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.

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?