Just a Spoon Full of Mayo

              On March 12th, 2011 my sweet little grandma...aka..."Nanny" died in Hattisburg Mississippi leaving behind three broken hearted daughters, a son, and a huge extended family tree of grand kids that loved her. She used to slice up fresh tomatoes from her own garden and lightly salt them for us and we were in heaven. She was a green bean snapping, ham glazing, butter bean buttering wonderful woman with a sassy country twist! I can't tell you the love I have for this sweet little lady. She hand stitched almost every competitive skating outfit I ever wore and saved us thousands of dollars by laboring over the sewing machine with shaky loving hands. One thing I loved about nanny was that I never knew what she was going to say. I remember being that selfish, fat little American kid that complained about not getting the latest video game or toy and then she would quietly stop me in my tracks by describing her Christmases as a little girl growing up in the Great Depression where she would get what as a present.......but an Orange. This was not a stocking stuffer folks but the big finally! When she described opening her "present" she said it tasted like "Candy from heaven!" She actually lived that story of walking however many miles to school in the snow and other such ridiculous hardships that this generation will never know. If me or my brother had ever gotten an orange for Christmas we would've had simultaneous heart attacks, protested in pure anger, and refused to go to school or finish our plates.

     One of the classic Fredna stories that's burned into my memory forever is the time when she was bitten by a snake  while walking in some tall country grass. This to me is the nightmare of all nightmares! She made it to the hospital only to get the news that she couldn't be treated by a doctor because she hadn't seen the snake that bit her. I would've lost it completely. The grandma I knew went back to the scene of the crime and fished around through the treacherous patch of grass with a long stick until she found the fucker that sunk it's nasty teeth into her ancle! She lifted it up while it thrashed around and whipped into a frenzy. She stared down her fear and did what had to be done to save her own life. My horrible fear of snakes (Ophidiophobia) would have paralyzed me from going back and the story wouldn't have had such a happy ending. I own the word coward as far as snakes are concerned. No retirement sunsets for Tdos. The granny I truly recall as being a psycho super hero used to have a secret she was sitting on. And then one day she let it slip that she used to kill cats with hammers in the Mississippi country side with the steady hand of a hit woman kitty serial killer! I know....I know what it sounds like and to render an explanation for the heinous act of drowning a burlap bag full of scared cats in the dark would be perfectly pointless.  But her description of the sheer number of feline orphans that would show up every day whining and belting out hungry screams out weighed their poor family's financial reality. They could hardly feed a family of six on one chicken much less thirty some odd mangy cats that multiplied like wild kudzu. Back in nanny's day there was no Nintendo WI or Nickelodeon channel to keep the kids occupied. Her childhood dolls were made from corn stalks and twine (pronounced twaaaaaaan) and they thrived on pure imagination alone to pass the time. At least that was free! It was a time when people would crowd around a scratchy radio to hear public service announcements to get some bearings on current world events. She's certainly been around long enough to watch each member of our immediate and extended family grow into adults and go out into all sorts of directions on our own. I'm really going to miss her. In fact I already did miss her living so far away all these years. But now it's so final and the card I have sitting on my shelf that I wrote her and never sent wont do her any good now. It can't bring her one more moment of comfort knowing that one of her grand kids was thinking about her....or not (thus the dust that's long settled on the Cavalier cartoon sticker gluing it together). I'm so grateful to be alive in a time of such technical conveniences like indoor bathrooms, the Internet, and cell phones but are we really any better off? Nanny never had a Facebook page nor was she updating her Twitter account on the progress of the butter beans in her garden. My mind wanders into the funniest places when I try to imagine what her daily status posts would be like. "Them maters have u' cuple a' mower days till their ready for u'pluckin!" My mind is full of memories of trips to Cades Cove in the ol' silver mini van and our fine dining picnics on ham salad, chicken salad, and egg salad sandwiches on cool white bread that she would whip up like Macgyver in the woods. We would stuff our faces while we bounced from rock to rock over the freezing mountain water, somehow surprised every time at how cold it was. It was child's play all to the delight of our grandmamma matriarch that would sit on the Tennessee Smokie mountain river bank, watching us act like fools, while she ate mayonnaise with a fucking spoon! She kept our hearts and bellies full while beaming proudly from the side lines. My nanny will forever be floating around in the outskirts of my mind pilling more and more food onto my emotional plate and mending my torn clothes with a professional tailor's special touch. Her simple and kind approach to life gives us all a reason to take pause and remember her sincere thoughtfulness for others like the the sweet little old lady miss Pope she cared for in her free time back in Sevier County. She was pure human southern goodness and I wasn't there to give her that one last squeeze like I'd hoped. But I bet nanny's final words to me would've probably been something along the lines of "Now you stay out of trouble Mr!" or most definitely "GO VOLS"!

Taurus Rising

      The birth date quickly approaches and I'm chronically late on my taxes again. My student loans are frozen and acrewing mountains of interest and I'm working a temporary dead end job that inspires basically many a comment. I mean there are stressers here and there and then life occasionally sucker punches you hard and fast in the blind side leaving you disoriented. Counting your flaws and worrying perpetuates only more resistance from the universe I'm guessing. Why can't I relax into something much smoother like my little brother? Some of the external and personal pressure we  put on ourselves can be too much too soon sometimes. I'm not sure if 32 will be as horrifying as 31 which was perpetually scarier than 30, which happened so seamlessly that I hardly noticed the transition at all. I'll always be able to say that I turned the big three-O in Tokyo. We screamed ourselves hoarse in a freaky Japanese theme park all afternoon! I'm obsessed with the crazy Asian food served in place of corn dogs and cheese fries. