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A few months ago, Hotass and I broke from a typical routine met JonJon and Wanda at a place down on Beale Street. Now Beale Street is usually the typical straight tourist place in Memphis, and there's not usually much to look at. But on this particular Friday night, it was eye-candy galore. And the band that played was chock-full o'woofy.They were Gabby Johnson. And while the whole band was cute, the guitar player, Juno, was the cutest. I'm such 14-year-old girl.Anyway, Juno was hot, and when he played the guitar, he looked like he was having an orgasm.
I love my apartment.It's cheap. It's in this great Art Deco building. I have great windows. I'm in Midtown Memphis. I'm two blocks from work. I have great afternoon sun in the bathroom that makes you feel like you're bathing outdoors. I have parquet floors. My tub and sink are a quirky sea-foam green. I have a fucking-fantastic view of the Memphis skyline. I'm across the street from Danver's and Office Max. I can see the Pyramid and the M Bridge to the west. And I can see the Sears Building to the north. I can see Piggly-Wiggly to the north-east. And, oh, I almost forgot... there's a liquor store on the first floor.But I'm learning there are oh-so-many reasons to dislike this place.When the upstairs neighbors flush their toilets, it sounds like the building is screaming.During the winter, I had this freak infestation of ladybugs. And I continue to find ladybug carcasses near the windows.My elevator is so slow, we all think Otis is a tiny old man pedalling on a bicycle to heft the elevator to the seventh floor.Being so close to work, I get the great honor of being on the security list. In the event that the office building's alarm goes off, I'm the first called.In the corner of Kimbrough and Union, Memphis Light Gas and Water has decided to dig a hole, and until they're finished with said hole, they have placed a metal plate. Which rattles with every car that drives over it. Nightmarish.There's some bizarre elevator work on the south tower. It's been closed for three months, and they've moved everyone out. And there's rumor that our tower is next. So help me God, don't make me move.
I don't want to get my ass kicked. 
They look like the gay Mafia coming for me. So that the FBI doesn't try to squeeze me into some witness protection program in Beataqueer, Kentucky, I've attempted to obscure the Mafia's true identities.
Refreshing. The Artist's truck smells like cum.Chemically, that's the scent you get when you combine chlorine, suntan oil, summer beer and new car smell.Saturday marked the beginning of summer. Yeah, a week late but the pool was finally open and ready for business. So the Gaggle gathered at HotAss and T-man for a pool party.We splashed. We drank. We ate. Oh my God, we ate. And a summer thunderstorm put us out. So we do what boys are apt to do. We needed to shop. In the pouring rain.So we piled into the Artist's new Pathfinder. Sweaty and greasy and more than a little drunk. All seven of us. In the pouring rain.And with all seven of us packed into that car, jabbering and whining back and forth, the Artist might as well been the soccer mom he longs to be, and we were the bratty neighborhood kids on our way to Chuckie Cheese.
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. You won't believe the hell I caught for deeming The Cingular Triplets woof-worthy. And you won't believe the show of support I got for thinking that Larry the Cable Guy is hot in a redneck kinda way.So to redeem myself, I present Larry the Cable Guy - again. Only this time, topless!
Lately, by the time Friday rolls around, my mind is mush. For example, I sit at my desk right now. I spent most of the morning developing an agenda for a 2006 planning meeting, but I got bored with it sometime around noon. Since then, I've been trying to look busy.I checked e-mail (my work account and my two personal accounts) every few minutes to see if there's something I should act on. I've been to the bathroom three times. I've snuck by someone's desk and stole chocolate out of the candy dish. My Dove milk chocolate foil said "Keep the promises you make to yourself." I've read and re-read the blogs of friends and strangers. I've entertained a sexual fantasy or two. I've randomly surfed photos on bigmusclebear.com. It's not that I don't have more important things to do at work, but dammit, I'm bored with all of them.
