Finishing Up the Househusband's Interview

2. What is the sexiest thing about being a gay man? And why?
The answer to this question goes hand-in-hand with the answer to the next. The sexiest thing about being a gay man is exuding confidence, and feeling immune to judgement. It's not a confidence that comes from knowing you're the best looking man in the room. It's the confidence that comes from not caring whether you are or not.

3. What is the ugliest thing about being a gay man? And why?
I'm guilty of it, and Hotass and I even joke about it. We judge. It's what we do. As gay men, we've fought most of our lives for some degree of acceptance, but yet the ugliest characteristic of being a gay man is our/my propensity to meet, greet and pass judgement.

It happens every Friday and Saturday night at the Pumping Station. We look around and we size up everyone in sight, mentally taking note of flaws and bad shoes. And it's ugly because we sure don't want that judgement cast back upon us.

4. As an artist you paint what is in your mind's eye. If you were blind, what would you paint and what would guide you?
If I had been blind since birth and had never seen the beauty (and the ugliness) of the world, I would paint how I imagine things to be. I think it would be pretty liberating to paint what you feel, instead of what you see, and not feel bound by conventional concepts of perspective, color and form. How does sunlight feel, and how do you represent that with color and texture?

If I had witnessed the world and then became blind, I think that would be more frustrating to me, because I would want the finished piece to accurately reflect what I saw in my memory. Not having the benefit of sight, how would I know when I was finished?

5. Being a "spiritualist", what guides you down your path to enlightenment?
You might not think of Oprah as a spiritual leader, but what guides me is something I heard her say or read in O magazine. Live your best life. And to me that means I ask myself if I am truly enjoying my life. Am I being the best person I can be? Have I been kind to others and to myself? Have I appreciated and been grateful for the gifts I have? And can I do better tomorrow?

And now the rules:The Official Interview Games Rules:
1) If you want to participate, leave me a comment below saying, "interview me".
2) I will respond by asking you five questions - each person's will be different.
3) You will update your journal/blog with the answers to the questions.
4) You will include this explanation and an offer to interview others in the same post.
5) When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.

Martha and Me

Last night I dreamed about Martha Stewart and me just hanging out in her kitchen, baking cookies.

It wasn't the first time we had met. We both remembered our first meeting a few years ago. Hotass had given me a visit with Martha shortly after he and I met in Nashville, and I got to hang out with her then, baking cookies. But I was all nervous and stuff, and she got frustrated with me, because I was making a mess with the frosting. She apologized to me last night. Prison has a way of changing a person, she said, but she still didn't think I had given the frosting job 100 percent.

Her demeanor seemed rushed and aloof, but we still talked openly and honestly about the meaning of life, while she broke eggs and mixed cookie dough. I asked her how she managed to stay cold and collected, and make everything so perfectly.

"Cold?" she asked. "You think I'm cold?"

"No, I meant cool. You actually seem very warm and inviting on your new show. But you always seem to have it together."

"Didn't you see me fall apart when I got sent to prison?"

And then she asked me to get her a platter for the cookies, the one on the bottom shelf. It was a Christmas platter with red poinsettias on it.

"Martha, are you sure you want to use this one? It's ugly."

"Yes, I'm sure. The lady we're giving these to... well, I don't like her very much."

And then I woke up.

If You Have a Liver to Spare...

Then there's a trash can on Beale Street that will gladly take your your spare organs. Just slide it right there in the deposit box.

Tonight, we went to Pat O'Brien's, and we sang along to the dueling pianos in the bar. We sang along, at special request from our table, to "Dancing Queen." Actually we requested "Mamma Mia" but apparently that was outside their repertoire. "Dancing Queen" was as good as it got.

And the pianists never played the gospel hymn "Just As I Am" leading into the gay anthem, "I Am What I Am." We certainly asked and it should have been an easy transition to make, but our pianists stuck to the mainstays like "Uptown Girl," The Rose" and "Rocky Top."

Then, for our stumble down Beale Street, Hotass bought a dive bucket from Silky O'Sullivan's. And while we're still not quite sure what the ingredients are, we're fairly certain the drink in the orange gallon bucket is made up mostly of beer (althought all of the other ingredients are in question), and more than five straws. The straight out-of-town drunk women over 40 are always eager to know what's in the bucket and where you got it.

"She's an ex-cop and her ex-husband is a state trooper in Illinois."

"How do you know that?"

"That's what her mother said," T-man said, jerking his head in the direction of the woman with the camera.

And if you call out "Lisa!" to a pack of hot slutty girls, one of them is bound to turn around. As that's what happened with the girls out on the bachelorette party. At least the bride pretended to be Lisa as Jerry gnawed a peppermint LifeSaver from her tank top.

Sunday Bloody Sunday 2006

As a kid, the most exciting thing about Easter was the stuff in the basket. Granted, most of the goodies were things that I wouldn't dare eat. I wasn't a fan of hard-boiled eggs, or the jellybeans, or even Peeps. Most of the time I could only bring myself to eat the sugary shell, picking around the marshmallow fluff. Even after I gnawed the ears off the chocolate bunnies, I lost interest quickly.

I was more interested in the stuff with the longer shelf life (although God knows that Peeps were so full of artificial preservatives they would stick around until Christ's second coming.) I wanted the goods - the coloring books, the fresh pack of Crayola 64, the Silly Putty, the fuzzy rabbit that played "Frere Jacques" when I turned the key sticking out of its butt. Oh, and don't forget about the new Easter outfit - something cute, something pastel, something to get one good wear out of before I outgrew it.

Who says childhood was a simpler time? As an adult, I only want one thing for Easter: a good bloody mary.

I lamented to the Artist on Saturday as we were playing voice mail tag that I wished the Gaggle had planned some Easter Sunday festivities so that we could enjoy some quality time together. Ok, ok, it was all a guise to drink bloody marys. The Artist called back with a message that he and the Chef would be happy to pull something together for the afternoon, and that I should rest assured there would be bloody marys.

Insert unbridled glee here.

However, there were a few tense moments when I retrieved another voice mail message from the Artist saying that he had remembered to pick up all of the fixin's for bloody marys, but he had forgotten the vodka. How does one forget the vodka??

I glanced at the clock. It was 11:00 p.m., and as mandated by Tennessee state law, all liquor stores in Memphis had just closed til Monday. I told Hotass I'd squeeze potatoes if I had to.

Only an Easter miracle could save us now.

But like the miracle of loaves and fishes, everyone scraped together a few partial bottles of rotgut and Absolut managed to produce enough bloody marys to get the Gaggle through the afternoon and into the evening.

So instead of hiding eggs or celebrating Resurrection, we ate. Big surprise. There's always food involved. Like the Chef's homemade upright bunny cake with the sky blue almond M&Ms protruding alien-like from its frosted head. There were grilled burgers, potato salad, coleslaw, and the best baked beans I've ever had.

And the debate continues as to whether Sweet Wade's ambrosia salad is pink or orange.

And a pre-Desperate Housewives game of Hilarium and, the newest Gaggle inductee, Stick's portrayal of a queen, gave rise to a new catchphrase:

"I'm gonna read you bitches! I'm gonna read you bitches!"

All in all, I had fun stuff in my basket this year.

Thank you, Easter Bunny. Bawk-bawk!

The Interview Continues - The Hearthusband Questions

Turnabout is fair play. So after I quizzed the Artist, I made sure that he came up with a few questions of his own for me.

1. Who do you consider to be your positive gay role model? If multiples, list. And why?
This is a really hard question for me. So I thought it might be easier to describe the qualities that my positive gay role model would have.

My gay role model is comfortable with his sexuality, physically, emotionally, and politically.

As a sexual gay man, he doesn't hide it, nor does he make a big deal out of it. He recognizes that being gay goes beyond who he has sex with. But he's also comfortable with whatever his "thing" is. Every gay man has his "thing" (and in some cases, "things") that turns him on. Married men. Furry men. Twink boys. Men who wear frilly panties. Nipple play. Ass play. Leather or latex. Hey, it's your thing. Whatever floats your boat. Even if my schooner isn't set out to sail by it. I admire those gay men who are who they are, and aren't ashamed or embarrassed about who they are in the bedroom. And they talk honestly about it, but not like they're bragging about it or going for shock factor.

Mentally, he's okay with the way he's wired. He's not carrying around mountains of guilt, nor does he carry around some internalized homophobia that makes him despise or, at least, mistrust all of the gay men who aren't like him.

Politically, he knows when the time is right to stand up and be counted. And he knows when he needs to shut up and sit down.

