show jumped the shark at some point. Maybe when Will and Grace decided to have a baby. Maybe our lives didn't closely resemble what we saw anymore. Or maybe our lives just got too complicated for TV. Whatever the reason, we lost interest.

I hadn't watched since Karen scattered Stan's ashes from the boat. So I didn't feel so guilty about missing the final episode.

When I got home from Wal-Mart, I had this e-mail from Grace.

Tonight is it. The last night we'll be together, me with my flaming red hair, cooky wardrobe and curiously large baby belly, with a dork of an exhusband who looks remarkably like that jazz singer. You with your quips, smarts, savvy wardrobe and expensive shoes. Your plethora of hair care items will sit alone in the bathroom that the rest of the world has only seen once. I'm sorry to have had relations with your older brother, even though Sam was a hottie. I'm sorry we fought and had to make up in a vomit-soaked inflated castle at a child's birthday party. I'll always remember our talks, our jaunts, our watching gay porn until the wee hours of the morning; our shared coffee with the loudmouth, brash drunk, and the loudmouth brash actor/dancer/nurse/tvexec/host. You are my friend, my love, my split apart, my psychic word game partner, my right arm, the right side of my brain and my rock. I'll always love you.

Now I feel guilty about missing it, but Grace, I'll see you July 1.

Living on the Fault Line

"The probability of magnitude 6.0 or greater in the near future is considered significant; a 90% chance of such an earthquake by the year 2040 has been given."

Within the next 34 years, assuming I still live in Memphis, I have a 90 percent chance of being caught in a devastating earthquake. Surprisingly, my chances of being shot on Sam Cooper Boulevard or in Orange Mound are considerably less.

The Big One could happen tomorrow. And it's not like a tornado-spawning thunderstorm or a hurricane; you can't tune in to The Weather Channel and find out it's headed right for you. All you can do is duck and cover when the floor starts to wobble.

It's not like we live in fear, but everyone knows we're living on shaky ground.

Almost everyone I know seems to be experiencing their own personal little earthquakes. It seems like the tremors have already started. Just strange little signs and major life changes.

Tuesday morning, after the receptionist at work greeted me with a good morning, she asked if I felt like there was some weird vibe in the air.

"Everyone seems so on edge, and I don't like it."

I agreed with her.

The Gay Questionnaire

I saw this on Spider's blog, and thought I'd play along too.

1. How old were you when you knew you were gay? Probably around 11 or 12 is when it first dawned on me. About the time puberty struck, and I realized I was only jerking off to the guys in the Hustler magazines.

2. Have you ever had sex with the opposite sex? Not intercourse

3. Who was the first person you came out to? My best girl friend in high school - Kym Bilbrey. After I went to college, she heard a few rumors in the hometown, and she suspected that I was guilty by association. So I lied and came out as a bisexual. The faster the questions came about that, the harder it became to keep up with the lies. So I went ahead and told her I was gay

4. Are you out to your family? Nope

5. Do you want children? Probably not

6. Do you have more gay friends or straight friends? As friends go, I have definitely more of the gay persuasion

7. Were you out in school? Definitely not in high school, and not for the first few years in college. I had just started inching out of the closet when I graduated.

8. Is your best friend the same sex as you? Yes

9. If your best friend is the same sex, have you ever had sex with them? No

10. Have you ever done crystal meth? No

11. Have you ever been in a sling? Alas, no.

12. Have you ever done a 3-way? Um, yeah.

13. Have you ever dressed in drag? Do your homework.

14. Would you date a drag queen? Probably not again.

15. Are you a top/bottom or truly versatile? I'm about 20:80 on the top:bottom ratio. And according to the Gaggle, the real lyrics to Pink's song are, "God is a DJ. James is a bottom." It's kind of hard to deny that kind of poetry.

16. Have you seen an uncircumcised penis? My first one was uncircumsised.

17. Have you had sex with someone of a different ethnicity? Yes.

18. Have you ever barebacked? Yes

19. How many Cher CDs do you own? Three - Believe, Cher's Greatest Hits, and The Very Best of Cher. And I also have her picture stuck in the passenger side visor mirror.

20. Name of your first love? Johnai Einert

21. Do you still talk to them? Nope.

22. Does size matter? As Clinton and Stacy say on What Not to Wear, it's not about the size. It's about the fit.

23. Biggest turn on? Goatees, hairy chests, young cubbish guys with neat beards, jockstraps, beefy arms

24. Biggest turn off? Pretense. Materialism. Bushy balls.

25. Ever been harassed due to you orientation? Yeah

26. Worst gay stereotype that applies to you? Likes dance music and showtunes. Idolizes Diana Ross and Madonna. Dreams about Martha Stewart.

27. Ever been to a pride rally? Yes.

28. Would you marry if you could? Yes.

29. Would you rather be rich and smart or young and beautiful? Rich and smart.

30. Do you sculpt your eyebrows? My fear is I'd end up looking like Liza Minelli.

31. Do you trim your body hair? Nope. I gave it all up years ago, except the manscaping on the south lawn.

32. Ever had sex with more than one person in a day? In a 24-hour period, yes.

33. Ever been to an orgy? Yep.

34. Have you dated your best friends ex? An ex-boyfriend? No. An ex-trick or ex-affair? Yes.

35. Would you vote for Hillary Clinton if she ran for president? Depends on what the options are.

36. Do you want monogamy in your relationships? I think I do.

37. Do you believe in true love? Absolutely.

38. Do you have any tattoos? Yes, look right there above the crack of my ass.

39. Do you have any piercings? I was a total dork in 1991, and I got my ear pierced at the jewelry counter at Wal-Mart. And I did it because everyone else did it. I haven't worn an earring in it a long time and it's grown up mostly. There is still a hole in my left ear I see every morning to remind me.

40. Would you date a smoker? Yes.

41. Do you get HIV tests every 6 months? At least once a year.

42. Do you know anyone who has died from H.I.V.? Not really.

43. Do you know what Stonewall was? Yes.

44. Strangest place you have had sex? In the middle of a lake suspended by foam noodles.

45. Strangest place you've woken up? Under a pine tree.

46. Are your best years behind or in front of you? Please God, let them be in front of me.

47. Favorite porn movie? Men's Room: Gale Force - Titan

48. Are you in love now? No

49. Ever been in love with a straight guy/girl? Yes.

50. Did you ever have sex with them? No

51. Have you ever been to a nude beach? No.

52. Have you ever been to a bath house? Yes

53. Ever had sex in public? Yes

54. Have you ever been/stayed in a relationship for Money or Security, instead of Love and Friendship? Hell no

55. Have you ever keyed someone's car? I think maybe I did, but I distinctly spraying the doorhandle with copious amounts of pepper spray.

56. Have you ever fantasized killing someone not famous? Yep

57. Have you ever witnessed someone dying? No

58. Have you ever contemplated suicide? Yes

59. Are you glad you're still here? Absolutely. That which does not kill us makes us stronger.