Cool refreshment Yes, you might be an alcoholic if you think that the way to survive the heat is to simply become numb to it through a carefully selected cocktail. And somedays, that works for me.Something icy. Something cool. Something refreshing. That's how summer afternoons should be spent, so without further adieu, here is my list of the best summer cocktails.1. Gin and tonic. Without a doubt, this is my favorite. The ice. The lime. The faint taste of pine needles. I was introduced to G&T's by Memphis friends and from that point forward, I categorize it as the perfect summer drink. Substitute vodka if necessary.2. Tequila Punch. Ahhhh, this crazy bitch sneaks up on you. Tastes like easy margaritas, but after a few, you can't find your sombrero, and the burro is in some serious trouble. Email me for the recipe.3. Margaritas. On the rocks. With salt. 'Nuff said.4. Beer. Yeah, so this isn't a cocktail. But it fits in so well with a summer cookout. And why do we wait til the hottest days of the year to cook meat over an open flame? I don't get it.5. Pinot Grigio. Well chilled. Again, 'nuff said.6. Bullfrogs. Mojitos. Mint Juleps. I haven't quite developed a taste for these yet, but they're still refreshing. I was recently introduced to South American Bullfrogs which are made with limeade, fizzy lemon-lime soda like 7-Up or Sprite and Absolut Peppar vodka. Interesting.If you have other suggestions, I'd love to hear them.
One of the greatest moments in Memphis' history... Yesterday was the first day of summer, and it arrived in Memphis with a vengeance. Already I'm tired of the moisture in my armpits. Today I made the mistake of not wearing a t-shirt under my polo shirt, and several times I had to wipe away the sweat drops that fell out of my sleeves and on to my desk calendar. That's just gross.The temperature rose above the mid-90s today and there wasn't a drop of rain for miles. Tomorrow threatens more, if not worse. One of the things that scares me about Memphis is the heat. As long as I have a cool place to retreat, I'm good. And I only hope that my apartment can withstand the heat, and can maintain a comfortable 72 degrees. But it's not just the heat. It's the humidity. By the time July and August rolls around, the air is downright choking. And try getting in the car after it's sat in the sun all day. You'd be happier if you burst into flames, and collapsed in a pile of ashes and charred bones.From now until late August/early September, there will be no relief. But there are -- no pun intended -- bright spots. Cold cocktails that sweat on the patio table. Shirtless boys. And some breath-taking sunsets.The sunset above is two weeks old and took place just before a thunderstorm (and the photo was shot from my kitchen window - damn I have a great apartment). Granted, we might not see much rain this summer, but even in the intolerable heat and humidity, the sunsets are a wonder of nature to behold.
The reason I pay my cell phone bill. One of my favorite blogs is Sardonic Bomb, and that's where I stole the idea of doing "boys of the moment." And because my tastes coincide with Scott at Sardonic Bomb, I inevitably steal pics from his site.So hence the Cingular triplets have made their way to my corner of the web. See those boys up there? They did a commercial about calling home from college for Cingular? Yeah, they don't meet the mature, hairy, beefy men I typically drool for, but damn, they're hot.Or maybe it's because there's three - count 'em - three of them!Correction: As Gucci Butterfly has pointed out, these boys are not WOOF. They might be more aptly described as Lickable or Yummy or Twinkish Eye Candy. But they certainly aren't woofy.
More pink than should be allowed by law. As I've indicated in previous posts, the Gaggle loves a theme party. The occasion of The Pink Lady's 30th proved no exception.The Pink Lady is as girly as they come. And what better place to have her 30th birthday gathering than at The Beauty Shop? The Beauty Shop is a great restaurant here in Memphis in a 1940s-style beauty shop. You can even eat your $22-lamb chops under a hair-dryer, if you desire.Anyway, in homage to the Princess, we all dressed in pink.
C'mon, bitch. Take it! If you want it, work for it. If that picture doesn't make you chuckle at least a little, then you aren't my friend.