For example, last night at the gay and lesbian center, I heard SYD (Skinny Young Dyke), - the same one Sweet Wade bid on at the auction - describe an encounter she had with a girl who gave her a ride home from school.

"I just don't get why some people are so oblivious to their own oppression," SYD said as she rolled her bike into the room.

Earlier in the afternoon, as they were loading SYD's bike into the "oppressed" girl's car, the girl said, "It would be so much easier if a guy were here to help us." Naturally, SYD was appalled, and she went on a 15-minute tirade about "white male privilege."

The poor girl could only say, "Is this where I turn?"

I admire SYD's outspokenness, but I think she might have missed the point. When the time is right, write a letter, vote, carry a picket sign outside the Republican National Convention. But when someone is helping you load your bicycle into their car, shut up and enjoy the kindness.

Socially, he's not exclusively gay. He's balanced. And he can easily transition from one degree to the other.

Maybe I've just described the most well-adjusted gay man. And I'm not so sure he exists. But it's a nice ideal to shoot for.

I'll get to these other questions later.
2. What is the sexiest thing about being a gay man? And why?
3. What is the ugliest thing about being a gay man? And why?
4. As an arist you paint what is in your mind's eye. If you were blind, what would you paint and what would guide you?
5. Being a "spiritualist", what guides you down your path to enlightenment?

Sprung

It must be spring. I know this not because the flowers are blooming and the trees are budding. But because within 20 minutes of washing my car yesterday afternoon, it was covered with a fine layer of yellow-green pollen.

Today, it was blue skies and 81 degrees in Memphis.

And it's funny how not only does spring make the world wake up, but people too. More than in springs past, I notice this year how everyone seems to be rubbing the sleep from their eyes, and coming to back to the land of the living.

I've been a little restless and bored the last few weeks, and that's what prompted another template for my site. And I've been too bored with the site to even think about posting much. And because everyone seems to be waking up, there have been a few other things to occupy my time.

There was the Chef's birthday party. While not as wild as last year's Greco-Roman toga orgy, what would a Gaggle gathering be without a theme and costumes? This year's theme was "Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil" and the dress was Southern eccentric. So it was flowers, candles and Southern Comfort punch in JonJon's backyard. And naturally, there was lots of seersucker. And the ladies thought Southern eccentric meant big floppy hats, big swinging necklaces, and lots of makeup. However, I can't believe there wasn't a Lady Chablis. And I think my outfit was more Drum Eatenton in Mayberry.

Last week, I found myself being auctioned off in the Memphis Gay & Lesbian Center's bachelor and bachelorette auction. And there's nothing like the prospect of being sold off to the highest bidder like a piece of furniture to make you feel like either a scratched-up end table or an antique English armoire. However, two grande gin and tonics later, I didn't really care that much. Don't get me wrong, though; I'm pretty impressed with the fact that I brought in $425.

And one of the best moments of the night was when this cute slim character came out on stage, white shirt, tie, short haircut, and glasses. Wade has a soft spot for twinks so he threw up his hand to bid $105.

"Wade, that's a girl!"
"What? No, it's not!"
"Yes, it is."
"Oh dear God, somebody please bid 110."

Tomorrow, Hotass and I are headed to Nashville for a three-day weekend. Hopefully, this will quell any feelings of wanderlust and spring fever for a while

Lastly, a song much less annoying than "Popular" has gotten stuck in my head. While it was intended to be the Dixie Chicks' big giant fuck-you to the conservatives who trashed them after Natalie Maines said they were ashamed to be from the same state as George W. Bush, the song translates pretty well into a big giant fuck-you to anyone who has ever pissed you off, and lets you know it's okay to hold a grudge.

Dixie Chicks - Not Ready to Make Nice

No One Mourns the Wicked

Since he doesn't watch tv or read, I'm not sure how Hotass discovered Wicked. And one of our recent therapy sessions happened to coincide with his purchase of the soundtrack.

Lately, we've had a couple of mutual counseling sessions to help each other figure out life, but the latest one turned into a dissection of the story of Elphaba (aka The Wicked Witch of the West) and Galinda (alias: Glinda the Good Witch).

I read the book and hated it, and because of that, I couldn't understand how the musical could be the least bit entertaining.

So instead of trying to psychoanalyze each other last Thursday, Hotass replaced the video card in his computer, and we listened to Kristin Chenoweth and Idina Menzel.

