Sunday, June 5, 2011

Dinner With Dead People


Dinner With Dead People

What would you do if you were having dinner with new friends and you found out, while masticating mostaciolli or marinated chicken, that the ashes of their recently and dearly departed were in a cabinet, just over your head? Like turnips in Tupperware.

Would you keep the remains of a loved one in your closet or in your kitchen cupboard?

Yikes.Get this. In one of the recent parks we stayed in, while traveling, we had gay neighbors. Two guys. We were in a private section together, so there was just the four of us.
We were making lunch on the grill and decided to ask the guys to join us for lunch. They seemed very nice & we had similar interests and shared a few laughs. So, a few nights later they invited us to their place for dinner.

Sure, what the heck. So we went and we had a lot of laughs with them. One of them kept saying he didn't know what God had in store for him, and we later found out he's a friend of Bill's.
Bill W.
So that answered the that question.

Anyway, we were enjoying the afternoon when the topic turned to cremation. I had just read extensively on the subject and had some fun tidbits to share over peas & pasta.
I forget how the conversation went, but it went something like: blah blah blah, blah blah blah: cremation.

So, one of the guys says: I cremated my first lover. And the other one says, I had my mother in law cremated and two cats.

And then they tell us the cremated remains of the above mentioned four, are in the cupboard, directly over Tony's head. My eyes glance to the right, sideways and up.

Slowly.

Do you think that's strange?

Oh no, there's nothing wrong with having your dead Aunt Jimmy's ashes in your kitchen cabinets. It might be nice to have her arm pit hair and toe nail clippings in a separate jar, right next to a jar of her used tampons and rolling pins.
It might even be nice to have a collection of her old sneakers, used panties and bras kept in a mayonnaise jar. Providing it was Hellman's of course.

Except, they go on to say, they only have half of the lover's ashes. Someone else has the other half. They haven't decided whether to spread the ashes someplace, or keep them forever in their motor home. My eyes nearly popped out of my head, and my first inclination was: Gee I'm glad we'll be leaving here in a day or two.

So I look at the cremator and say: Did you know that during the cremation process, some bone fragments from the prior burn-e remain in the retort, and when they are gathered you end up with more than just your loved one?

You actually end up with the partial remains of others. Or, what have you.

Of course, he argued with me. "Oh no, our state specifically says by law that only one person can be cremated at a time."

Whatever. While that is partially true in America, the fact remains that other remains are in fact, mixed-in. There's no way around it.
I found a lot of interesting information about cremation. Did you know the vital organs convert into a gas and disintegrate in the inferno and only the bone fragments remain?

One can envision the brain going up the chimney: Poof! in a puff of smoke. Different bodies take different lengths of time to burn. The time can be anywhere from one to two hours. Unless of course you're really fat, tall or big-boned. Then it might take longer. Ka-ching, ka-ching, let the cash register ring. Temps vary from seventeen-hundred to twenty-one hundred degrees Fahrenheit. Recent laws insist that new incinerators have a way to open the door once the door has been locked and the process started, from the

-inside.
Sometimes there might be lump of gold that was missed or some oddity which might be found post burn. Unless of course there was theft involved. I'm certain that's happened more than once. Pacemakers have to be removed prior to burning so they don't explode and cause damage to the brick, and batteries from pacemakers can emit noxious fumes into the atmosphere. Hip replacements and various bits of titanium are generally removed as they don't burn. And, you can sell your loved ones gold teeth or jewelry or have it turned into a work of art. Some people take the ash and add it to paint and have a work of art created from and of the decedent. Lovely. Unless the artist isn't very good at portraits. Still. It's an idea. And when it comes to spending money, selecting urns and other creative ideas, the sky's the limit.

After the body is burned, the bone fragments are then pulverized in a machine called a cremulator which takes about twenty minutes. I thought that was a funny name: cremulator. Don't you? It sounds like something Lucy make up & say to Ethel. You basically end up with four to six pounds of "ash" which is actually pulverized bone fragment. Dust? Some people keep a bit of "ash" in a piece of jewelry, chained fashionably around their neck. Different countries have different regulations & restrictions on cremation and in some places, cremation is outlawed.


Some of the more-fun, post crematory celebrations are sending your loved one into the heavens via a helium balloon or through fireworks. You can have your cousin Sammy shot from shotgun shells, or scattered from an airplane. One service sends a lipstick-tube sized sample of the cremated remains into low earth orbit, where they remain for years (but not permanently) before re-entering the atmosphere of the earth.

I was reading on various sales pitches offered by, "caring and compassionate sea-burial businesses" that offer comfort in knowing that, "As you commit your loved one to the sea you are sending them on an everlasting journey. Your loved one will ride on the ocean current and travel the world. All of the Earths oceans connect, ensuring your loved one will always be near as the ocean tides rise and fall".

Or, if your loved one was someone of notoriety, you might consider an auction on e-Bay. Why not make money at it, if you can?

Of course, rates vary depending upon the size of your loved one. Over-sized rates may apply.

And,
do you want your loved one to ride the ocean on a weekday, or are you going to pay one-third more to have them dumped overboard
on a weekend? Would you like them dumped at sunrise or sunset? -Call for custom rates and speak to one of our caring and compassionate sales associates.

Would you like to attend the dump for twice the price, or will you be trusting them to dump Uncle Naybob overboard without actually witnessing: the dump? Will there be champagne & festivities, or will your friends just be watching from shore during a private party? What wine should you serve with Aunt Edna, red or white?
Would you like a religious leader aboard, or will you be utilizing the services of our captain? He's licensed you know. A really nice burial at sea will cost between three and four thousand in addition to the crematory prices. I'm certain the prices go up nicely from there.

You don't want your daddy's body burned in cardboard, do you? Don't you think a nice pine box would be more suited for d a d d y, or ash? Mahogany or walnut might be nice.



Um, no, we'll just take corrugated, thank you.

A friend of mine told me that when her grandmother died, the funeral home called her repeatedly trying to get her to "come down" and select the service & pricing that suited her wishes.

My friend told the funeral home she hated her grandmother's guts and she couldn't be bothered and that the funeral home wasn't going to get one cent out of her. She said they called her several times a day and she kept hanging up on them so they left messages on her answering machine. A while passed and they called her again and she accidentally picked up the phone, to which she replied: You can throw her nasty ass in a dumpster behind K-Mart for all I care.

She never did pay a penny for whatever happened to her un-loved grandmother.
I thought that was very economical for her.

I like that idea. I think that's how I want to go. Or, at least, that is how my partner is going to go. I'm like that. Cost efficient.

On second thought, I want a royal departure with gold, pomp & circumstance, champagne, caviar and all that kind of stuff, for me.
It beats embalming fluid and other noxious chemicals and a lifetime of oozing.

The worms crawl in,
the worms crawl out.
The worms play pinochle
on your snout.

What's in your closet?

Sunday, May 29, 2011

Out For Thai With Chicken Queens, In Savannah

Out For Thai With Chicken Queens In Savannah
So get this, last night we went out to a Thai restaurant with the two gay guys who threw the dinner party Friday night in Savannah. I guess I didn't piss them off with my "humor", that night. I told y'all I was on my best behavior! I guess they fell for it, cuz they called yesterday and said they would drive us out to Thunderbolt near the Bonaventure Cemetery in a red-neck area of Savannah, to a 'hole in the wall', Thai restaurant.
Thai? In red neck country? You must be joking.

So I said: Okay, we don't have any better offers, I guess we'll go out with you two Queens. Of course, I much would have preferred sitting at home by a fire writing to all of my dearest Facebook Fans... of which I have narrowed my friend list down from 7,231 on 6 different profiles, to my favorite 2,000 on my real profile. Unfortunately, I'm being dropped by some of you, as I type. I am down to 1989.  But since I've been smoking that killer pot laced with hash from California, I really don't give a shit.

Actually, thanks to all of you who disappear... never liked you anyway. Smell ya later.

So, they pick us up in some kind of fancy car and I'm thinking: This is the second time I've seen this fancy jalopy and I wonder what the hell it is? So I get up the gumption and ask the driver: Excuse me, is this some kind of f a i n c y car that rich people drive, or is this just a regular old jalopy?

To which the driver replies: It's a LEXUS darling.

Oh. I've heard of those. I know they are not cheap... so I think: Thank god I got dressed up tonight in a nice pair of flowered shorts and put on a clean t-shirt and a pair of fresh white socks & my dress flip flops. I even brushed my teeth, flossed, gargled, swooshed and rinsed after I took a shower. Pit sniff... yep, fresh as spring rain. I thought these two fags might be a bit "uppity" so I wanted to make sure I smelled fresh & clean.

So we're riding down to Thunderbolt which is a red-neck area of Savannah out near the Bonaventure Cemetery in this LEXUS and as we wind deeper and deeper into Thunderbolt, (red-necks) I start to get a little scared. Are we being kidnapped? Are they going to pull a gun on us, take our money and push us out onto the pavement and drive off? I mean, we had just met these two guys the night before. I swear to sweet Jesus, I will jump in a car and go anywhere at the drop of a pill-box hat, with anybody. Must be paranoia from the pot. So I brush it off and butch up a bit.
As we drive along this red-neck country where road, where red-necks are hiding, towards the Bonaventure Cemetery, it's getting darker and darker and the Spanish moss hanging from the Live Oak trees is looking more and more ominous with the Lexus headlights droning in on them. I start to get a little worried, then I remember they couldn't hurt a fly because the one in the passenger seat, Gary, reminds me exactly of Nathan Lane from The Bird Cage. He's shreiking and cackling like a wet hen and honestly, we were laughing so hard at his story about something something something and her pussy...that I started to get a little headache from laughing so hard, and I had to yell:
stop it!
stop it!
stoppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppp!
as I am clutching my rosary beads in one hand and gasping for breath while holding my hand up at him while we were en-route. My head hurts, hon, those cocktails we had last night mixed with a little mary-hoochie has got mommy a bit blitzed. I can't laugh that much!
Stop!
You
Have
to Stop.
Which of course, gets her going even more-so.

We get to the restaurant, and while it appears to be a hole-in the wall in a remote and scary location where red-necks hide near the cemetery in Savannah, a location that no white boy in his right mind would go to, in the dark...the restaurant inside is actually very nice. It's called: Kao Thai Cuisine. It's out on Victory Drive past Skidaway... out where all the cemeteries are, like The Bonaventure Cemetery where Danny Hansforth (a red neck) was shot to death in the study of Mercer House, by Jim Williams. Y'all remember the book: Midnight in the Garden of Good & Evil?
Well, this red-neck area out by the cemetery actually looks just like the cover of that book.

Crap. I think I actually see Danny, covered in Spanish moss, hanging from one of the live-oak trees.

Marijuana paranoia.

The four of us plow into the Kao Thai restaurant, only one of my friends actually locks the door before I can get inside and he stands there, on the inside with me on the outside of the glass door and screams through the glass in a high pitched voice that sounds just like Nathan Lane from the Bird Cage, he would scare most dogs, when he screeches: I'M SORRY, WE ARE  CLOSED FOR T'NIGHT, Y'ALL 'L HAFFTA COME BACK OUT HEYAH AGAIN SOME OTHER TIME. And he flips the open sign to CLOSED ... and I start laughing so hard I can barely control my pee and his partner says:
WOULD YOU TWO GIRLS STOP ACTING UP! WE ACTUALLY MIGHT WANT TO EAT HERE AGAIN!
Party pooper. So, we ignore him and fall across the restaurant into a table where we continue to laugh our asses off at our own hilarity.

We are seated at a lovely table with white linens and I notice that the entire restaurant is empty, except for one other couple who are quietly enjoying their meal. I totally ignore them... because, who cares?
If they don't like loud, obnoxious pot-smoking alcoholic queens, they can move. To another restaurant.
...and then we are greeted by our servers who are obviously 17, 18 or 19 year old boys, and they're either: straight, hicks, red-necks, Christians, Boy Scouts or all of the above. And the four of us are screaming, laughing and carrying on like a bunch of sissy-marys.
Three old chicken chasers and me. A bear lover who's starting to age, & admire the chickens.
And these servers are cute with a capital K.

At this point, we are laughing so hard that we don't hear what the Chef's specials are, and we're so busy screaming funny comments at one another that we actually forget to look at the menu so that after the fifth time the waiter comes around, we decide we're forced to order or starve to death. One of the guys says: We better order before we get kicked out... and we're starting to wonder what they're all saying about us back in the kitchen.... so we decide to butch it up a bit and study the menu.
When all of the sudden, the one who acts like Nathan Lane says, in a false Asian accent: Is Missy Thai Owner Here? And the boys run back into the kitchen, and bring out the chef. Well, by this time, we've each had several cocktails and can barely talk to the chef. I think he spoke Thai and could barely understand American Gay.  Anyway.

I'm sorry, what was that? Red curry with pineapple that he said was the special? Or was that Massaman with vegetables plus a protein? Shrimp? And it takes us another 15 minutes before we can order because, frankly? All four of us are cheap-asses and we're more concerned with ordering the cheapest meal on the menu, all the while, we want the very-best meal the restaurant has to offer along with a few more....
cocktails.

What was that? The pineapple thingy was $12.95 or was that the one that was $18.95? Oh... 18, never mind. How much was the yellow-curried vegetables? Maybe I'll just have a bowl of soup and are we going to get appetizers? When Tony stops dead and screams out an announcement to the waiter who's across the room: WE INSIST ON SEPARATE CHECKS. PUT THOSE TWO ON ONE TAB AND PUT THE TWO OF US ON ANOTHER....
because, frankly, Tony is just as cheap as Ron is...

and one of the other guys we're with, says loudly: WELL! I NEVER! and I looked at them and said, And y'all never will, either... and by the way, would y'all mind sitting at another table, too? Would that be too much to ask? Tony and I have a reputation to maintain. Of course, after the cocktail party I attended the other night, I'm certain my reputation is close to besmirched, anyway.

To which they reply in unison: IT'S GOING TO BE A LONG, COLD AND DARK WALK BACK INTO TOWN, ISN'T IT, BOYS? and DID Y'ALL BRING WALKING BOOTS?

So, I figure...ooops, I better go back to being on my best behavior, because, seriously? There's no way in hell I can walk twelve or eighteen miles back to the Historic district in flip flops. Even if they have arch supports and I paid a fortune for them. They're leather and super cute. I paid a fortune from them, Olu Kai flips direct from the manufacturer.
Besides, it's dark and we're all the way out by the Bonaventure Cemetery where the red necks are hiding, and no white boy would be seen in total darkness wearing white crew socks.
Then, honestly, the conversation switches to: which one of the boyscouts is the cutest?
The one with long curly hair and freckles or the one with the dark hair that scoops down over his left eye?
Or,
is it the one who's pouring water and has obviously never seen four queens dining together before. He never looks up and appears to be gazing at a wet spot on the carpet.
I think.
When our friend, the one who reminds me of Nathan Lane says in a slow, southern pecan pie & honeyed drawl:
Why
doesn't
that
look
sim-
pleeee
duh-lish-ous...
Ah
think
ah'll
have
that
one
ovah
they-ah
for
duh-ssert....
by
ma-self.
And I look over to where he's looking to see scoop eye staring back at us with a blank stare.
So I bust out laughing again and nearly choke on my cocktail. I hate choking on cocktails. Don't you?

Well, they all decide on which boy is their favorite: scoop-eye, while I am busy looking in the window, not at the dark and dreadful nothingness that is outside, but actually at my own reflection: is my hairspray holding well? Are my tits too big? Does my second chin look blubbie, or is it average for a fifty year old fat gay man who's been "married" for 31 years and loves to eat?

I decide it's hopeless. None of the Boy Scouts are going to give me a second glance, so I just allow Tony and the other two to act like they have a chance in hell at one of the...

ahem...

young men.

Saturday, May 28, 2011

How I Almost Got Saved By Jesus At A Walmart


We're still here in Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia, waiting for the Memorial Day holiday to commence & close so we can get on the road and head north. And, I will tell you what, there's a whole lot'a Jesus in these mountains.

I went to Walmart yesterday and bought way too many groceries and was wondering how am I ever going to get them home on my Yamaha Vino 125 CC when all of the sudden, my eyes pop wide open and nearly right outta my head, and I will tell you... suddenly I am filled with excitement and thrilled beyond salvation when I actually find a Walmart checkout line with nobody actually, in line.

If you have ever been to a Walmart checkout line, you know that those lines are usually a long as a Pennsylvania Turnpike at rush hour. Shopping carts are piled as high the almighty himself, with Cheetos, Vienna's (pronounced vi-eeeen-uhs) pork rinds & sodie pop. There is usually some heifer in line 'at weighs at least 350 to 550 pounds, a'totin’ kids and takin' forever while screamin' & hollerin’ at them damned, pesky, rotten little kids: why if yer daddy was a here...

Some folks call 'em Maggots. Always bellerin' at the top of their lungs fer no good reason...

Or, you get some old man or lady 'at cain't hear a lick for no good, that's gotta count out ever last penny to the cashier, and then figure out which items they gotta put back cuz Wally-World don't take no food stay-amps and they is on a fixed incum.

So, I get my stuff up on the counter and the checkout girl is beaming an enormous buck-toothed grin and brown teeth. She's got on a Sundee frock with polka dots and a cockled collar, she's got bug eyes what-am bug eyes and coke-bottle reading glasses so large & thick that it actually makes her eyes look like they're poppin' outta her head about another 4 inches, and get this, she's got pink, blotchy skin, freckles that look like ants and a crappy, crooked black wig on her head that looks like it come-outta K-Mart.

K-Mark s'what Shirley Q. Liquor or Betty Butterfield calls it. I cain't remember which of 'em said it, but I know one of 'em did.

In my usual congenial way, with a lovely lilt in my voice, I smile large & say: You sure have an extra big smile on your face today, young lady. You must be in a really good mood...

And with that, she shoves her right arm straight up inta the air, clutches her breast bone with the left hand, and looks heavenward. She glares back at me with an even bigger, stained, toothy-grin and says, 'It's b'cuz I got Jesus!'... and she stands there for a minute or two wobbling just a bit while staring at the ceiling as I am hurriedly loading groceries onto the counter,
all the while,
thinking…

I
have
made
a
huge
mistake.

And the word:

Jeeeeeeezzzzzzzzzzzuuuuuusssssssssssssssssssss

is still loitering on the tip of her tongue and dangling in the air like the devil in my ear.

And then she looks down slowly, wobbles a bit, catches her balance on the counter and looks at me kinda sideways and says in a voice as soft as an angel:

Do you got Jeeeeeeeeee-sus?

Ah. Um, hum. Ahem... no. I stumble, clear my throat, stand my ground while I straighten up slowly and I say: No, um, no I don't... but I'm glad you're in a real happy mood when all of the sudden, her enormous buck-toothed smile disappears but the teeth don't and she gets all sad, cocks her head to the other side and asks me with a little puppy-dog face, why I don't got Jesus...

And then in a sorta quick way, I just blurt out: b'cause I'm old and read a lot and it's just not for me, but I am glad you found something that makes you so happy... and that's a good thing.

I'm happy for you honey.

And then she shouts a bit: Oh! Damn! Prances around a little like she's just stubbed her toe.
Then she slaps the counter so hard with her left hand that I think to myself: that must have hurt. The hand slaps with an overly-exaggerated way you would expect a large & bony hand to slap in slow motion, as if from Olive Oyl, and she says: Well, if you don't mind I'd like t' take a minute here t' try an' change yer mind about my Jesus a little bit and ....

... And then I look at her stern faced, and maybe start to get just a little bit red in the face and a smidge peeved when I realize I am trapped in Jesus country and most likely won't be able to make a clean getaway out of the store without being pursued, tackled & shot.

I can feel myself starting to shake a bit, and I say abruptly but directly:

Jesus is a myth.

There. I said it.

You could hear the air and the plastic cringe on the baggie turn-style. The bag-girl looked at me stone-faced, jaw-slacked. Her eyes enlarge. She's speechless.

Then the cashier snaps to attention with a:
WELL! HELL & TARNATION NO HE'S NOT! And this time, she slaps the counter again, a little bit harder and this time I think I hear a knuckle pop, and she gets a little bit madder about her salvation Jesus & all, and I say: look honey, I am in a hurry to get out of here and I need you to ring up my groceries so I can get on the road as I have a long ride. I am not here to talk about Jesus...
maybe some other time.

And she says:
WELL I AM GONNA TALK 'BOUT HIM WITH YOU... NOW.

You see... when I was finishin' up th' 11th grade I had an

in-op-er-able

brain tumor & cancer and I wuz about ta duh-eye
(she says "duh-eye" in an overly exaggerated way, kinda quickly so it comes out as an elongated like 'duh-aaaaaaaah', but not quite)

...When I actually did up n' duh-aaaaah and I went straight t' heaven and ah' met Jesus, our Lord & Savior what cured me. I met him face to face and he done talked to me, right there in heaven. I met Him.

Then she looks directly at me, batting her eyelashes softly in a clunky kinda way, as they flutter up against her giant coke-bottle eye glasses and she says in a calm voice:

So you see?

You have finally
met someone
at's been t' heaven
and has met Jesus,
our Lord & Savior.

I was supposed t' duh-ahhh on the operatin’ table 's I
had the rarest of all brain cancers ya ever gonna get and here I am at-

t h i r t y - s i x y e a r s o l d

t' live t' tell 'bout it..

Then she sucked a bit of air between her large teeth and said: 'at's twice thuh age as I shoulda' lived an at's all because of Jesus.

He done this for me. My Savior.

Then she leans into me and says:
My Jesus. I got Jesus and you need to get Jesus, too.

Right about now, my mind is nearly blank, swirling, and I am just about explode or let loose with a barrage of attacks about how billions of other people have died and how hundreds of millions of kids around the world are starving to death, sick, ill and dying... and how they didn't have Jesus to save their sorry ass...

...and I just looked at her, half smiled and said: well, yer doin' reeeeal good honey. I think yer doin' just great at livin'... and I'll tell you what, you keep that up real nice like, ya hear? I bet yer gonna have a long & happy life.

Then I scooped up my bags and hurried out the door, slightly rattled a bit, but happy I never engaged her. The whole time I stood there, the bag girl had a blank stare on her face.
I thought she might screech into the intercom at any second: Jesus Hater On Caysh Register Number THREE....

I could barely get my groceries on my bike, took off out of the parking lot a little razzled while glancing over my shoulder as if I was going to hear gun shot at any moment.
If there ever was a Jesus, I would have fallen off of my bike at that moment, for sure.

But I gotta tell ya, that's the first time I've been witnessed to by a cashier in a Walmart with bug-eyes n' buck teeth. And dang if 'at ain't the weirdest thang at's happened to me all week.
 
But you know what?
When I left that Walmart the sign on the bank said it was 108 degrees in Front Royal. The wind was blowing hard and hot. I managed to get that scooter back to my RV in the Shenandoah State Park, fourteen miles down 340 carrying $148 worth of groceries on my bike:
A 24 pack case of Aquafina
A seven pound watermelon
A slap of ribs that weighed 5 pounds
And eight plastic bags filled with groceries.
Damned wind was blowing so hard it almost knocked me off my bike. When I got back, I found out there were storms and tornado warnings all around the area were we were. Park ranger came and warned me, too. Thought one might hit the park and told me where to go for shelter.
But I got back safely.
Now how do you suppose I got back safely if someone wasn’t watchin’ over me?
Praise Jesus & pass the pickles.