Git R Dun! One night, not too long ago, HotAss and I were sitting around being silly. Perhaps we'd been sipping on Vivacious Vicky a little too long. HotAss felt the need to start downloading Pink Floyd. After "Stairway to Heaven," "Money," "Comfortably Numb," and "Another Brink in the Wall," I tipsily turned to HotAss and said, "We have achieved a new level of Ned's rectum."Of course, that caused a few moments of bewilderment, because neither of us knew Ned. But what I meant to say was, "We have achieved a new level of redneckdom."Redneckdom is known by almost everyone who considers themselves somewhat sophisticated and thinks he or she might be beyond that point in their lives. For example, I occasionally crave deep-fried catfish, hushpuppies and cole slaw. I love to hear some Lynard Skynard "Sweet Home Alabama." HotAss drives his white pick-up truck like he's late to pick up his pregnant bottle-blonde girlfriend. And I know that the two of us have been known to say, "Aw, hell naw!"So I'm not a stranger to Ned's rectum. And, recently, I have discovered that nothing gets my cornfed juices flowing like a redneck man. And nothing epitomizes "redneck man" like Larry the Cable Guy. And he gets me hot. Call me a freak. Call me a first-class weirdo, but I am coming out of the closet as a Larry-Lover. I watch Blue Collar TV just for a glimpse of Larry. I wish I could explain why I find that fat camo-wearin', deer-huntin', gravy-spillin', beer-guzzlin' man sexy, but I can't even begin to try.It is what it is.
One of my greatest fears is that my laptop will crash and that I will lose more than 240 hours of borrowed music. Yes, that's 10 continuous days. Almost 3,000 songs. I could be in some major trouble with the RIAA.Somewhere in that catalog of popular music, only a lucky few have made my list of the best songs ever. Well, in this case, at least the genres in my Windows Media Player of Dance, Eurodance and Techno. But I am also indecisive so this list changes frequently.So, here it is in no particular order, my list of and comments on My Most Super Favorite Songs Ever - Effective June 8, 2005 -- The Disco-Dancin' List. And I know that one of my regular readers has an avid disdain for disco-dancin' music.Everybody, Everybody by Black Box: Hell yeah, it's as ol' skool as they come. But who can resist this one? And even pretending to be a black drag queen named Rita when you think no one is looking. And they were.Believe by Cher: Man, that Cher knows how a boy feels. And that Cher knows how to give a boy hope.Nobody's Supposed to Be Here by Deborah Cox: The "No-no-no's" at the crescendo kills me every time.Girl From the Gutter by Kina: This song contains one of the most brilliant dance song lyrics ever written. "I hope your hell is filled with magazines, and on every page, you see a big picture of me. And on every one, the caption would read, Not Bad for Girl from the Gutter Like Me."I Will Love Again by Lara Fabian: Ah, this song takes me back to a summer long ago in a tropical paradise when I knew that when I was starting to discover that the asshole I was with really was an asshole. Classic.Be My Lover by La Bouche: Yeah, long before it was overplayed, this song really was the shit. And I feel cool because I knew it before the rest of the world. Well except Hotass.Find Another Woman by Reina: She's calm but she's empowered, and she's telling him to kiss her ass.Lola's Theme by Shapeshifters UK: I don't know who Lola is, but hey, everybody deserves a theme. When I hear this song, I picture myself in a crowded classy lounge sipping a Cosmopolitan that complements my new shirt. Lola's is the name of the lounge. If You Could Read My Mind by Stars on 54: It's amazing how many great dance songs are covers.Santa Maria by Tatjana: Another one that takes me back. I used to pretend she was singing "Ave Maria" and work hands folded in prayer and a genuflection into my dance move.It's Love (Trippin') by Goldtrix featuring Andrea Brown: This song has "rollin' on x" written all over it.Can't Get You Out of My Head by Kylie Minogue: If there were such a thing as celebrity queefs, Kylie's would be "la-la-la la-la-lala-laffffff." Yeah, that comment was random. Ask me about it.Bizarre Love Triangle by New Order: Yet another oldie but a goodie. I go back to the five minutes I thought I might have been bisexual. HA!Murder on the Dancefloor by Sophie Ellis Bextor: If you're singing along, it's a good reason to shout "Goddamn!"Heaven by DJ Sammy, I See Right Through You by DJ Encore, Sandstorm by Darude, Put Your Hands Up in the Air, Days Go By by Dirty Vegas, Soak Up the Sun (remix) by Sheryl Crow, Rapture by IIO, One More Time by Daft Punk : I could put together a whole CD of music that takes me back to the summer I rediscovered myself. That's a good feeling. And yeah, that One More Time has "rollin' on x" written all over it.Amokk by 666: Ah, air horns. All I can see is Dougie doing the Dougie Hat Dance.And, appropriately, finally...Finally by CeCe Peniston: I always see the scene from Priscilla, Queen of the Desert. This is another classic. Oughta be in every gay boy's hymnal.