And I hate to admit that I can't get these fucking songs out of my head. I've downloaded (and that's downloaded legally in case you're wondering) "Popular," "For Good," and "I'm Not that Girl," and they've been in heavy rotation lately.

And it's gotten so bad that instead of driving down Poplar Avenue, I'm now driving down Pop-YooHoo-Lar.

Popular-Wicked Soundtrack

Robbery at the Kodak Theatre

I don't care how hard it is out here for a pimp. It's harder for a trannie.

And that's why Dolly deserved to win Best Song for "Travelin' Thru."

Of course, if a downhome girl from East Tennessee couldn't win, it might as well be some Memphis gangstas representin' the other side of the state.

And I really think Felicity Huffman deserved the best actress award. Come on, she is a woman playing a man turning into a woman. That can't possibly be an easy role. But at least she lost to Reese Witherspoon, who is just cute as a little bottle of buttermilk. I can't rate her perfomance since I didn't see "Walk the Line," but she's just so cute.

I'm not sure I understand the Academy's recognition of Reese and Philip Seymour Hoffman. I'm sure both performances were stellar, but doesn't it seem that it would be easier to play real characters? They had real people to serve as a jumping off point for their roles. Not like Felicity Huffman and Heath Ledger who created their characters basically out of nothing but words on a page.

And did anyone in the world actually see "Crash?" Wasn't that a James Spader movie where people got off on car wrecks?

And it might have been just me but everytime the camera cut to Jake Gyllenhaal, he seemed to be looking at Heath Ledger with the desperate look of unrequited love.

Or maybe it was just the look of sour grapes.

To Flee or Not To Flee?

You barely have time to bask in the afterglow before you start asking yourself the questions about proper trick etiquette.

Should you come and go, and run the risk of being a total cad? Or should you linger a little while, and run the risk of being the one he couldn't get to leave?

If he jumps up to grab a towel, it's a good sign that you should find your pants and hit the door. Which is fine if you don't particularly want to stick around.

What if the pre-foreplay signals said that he was sorta into you, but he's already rummaging for his underwear and putting the lube back in the nightstand drawer before you even had a chance to get your breath?

What if you kinda sorta like him, and he dashes for the stash of towels and starts making the bed? How much uncomfortable small talk do you have to make while you dress, and still get your point across that you'd like to see him again and not seem desperate?

What if he wants to cuddle and you don't? How many uncomfortable minutes have to pass before it's okay to excuse yourself? And aren't the excuses like "I've got an early day" or "I've got to let the dog out" a little transparent?

If you like him and you think he likes you, how do you politely decline an invitation to stay because you really do have a legitmate reason (or maybe you just aren't up for a sleepover) and not seem like you're making stuff up?

If it's your place, and you're not into him, how do you not make it obvious that you're ready for him to leave and still be a polite host?

How come Miss Manners never addressed this? Or should you just go back to thinking with your dick?

A Case of the Drag-Ass

"Good morning, Eeyore," said Pooh.

"Good morning, Pooh Bear," said Eeyore gloomily. "If it is a good morning, which I doubt," said he.

Today, I had a good case of the drag-ass. No, not a day where I put on a pantyhose and pranced around to "These Boots Are Made For Walkin'."

But a day that you immediately know when you get out of bed, after four punches to the snooze button, you know that there can be no possible good that will come of this day. Your heart just ain't in it. It would be a better day if I spent it curled up in bed.

So I took my time warming the shower to a body-scalding temperature. I fretted over what to wear. I felt fat and frumpy. The toothpaste squirted out in one big gelatinous blob instead of the nice smooth line with a cute curl they show on TV. The toothpaste splattered tiny white dots all over the cuff of my black shirt. It was going to be a bad hair day and I really didn't care. And then I decided it's finally time to go to work.

I arrived at work and decided breakfast would be a good pick-me-up, so I walked next door to Mrs Winner's for two sausage biscuits and a medium Diet Coke. Fried pork, butter-slathered carbohydrates, and a calorie-free soda to make me feel better. Even Latoya or whatever her name seemed to be more chipper than I was on a chilly, dark, rainy Memphis morning. I got back to the office and sank into my chair with a sigh.

My boss bustled into my office a little later with sunglasses still on. Why were the shades necessary today? Her manic energy was more than I was ready to tolerate. She dispatched the latest message from on high in her pleasant, "it's-all-sunshine-and-rainbows" way. The message only created more unnecessary work for me. And I guess I might have sighed a little too much or rolled my eyes a little too obviously.