Tuesday, April 12, 2011

A Cocktail Party In Savannah, Georgia, With Carter Oosterhouse

Okay, so, I went to a positively lovely cocktail party in Savannah, Georgia, last night, Saturday night.
I had a delicious time. I was dead tired, but I went anyway. There are some darling, new people, who moved into our neighborhood while we were in California and they were simply too charming to ignore. 
Well, just before we left California, my boat mechanic hands me couple of fat buds as a "Going away gift".
I said, "You F'ing asshole! I haven't smoked this shit in ...
oh my god, that's really fragrant & strong! How in the hell am I supposed to get this back to Savannah without Narcotics dogs sniffing at my luggage? To which my boat mechanic replies: Put it in a pill bottle and wrap it in layers of zip-lock bags, but wear gloves so you don't leave finger-prints... oh, and check the bag...
just in case.
So we get to Savannah and our luggage is missing and I am certain it's been confiscated by the state of Georgia as evidence in the upcoming case of Hough vs. Georgia.
So I said to my partner, Tony... Why don't you go to the baggage claim, "Help Desk" and inquire as to where our luggage is...while I sit here and watch the dogs...
That way, I figure if Tony gets handcuffed & arrested, I'll still be able to taxi into our comfortable flat in the Historic District with my dogs, and get some rest. Of course, I'll have to "carry in", all the luggage by myself. And, I do have, in addition to my laptop & hand bag, two dogs in black bags weighing 12 pounds.
I know, I'll get the taxi driver to help me carry the bags, if Tony gets sent to the slammer.
Well, we finally got our luggage, and honestly, between the marijuana we smoked when we got our luggage at 3 a.m., the Trazodone I popped so I could get my beauty rest, and the bottle of wine I knocked back - plus the jet lag, it was a miracle that I could pull my gorgeous self together to attend a cocktail party, Saturday evening.
I showed up at the party around 7:30, which is positively late when you're my age. I'll tell you, I was so tired that I nearly fell over making a few greetings when I arrived. Someone asked me about a cocktail...
"Would you care for a wine? We have white, red, or a vodka spritzer?"
I inquired, "What's in the vodka spritzer?" and the reply was: sparkling water and vodka.
What!?
I mean, who drinks watered down vodka?
I might have tried a gin-spritzer minus the spritzer, but the vodka spritzers were already made in a pitcher.
Doesn't that seem like a really bad thing to do to gin or vodka? Water it down with sparkles?
I mean, who does that?
...so I went with a white wine.
I'll tell you, I nearly fell into the dining table loaded with food, because of the above mentioned, private party two nights before.
Then it hit me, I was standing in a room full of people and I simply had to sit down, pass out, or fall over into the dining table which was loaded with food.
At this point, the hostess saw that I was struggling so she grabbed my arm & whirled me around her new flat. She showed off her bed linens and new-paint samples as I oohed & ahhhh'd over her art collection, dust ruffle and one particular lamp that I noticed. It came from a local, and very-expensive store in Savannah called, One Fish, Two Fish.
I had eyed that very lamp myself, a few seasons, back.
I threatened to steal the lamp and she threatened to keep an eye on it.
So, back in the living room void of the party, I decided to make my stay. I simply plopped down on the over-sized white sofa and was delighted with a rather cheerful abstract over the fireplace.
I decided to focus on that for a moment & catch my breath. There was a coffee-table book of Georgia O'Keeffe and a vase filled with yellow tulips. The colors of choice she used in her flat were: light-gray, dark gray, a metallic blue-gray, white, silver, robin's egg blue and dabs of yellow, here and there, with black accents. Absolutely yummy colors.
Everyone else was in the kitchen, the dining room, the outside patio and entryway or front porch.
I just sat in the living room all by myself and I started thinking: I'm going to just sit here, steady myself, and see how long it takes for everybody to feel sorry for me and join me here, in the living room.
I am simply not going to get up.
Well, one by one, someone would walk by on their way to the potty or to check out the new flat, and they would ask: Why are you sitting here, all alone, in the living room when there are 60 guests in the other parts of the house?
I just waved them off, "No need to worry about me, darling, I'm just sitting here minding my own business, enjoying the fresh air... la, de da,  la, de da. No sirree, don't you worry about me, it won't be long before someone joins me...
And sure enough, after a while, I drew enough attention that people started to meander into the living room, and I had my court. I had posed myself comfortably on the over-stuffed white davenport with gray and olive-drab pillows, and allowed people to smoosh-in next to me.
"Come darling, sit here... right next to me" I said, to one particularly handsome man, and then another.
Now, what's your name again? Oh, I remember, you're Mark and you're Patrick? Oh poo! I have that backwards, don't I?
Let's see...you're Patrick and you're Michael? Mark? Yes! Mark, I knew I would get it right, sooner or later.
A circle of about 10 people enveloped me, the two really-cute gay guys and a mix of married couples and a few single women, which, unfortunately for them there were no available handsome straight men at the party who weren't totally *ucked, as it were. Oh, but there was one handsome straight guy, but he was so boring that he started talking about: film & music... but he only wanted to talk about his favorite film & music.
Instead of yawning, I burst out, pointed at the guy next to me and said, "Doesn't this handsome may-un remind y'all of someone famous?
People started calling out guesses: Rock Hudson? Tab Hunter? No that's not it... John F. Kennedy Jr. perhaps? Or, some-kind of Kennedy, maybe?... but no... that's not it.
Then it hit me...
Carter Oosterhouse! Yes! That's it! Carter Oosterhouse!
Luckily, the very handsome & yummy-looking man was in fact, a gay guy, and he did, he looked just like Carter Oosterhouse...
after a few cocktails! 
Only, he was the gay version of Carter Oosterhouse.  I kept telling him he looked just like Mister Oosterhouse half-the-night long which made him oogle, giggle, flush and continuously say: Would you stop saying that!
(*blushes profusely) 
He had a huge dimple in his chin and two on his rosy cheeks, wavy black hair and a smile that could dazzle a giraffe.
He had heard that I had a boat & so he told me a rather long story about how he was in the Hampton's or Boston or Martha's Vineyard or someplace on the upper East Coast and, (frankly, I couldn't have cared: where) he was on a boat and got a line from a crab pot wrapped around his engine prop. The boat prop seized up and they were stuck, drifting in the Atlantic. It was late at night and he said he and a friend of his had to paddle 150 yards to the marina.
Well, I thought he had said 150 miles to the marina and I was picturing this very handsome, virile, but all the while: sissy-Mary, paddling for 150 miles (the wine had hit me by now) and the story grew funnier and funnier because, just as I placed my hand on his leg to give him an:
 "Oh Carter, that is so... 
H        I        L        A        R       I        O        U        S       !  " 
...I noticed his pants were BLACK VELVET, so I lightly caressed his leg and said:
Excuse me, but are your pants BLACK VELVET???
And he looked at me with puppy-dog eyes and a smile that could simply kill, and said, "Yes, why not?"
Just then, a rather plump, older lady in a black ruffle outfit wearing sneakers, sat down in an empty chair next to me. She made a HUGE sigh and a HARRUMPH!, said LOUDLY, "I must kick off my sneakers!"
& then she interrupted us to join in the conversation, only...
she changed the subject abruptly.
Which brings me to a thought and a suggestion for folks at cocktail parties: When two people are engaging in a silly conversation (with a slight buzz) and one of them happens to look like Carter Oosterhouse in black velvet pants, and the other happens to be me, DON'T INTERRUPT.
I rolled my eyes only twice that evening. Once at the black velvet pants and pretty boy, dimpled face, and once at a woman who interrupted me to tell me she is a disciple of Jesus, because she no longer accepts Christianity at face value.
Yeah, a disciple of Jesus. So, I rolled my eyes and thought: Honey, don't you see I'm busy talking to Carter Oosterhouse?
Other than that, it was a lovely cocktail party.
And how was your Saturday evening?