Is "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" too obvious a caption? Happy Gay Pride Month!Few things make my eyes roll more than Gay Pride. And maybe it's because I have never completely drank the rainbow-flavored Kool-Aid, but this whole gay pride thing kind of gets on my nerves. And while I totally acknowledge the leaps and bounds gays and lesbians have made in the 30+ years following the Stonewall riots as a result of demonstrating our gay pride, maybe we missed the boat somewhere. Okay, maybe I missed the boat.My first gay pride parade in Nashville, I showed up in my t-shirt emblazoned with the rainbow flag. I marched in the parade. I shouted my highly-charged political protests, like "We're here! We're queer! Get used to it!" and "Two, four, six, eight! How do you know your kids are straight?" At some point midway through the afternoon of lesbian singer-songwriters and men in cuffed denim shorts and combat boots telling me how proud I should be and why the battle ahead would be a long and treacherous one, I began to feel a little uncomfortable. After a rousing rendition of "We Are Family," I turned to Hotass and said that I didn't want to be gay anymore. I'd had it up to here with pink triangles, rainbows, and PFLAG. I looked around and I realized that we had been preaching to the choir all day. I was surrounded by gay men and lesbians who knew we'd been second-class citizens, who knew the pain of living a double life, who were mad as hell. But the people who needed to hear us weren't there. Our families who had disowned us. Our churches who had ushered us outside. Our legislators who had no interest in us.Sure, our parade brought out the assholes with the "God Hates Fags" signs. And the news cameras were there to shoot the signs, and the drag queens, and the leathermen with their asses hanging out of their black shiny chaps. And the weekend anchors made a mention of our show of support for equal rights. But the folks at home were still too fixated on the man in the dress.Gay pride is a damn fun party. As an instrument of social change, I'm not sure these gay pride things work. And I don't profess to have better ideas. We can vote and select the lawmakers that we feel best represent our interests, and hope they win. As gay men and lesbians, we can be socially responsible and let our actions show the rest of the world that we aren't freaks of nature or perverts. But it's a catch-22. It's difficult for a lot of us to be ourselves until the world is a safer place for us. And the world won't be a safer place until we can be ourselves.I have to tell ya... the political and social climate in this country fucking scares the daylights out of me. And I don't know what it takes to change it, but I do know that it's up to each of us to do our part, whatever that is. Write a letter. Get registered to vote. Come out of the closet. Show the world that gay men and lesbians really are good people.Stop being a fucking cliche, and be an individual.
She's a bitch. Once upon a time, there were two gay boys. Both pretty straight-laced, as descriptions go. But you see, one had a job as a drag engineer. The other was doing his dog-goned best to live a respectable life.As a drag engineer (HotAss) had the good fortune to encounter lots of types backstage, especially those types who were purveyors of chemical enhancements. And on the occasion in question, HotAss brought home marijuana.Now, at this point, neither gay boy was a stranger to marijuana. My first smoke was about three or four years earlier, and I had several in between. It was never something I just loved, but it was always an interesting experience.Now when HotAss brought that solitary joint home that night, we decided to save it for a special occasion. And so it went...in the freezer in a plastic baggie.It was rare when the two of us had a Saturday night at home. Usually there was a bar involved. But on one particular free Saturday evening, we found ourselves at home. So we watched a movie, Scream, on VHS (that tells you how long ago this was). After it was done, we got the bright idea that tonight, two months later, would be an ideal time to smoke the joint in the freezer. Oh, and why don't we watch Alice in Wonderland, just for shits and giggles.So we lit up, flicking the ashes in the giant zodiac ashtray, just as the movie started.Life was good, as we proceeded the first 30 minutes of the movie. And then there was the part that still unsettles me.There's the vignette about the Walrus and the Carpenter. It's about desire and their desire for the young oysters. Somehow during the course of this tell-tale story, I found it to be so captivating, that each second found me closer and closer to the TV screen. Just prior to the Walrus and the Carpenter devouring the baby oysters, I was on my knees in front of the TV screen with tears streaming down my face.I had a moment of clarity and turned to HotAss."I've really fucked up now."HotAss laughed uncontrollably.For the next what seemed like four hours, HotAss placed his hands on my shoulders and we walked in circles, puncutated by his question. "Where are you?"I don't know where I was. I was tripping backwards through my mind. And it was more than just a little scary. It was 911 scary.When he felt comfortable to lay me in the dining room floor, HotAss called our resident expert, who arrived with the sage advice."Put him in a cold shower. He'll be fine."I took a shower, and remarkably, I felt fine afterward. But I sore off Mary Jane for several years. At least until recently.The next day, I went to my part-time job at This Disney Store, and prayed that Alice in Wonderland wasnt' playing on the big screen.