In her "Pollyanna-on-speed" yet indirect way, she then told me that I was working too much and suggested I take time off. Like, this afternoon. She's crazy as hell, but she might be on to something. But as great as it sounded, I knew that being gone for the afternoon would only mean more to deal with tomorrow.

After four hours of making calls, returning emails and answering questions, I turned off the lights in my office and walked out. I grabbed a bottle of cheap Cabernet* at the liquor store, and retreated to my apartment.

Having the afternoon might have been a blessing. It would have been a good day for painting, or reading, or running on the treadmill, or spending a few hours figuring out how to fix my life.

Instead it turned out to be a good day for wallowing in the puddle caused by my little black raincloud.

---
*Which reminds me of a funny story

A couple of weeks ago, I overheard a man in a restaurant ask his waitress for a Cab.

She returned a few minutes later, and asked him for his destination.

How the Other Half Lives

Last night, I went to a Memphis Grizzlies game. During halftime (do they call it halftime in basketball?), it was my turn to buy beer. So I scouted out an ATM to get cash and then return with two Miller Lites.

No one was at the ATM but the person before me left their receipt. I was almost content to just take my $20, and leave it there, untouched. But at the last minute, curiosity got the better of me, even if for no other reason than to do a good deed and toss their receipt in the garbage.

The person before me had withdrawn $20 from their checking account as well, but unlike me, they left a balance of $117,075.41.

$117,075

What kind of person has more than $117,000 in their checking account at any given time? How does one amass that kind of money in their checking account? Why isn't it in a saving account or a CD or investments? And why would you leave a receipt in the machine?

And why only take out 20 bucks?

The Interview Continues...Five Questions For a Hearthhusband

Now that The Artist, aka Diary of a Hearthhusband, has celebrated Imbolc and Ash Moon, reduxed the Duo's home, and chased Abigail in out of the rain, he has temporarily run out of steam with his blog. He's asked me to provide a little inspiration via "the interview."

1. I imagine that your typical day is rather structured and ritualistic and it stems from your pagan spirituality. What is your daily routine?

2. It's been several years since you learned you were HIV-positive, and to your friends, you don't make a big deal out it. How has it affected your outlook on life?

3. You and The Chef tied the knot in September in a state that obviously doesn't recognize same-sex marriages. Your ceremony was more about celebrating love and commitment, as it resulted in no legal benefits. What is your opinion of gay marriages vs. civil unions vs. commitment ceremonies? Or does it matter?

4. What three things have Big Linda told you that you will count as lessons of life?

5. What's gonna happen to poor Bree Vandecamp?

And now the rules:
The Official Interview Games Rules:
1) If you want to participate, leave me a comment below saying, "interview me".
2) I will respond by asking you five questions - each person's will be different.
3) You will update your journal/blog with the answers to the questions.
4) You will include this explanation and an offer to interview others in the same post.
5) When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.

Hey, Remember When...?

No, of course you don't. Because it never happened.

I'm stealing this from Sardonic Bomb.

If you read this (even if we don’t speak often or don’t really know each other) please post a comment with a COMPLETELY MADE UP AND FICTIONAL memory of you and me.

It can be anything you want — good memory or bad — BUT IT HAS TO BE FAKE.

So leave me a comment and tell me what you don't remember about us.

Better Late Than Never

After a year and a half, I have officially shed the last physical evidence of ever being a Nashvillian.

Today, I got new license plates, emblazoned with the "SHELBY" county name.

Yes, I've been driving around on expired plates since October, hoping to prolong the forgiveness that Memphians give to out of town drivers. But I knew in my heart, that forgiveness was only a farce. My idiocy behind the wheel was only giving Memphians further reason to hate Nashvillians. And I'm okay with that.

But, before I could get new plates, there was the cracked windshield to be replaced, and the headlight to be fixed. Never mind that I had those rectified months ago. I was thriving off the fact that I had gone almost five months without getting a ticket.

Good sense finally got the better of me, and I decided that I shouldn't wait any longer. Actually the thought was that I should stop being so white trash with my expired plates.

So this afternoon, I took off the Davidson County plate and replaced it with the brand-new plate design that proclaimed that I am a Shelby County resident.

On the down side, if it were a vanity plate, it would say that I ate 71 fleas.