Now Boarding Flight 1475 To Savannah, Georgia

Saturday, March 26, 2011

On My Way To A Dinner Party In Savannah, Georgia . . .

On My Way To A Fancy Dinner Party In Savannah, Georgia


Okay, so I was invited to a fancy dinner party, last night. I know, Right? Me.


Oh, and Tony was invited, too. I tend to be a little on the funny side and well, at least I think I am funny. But, I'll have to be on my best behavior because I want the hosts to fall madly in love with me and invite me back to all of their dinner parties, mainly because I am desperate and have no friends since I've already pissed off all the other friends that I used to have. From being "funny".


Oh well... get this: one of the guests has been a bit stressed and over-worked but I don't really pay attention to this, because let's face it, it's all about me.


She's a very bold & boisterous person so I figure she can handle it. She's no wimp, even though she's 63 and you know how emotional 63 year old women can get. You never know when you're going to piss them off, just by being "funny".


She said she is going to pick us up and drive us to dinner, since we don't have a car here, in Savannah... and riding the "third world bus", according to her, is a bit risky at night. Especially since I am wearing flip flops with white socks, dark brown, unisex, flowered shorts from Fresh Produce (the fit me perfectly and look and I look so hot in them), a crisp white t-shirt with a tight collar and a pretty, cream -colored pull-over sweater. It looks either very "Californian" or very old man-ish (I'm about to turn 51 and you know how men start to dress a little wilder as they age, especially with our pants). Or, I just look odd and look like a plain-old ridiculous gay man in flowered shorts.


Which is probably what my friend was thinking of: I can't let these gay boys ride the third world bus in Savannah in the dark. They'll probably get stabbed, raped, punched, pulled, pushed, shot or beat up.


So get this... she's picking us up at 6:15 and she is always on time, on the dot... but this time, she's a smidge late and I'm thinking this is great because I can post another message or two or three or four or twenty on Facebook before she arrives. And, my pull-over is in the dryer with Bounce so that not only will all of the fold-wrinkles come out, I'll smell pretty, too.


At 6:30 we're supposed to be at the dinner party, and just at 6:30 on the dot, the phone rings and it's my friend. She's hysterical and having a fit because she can't, "find her god-damned keys to her *effing car"...


So I say, calmly...


It's okay darling, it's 6:30 at night. Where do you have to go that you're so upset about your keys?


And, she screams: WHAT? I CAN'T FIND MY GOD-DAMNED *EFFING CAR KEYS!


And I say, calm down Gail. I will come over tomorrow and help you find them. To which she actually screeches into the phone, in a volume so loud that I am certain the dogs & cats in her neighborhood are scurrying away from her utterly screechy, squeally, squaking kind of screaming that she's doing:


WHAT IN THE GOD DAMNED *EFFING *EF ARE YOU *EFFING TALKING ABOUT? I JUST TOLD YOU I CAN'T FIND MY *EFFING CAR KEYS.... DAMN IT!


And I say, calmly: It's going to be alright darling, what are you so upset about? Because, I am imagining at any second she's going to calmly say, "Oh, I just found them". while I'm thinking, this is great... another 15 to 20 minutes on Facebook before she picks me up...


And she screams: DON'T YOU *EFFING REMEMBER WE ARE *EFFING GOING OVER TO *EFFING
R & G'S HOUSE
FOR *EFFING DINNER TONIGHT?