The Whole God-Famn Damily There's really only two things I remember most about the movie It's My Party. One, it's fucking depressing as hell and I weeped for days. Two, there's a line by Margaret Cho in the movie that still hangs with me."When you're gay, sometimes you get to choose your family. And he chose us."For whatever reasons, sometimes we just aren't close to our blood relatives, and sometimes we're fortunate enough to have people in our lives to fill the void.Now, I'm on pretty good terms with my family, but I'm not out to them, and it's seems like there's oceans of difference between us. And so those guys (and one girl) are my family here in Memphis. And we smooth over the rough edges as family is apt to do, and they get on my nerves sometimes, and we also generate more than our fair share of drama.Every Sunday night for the past two months, we get together. We gather for margaritas at Cafe Ole. We dish. We watch Desperate Housewives. And yes, we each have a character we identify with most on the show. You see, I'm Lynette. The Artist is Bree VandeCamp. JonJon is Susan. HotAss is Edie. And we eat fabulous desserts. The Pink Lady is still upset she didn't get to get off her drunk ass to see the angel food cake in the shape of the sand castle, surrounded by "dunes" of brown sugar.We aren't bound by blood. But we are bound tight.And boy do we love our theme parties. Christmas was a Christmas Village party, and each of us dressed as our favorite "village" person. The Artist and The Chef were the village candy makers, passing out candy canes. Valentine's Day was a chocolate party. We had a birthday party not too long ago with a Cinco de Mayo theme. Memorial Day, as a salute to the troops, was a camouflage party. A birthday party on March 21 was a toga party in homage to the Roman rites of spring. For my and HotAss's birthday, it was a black party.They're good guys. And I am grateful to have them in my life. And I am especially grateful they have chosen me to be in their family.So...HotAss, T-man, Artist & Chef, Dusty & Bobo, JonJon, Wanda, Sha-Nay-Nay, Peter, Pink Lady...I love you. Thanks for being my friend, and thanks for being my new family.[Hey Virginia and Baby Gyrl, don't think I've forgotten about you or written you out of the family will. I love you just the same. As Diana Ross once said, someday we'll be together.]
She has a great personality. Oh, she hears the whispers as they pass by. She secretly spies Ken and the boys giggle like schoolgirls, or perhaps she overhears the hushed kiss of death."She has a great personality, though."Oh, she hears them. Barbie has a beach house. Skipper has a townhome in Hoboken.Barbie got a pink Corvette for her 21st birthday. Skipper was making payments on a 1999 Corolla.After saving for a year for their vacation to sunny Malibu, Skipper got skin cancer. Barbie got an unbelievable tan and an egagement ring from Ken.While Barbie was whoring her way through school so that she could be an astronaut, an attorney, a veterinarian, a nurse and a doctor, Skipper waited tables in a smoky beer joint and got her degree in English so that she could eventually get a job as a secretary in an insurance agency.When Barbie got married to the blonde, blue-eyed volleyball athlete, Ken, Skipper was still waiting for red-headed and hot-tempered Ricky to get a feel under her mohair sweater.And through it all, Skipper remained patient, knowing that she was smart and street-wise. Barbie couldn't think herself out of a wet Burger King bag. Or a greasy McDonald's bag. Or a soggy Slurpee cup.Yes, she was patient because she was Barbie's little sister, and she knew all of the family's secrets. She watched as Barbie stockpiled napkins from Dairy Queen, and she witnessed her hour-long trips to the restroom, and she could hear the secret wretching echoing in the porcelain bowl.And Skipper knew Barbie's own vanity would be her secret weapon."Skipper, do you think my ass looks fat in these designer jeans?""Oh well, Barbie. I know my ass would never fit in them, and if your ass looks extraordinarily fat and like a trash bag full of strawberry Jell-O, then it must be the jeans."By her wedding, Barbie could barely stand the smell of own buttercream-iced wedding cake.She began to waste away. And yet Skipper remained bold."Does my ass look big in this napkin ring?""Did you have cottage cheese for