Ink

I had wanted a tattoo since I was in college, but like most folks, I didn't know what I wanted or where I wanted it.

Back then, the only person I knew with a tat was a girl studying criminal justice. I sorta had a crush on her, but I also suspected her to be a lesbian. Her tattoo was a ying-yang symbol on her ankle, and her rationalization was that if she, in the line of duty, were dismembered, the medical examiner could still identify her body by virtue of the tattoo on her ankle.

My reasons were a little less practical. I was idealistic in the sense that I wanted some sort of meaning attached to it. Not only did I want the tattoo itself to mean something, I wanted to be able to look at it and not be reminded of a drunken escapade or an intolerable boyfriend-of-the-moment. I wanted to be reminded of a good place in my life, remembering where I was, mentally and physically, when I added that permanent design to my body.

So I waited. And it took me til I was 30 to get there. Virginia and I had just gotten back from OBX the first time. I had just celebrated my 30th birthday. And I was single, free of any emotional attachments to any negative feelings or hateful boyfriends. And tattoos were suddenly cool.

After a few trips to the studio to flip through the three-ring binders filled with photocopied sheets and photos of sample design work, I decided on mine. I wanted the Libra pictogram on the small of the back.

It makes sense. I'm definitely a Libra, and Libra rules the lower back and buttocks. After sizing and re-sizing the design on the copier a few times, my tattoo artist was ready to begin work. And perhaps it would have been better had he been a ZZTop-bearded, Harley bear.

But no. Brandon was HAWT. Mid-20s. Clean shaven. Tasteful tribal tattoos snaking up his well-developed forearms. Heavily gelled hair in the gay tiara, and thick-framed Buddy Holley glasses.

The room was set up with the padded chair. He said, "Unbutton your pants and bend over the bar there." I think I was instantly erect.

People always ask, "did it hurt?" Honestly, it was more uncomfortable than painful. The small of my back is somewhat of an erogenous zone for me anyway. And so when the hot tattoo artist passed over a cluster of nerves with a vibrating needle...well I almost launched out of my chair.

Forty-five minutes later, I was officially scarred for life.

And I thought it was rather unique. And then a few weeks later, I found this picture floating around the Internet.

Is there no such thing as an original idea anymore?

So I think I'm ready for the next unoriginal idea. I've got it narrowed down to two locations: my left shoulder or my right hip.

And I've got it narrowed down to two designs:

The Star: Just like this design, only in black and white. Simple, understated, masculine, and I have a plate that I picked up at a Goodwill with the exact same star around the rim.

The Scales: Keeping with the Libra theme on my body, I could add the other symbol.

Also in true Libran fashion, I can't make a decision to save my life.

The Year of the Frog

The Artist was a little disappointed and embarrassed to find out it isn't The Year of the Frog.

His first mistake was listening to his mother, Big Linda, when she said with unquestionable authority it was the Year of the Frog.

In preparations for Shenandoah's Asian-styled birthday party, The Artist was intent on carrying through on the theme. He asked the lady behind the counter at the Asian market if they had any frogs.

"Frogs?"

"Yeah, frogs. This is the Year of the Frog in the Chinese calendar."

She held up a paper placemat and pointed.

"Year of Dog. Year of Dog. There no frog in Chinese zodiac."

Elderly Asian men in the back of the store giggled, and murmured something that sounded like "crazy roundeye." The Artist gathered his chopsticks and fortune cookies, and left under of a cloud of Eastern ignorance and Western shame.

Frog or dog, Happy Chinese New Year, anyway.

And while I'm not sure but I think that the changing of Rooster to Dog might explain the restlessness I've had all weekend.

I tried to draw. I've read. I started and finished a new painting. While I was waiting for the paint to dry, I gave my blog a re-design. I had lunch with a guy. I ran on the treadmill yesterday and today for 30 minutes each time. I swept the floors. I scrubbed the tub and the bathroom sink.

The Chinese horoscope for Rats in the Year of the Dog says nothing about a sudden burst of energy.

"You'll be on good terms with your nearest and dearest, in an atmosphere of warm complicity, and in an ambience that you'll know how to make welcoming and full of life. However, remain on your guard concerning certain persons, as the risk of a dark plot cannot be totally excluded."

Not that I'm putting a whole lot of faith in Chinese astrology. Last year's horoscope turned out to be completely unreliable. Much like Big Linda.

I Hoped for Something Profound...