And I reply, calmly, Oh? Was that tonight? I thought that was next week?


Well, at this point, she is absolutely hysterical so I say, calm down, Gail. I know it's tonight...Tony and I will ride the bus and...


And she screams again in a pitch that nearly burst my ear-drum. And, she says: God damn you *effing with me Steven, so help me God, I am in no *effing mood for your shit tonight and BAM! She slams her iPhone down so hard that I actually think I hear it crack in half...


and I start to chuckle and I turn to Tony and say: Gail lost her *effing car keys and she is hysterical and oh boy, if she jumps on me about ANY *EFFING THING at the dinner table tonight: POW! I'm going to let her have it, right to the kisser! And, if she brings up the fact that I am giving out diseases at my Valentine's party next weekend and how she's utterly disgusted by it....
(see my earlier story about giving my guests medical conditions and diseases at my party, since our doctor will actually be at the party and I am certain it will be a fun game)


...I will simply either dump her dinner plate in her lap or slap her across the face, back-hand style, if she makes one *effing comment about my upcoming Valentine's party! I even have a request from two people who want three diseases! So there!


At that minute, my phone rings back and it's one of the hosts telling me his partner is on his way to pick up Gail, and then will swing by to pick us up, and don't we dare tell him we're just going to ride the "third world bus", because they'll be at my house in 5 minutes and then he says: Ooops, Gail's on the other line again, oh, and I've got a surprise for you when you get here: CLICK!
He hangs up on me. Tony says: Who was that? I said: oh, it was G. telling me that R is on his way over here to pick us up after he picks Gail up.


And with that, I start to panic: FIVE MINUTES? How in the *effing hell am I going to read a few more Facebook posts and post a few more funny photos & remarks, if they're going to be here in 5 *effing minutes?


And, I actually start to panic and get that sick feeling in my stomach when you're busy doing one thing and you know Tony is going to be screaming at me: STEVEN! HURRY UP G'D IT...THEY'RE HERE! LET'S GO!
...all-the-while I am wondering what the surprise is? Marijuana? Movie Stars or celebrities? Prescription party-mix? What? So my curiosity starts to get piqued a bit...


And then the car pulls up out front and Gail is sitting in the front seat, perfectly calm, in a full-length fur coat from the 50's that the host swears is muskrat, but Gail swears is mink... and she's utterly coiffed perfectly calm, glamorous and exuding elegance and radiating that fakey upper-crust voice of a madame and she says, "Hello darlings, I'm calm now, jump-in and let's scooch-a-roo my sweets" and we jump in the back seat and go to the dinner party where I was perfectly well-behaved. In fact, I was so well-behaved the host says, "Steven, I've had this different impression of you from past meetings..."


And I say, Oh?


And he says, yes, I thought you were much-more, um...what's the word? Flighty? Faggy? Funny? Free-spirited? he points to his partner in the Kentucky Derby hat and says, you know, more like her...and I'm thinking: I wonder what the *eff that means? So I ask him to elaborate... and he tries to nail it, but the party is heating up, the margaritas and wine (two-fisted drinkers) are "kicking-in" and starting to buzz us up a bit and the conversation runs off in a completely different direction...


And of course, I start being a bit not-so on my best behavior and the party rolls around and around, we move from room to room. We laughed, we ate, we drank, we played the piano and talked using words that were a bit dishy & dirty, and we definitely ooh'd and ahh'd over the host's home. It was beautifully decorated and just a lovely place to enjoy the evening. It had a swimming pool situated just off of the two rooms we sat in, so you could see it's glistening lights radiating off of the Mexican fan palms in a shimmering, glittery way.
Everybody is having a good time.


Which brings me to considering my next post: The Dinner Party...


Only, I am kinda afraid to write about that and post it here on Facebook, because the hosts read my page, and they're still in love with me and you know how sensitive queens can be if you post shizz about them on Facebook and they obviously have to read it, second hand. But, let me just say that when the host answered the door I was thrilled because it was approximately 38 degrees outside, raining and I was dressed in shorts, a sweater, a scarf, white socks & flip flops. I was nearly frozen to death and could not wait to get inside and start the par-tay...


I had on my fabulous Maui Jim sunglasses and as he opened the door, I screamed in an overly-fake, high-pitched, dramatic-voice, "Darling, I'm finally here! ...and I'm ready for my close-up... where's the camera? I feel like Betty Davis in DARK VICTORY and it's growing darker by the minute...


And the host? He answered the door in a lovely cashmere sweater, a set of fake pearls that were FOUR inches in diameter... giant pearls, and a Kentucky Derby straw hat laden with brightly colored straw flowers the size of giant bon bons, and he screams back at me: Darling! Is this too much to wear to the Kentucky Derby...where are the horses? I need a mint julep! Has the race begun? Are the jockey's cute? What?


And, we stumble into each other, laughing so hard we can barely control ourselves. As it turned out, it was a fabulous dinner party and we left somewhere around one-ish, in the morning.


I just got out of bed, today.
It's noon.
I think I'll post a few things on Facebook...


-Written by Steven Hough