lunch?"Barbie's obsession worsened. By the time Skipper had married Ricky who had since made his fortune as a real estate developer, Barbie was a cokewhore, speeding the final pounds away.Skipper and Barbie checked into the Beverly Hills hospital at the same time -- Barbie from malnourishment, Skipper for the most amazing plastic surgery ever conducted on one human.In the recovery room, Skipper painfully slipped from her bed, careful not to rip the stitches, and pulled the plate of chili cheese fries from the nightstand drawer. Barbie looked so peaceful as her finally-gaunt chest rose and fell."Barbie, are you hungry?""Oh Skipper, so hungry but I don't have the energy to lift my fingers down my throat.""Here. Let me help."Skipper carefully fed Barbie the plate of chili cheese fries. Barbie ate so ravenously, chili splattered across the hospital-white pillowcases."Thank you, Skipper. Tell me. Does my ass look fat in this hospital gown?"Within minutes, Barbie had died of exertion, tragically trying to wretch the fries from her stomach.In 21 more days, Skipper emerged from the hospital. From a lifetime of inferiority. From the shadow of that bitch Barbie. Barbie had always said that Skipper would be cuter if she were skinnier, if her hair were blond... well if she looked like something else. Now, Skipper did. She's a pretty girl and she has a great personality.EDITOR'S NOTE: The above story is a work of fiction. It in no way implies that I wish harm upon HotAss. I love him like a sister and no, his ass does NOT look like two sperm whales mating under a rubber tarp.
Today, I decided that if I went to work, someone might get hurt. Somedays you just need a mental health day, and while HotAss and others will attest that I rarely spend a full day in the office, I just couldn't be bothered with the office today. So I cashed in a sick day. The first "sick day" I've had in over a year.And, of course, I felt guilty all day. ARGH! Until 3:45 p.m., when the Enamored Catholic told me I should read my horoscope...Still in the mood to stay home and forget about the rest of the world? Well, if you can afford to take some time off, see if you can't talk your sweetie or your best friend into doing it with you. There's something about a day away from it all, especially when it wasn't on your schedule to start with, that brings back memories of carefree times when taking a risk was bold and exciting -- like when you got brave enough to play hooky in high school.
Mama, I'm coming home. This fella I've had a few dates(?) with instant-messaged me this evening and said, "Guess what I had to do tonight?"A million things go through my mind, especially when it's the fella I've had a few dates with."I have no idea. What?""I had to fish a dead armadillo out of my swiming pool!"What the fu*k?Ok...now look...this doesn't happen everyday in Memphis. Maybe in El Paso, but not Memphis? And for crying out loud, dude lives in Germantown...which might as well be Suburban Breeder Hell, east of the Mississippi River.So the story is that this armadillo weighed about 12 pounds and was ugly as homemade sin in its dead, water-logged state."Apparently, he couldn't swim or get out of the pool."Well, look. Of course, the armor-coated rat had to be able to swim. He had to cross the Mississippi River somehow."Or he could have crossed the bridge."Well, yeah. But look, even I am afraid to cross the bridge, and not to mention, walk through West Memphis.I implored the fella to call animal control or State Fish & Wildlife. But, it's dead, he says.Well, yeah. But finding an armadillo in Germantown floating in your pool, is almost like finding a kangaroo dead in your driveway. It just doesn't happen.And I think Fish & Wildlife oughta know these ugly bastards have finally learned to cross busy highways.
Oh So Sweet! On Friday, The Pink Lady arrived in Memphis. Ethan, his Roomie and I stopped by Sunday afternoon to greet her with a bottle of pinot grigio. Of course, they loved her and she loved them. And I'm thrilled to death to have her here.
A few months ago, Hotass and I broke from a typical routine met JonJon and Wanda at a place down on Beale Street. Now Beale Street is usually the typical straight tourist place in Memphis, and there's not usually much to look at. But on this particular Friday night, it was eye-candy galore. And the band that played was chock-full o'woofy.