Here are the rules:
1. Grab the nearest book.
2. Open the book to page 123.
3. Find the fourth sentence.
4. Post the text of the next 5 sentences (#4, 5, 6, 7 & 8) on your blog, along with these instructions.
5. Don't you dare dig for that "cool" or "intellectual" book in your closet! I know you were thinking about it. Just grab what is closest. No cheating.

I cheated. The two closest books on the shelf were Dr. Phil self-help books, Self-Matters and Relationship Rescue, and quite frankly, I think he's mostly full of shit now.

So I grabbed the third nearest book. Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil by John Berendt.

"...There are times I don't feel like puttin' on a dress or makin' my face. But I come down here and do it anyway, because it's my job. It's how I make my living. And I'll tell you somethin' else: It's damn hard work bein' a girl full time!"

"Chablis," said Burt..."

Granny Got Me

In a half-hearted attempt to fulfill my new year's resolutions, I have succeeded in walking to work four times in the last two weeks. But it's only two blocks and it takes about five minutes. And it's even sadder to consider that most days, I drive.

I drive everywhere, despite that within a three-block radius of my apartment is my bank, a record store, a convenience store, a hospital, a pizza joint, Blockbuster, a hamburger place, Taco Bell, Krystal, the dry cleaners, my office, a meat-and-three, a hair salon, a gay bar that I've been to once, and a post office. Wait, and I almost forgot the liquor store.

There's no reason for me to drive anywhere.

Even though I needed my car this afternoon to go to meetings out in the burbs, I still had to walk this morning because I had neglected to notice over the past few days I had a dangerously low tire.

So today as I was walking home at lunch to get my car and put air in the tire, I noticed an older woman walking toward me.

In this part of Memphis (ok, almost any part of Memphis), you expect to get asked for money. Panhandlers, beggars, annoyances, charity opportunities, whatever you want to call them.

Sometimes I will give them whatever change I have in my pocket, just because I have this idea that this will be the act of kindness that gets me into heaven. But later I realize that I might have just given a handful of pennies to a crackwhore so she could get her fix, or 35 cents to somebody who just didn't want to do real work.

This lady didn't look the part of the crackwhore, nor did she even look like that Las Vegas granny with a gambling addiction. She was an older black lady, with a purse and a brown overcoat, a white crochet cap. I didn't see her as a panhandler, nor even as a Krystal Queen.

As I passed, she asked if I could help her buy some groceries for her and her kids. I couldn't refuse that story! I reached in my pocket and gave her about 45 cents in nickels and dimes. She thanked me and I walked on home, feeling pretty good about my charity.

I drove the car very slowly down the back streets to the convenience store. I got the tire aired up and I pulled in next door to Krystal to get a B.A. Burger for lunch.

And there was Granny, clutching a bag of Krystal's and slurping Coke from a 32-ounce cup. An old man was moving boxes out of his 70s model Buick so she could have a seat.

I had just broken my last dollar bill for change for the stupid air pump. I had just put a diet Coke on my debit card, and I was about to have one of the cheapest lunches around. And there sat Granny with her Krystal Combo that she bought with the help of my handout.

I got out of my car and I stared hard at her, debating if I should ask how she was going to feed them kids with only three Krystals. As she climbed into the car, she caught my eye and for a split-second, she looked busted. Then in another split second, she turned smug and her eyes seemed to say "gotcha!"

I've stewed ever since.

Woof-Worthy #10-12 - Jason, Jack & Jake

Jason Statham - The Transporter 1 & 2 - His job is to deliver packages without question. Then how much would it cost for him to deliver his package?

Jack Johnson - Former surfer turned laid-back acoustic musician who was pegged to do the soundtrack for Curious George. Entertainment Weekly said he was "so laid back, it was hard to tell when he was worked up." Fortunately, EW said, his melodies are "meatier."

Jake Gyllenhaal - The man who went bareback bottom in Brokeback. But, remember, he was also "Bubble Boy." That's a lot of embarrassment to overcome if he ever wants to top Heath.

The Brokeback Remix

You've seen it. You've cried about it. Now it's time to dust off your cowboy boots and don your pearl-button shirts and go dance to it.

Here it is... the dance remix of the Brokeback Mountain theme.

"The Wings (Finnbarr Massi Mix)" - Gustavo Santoalalla

Is nothing sacred?

Actually, it isn't that bad.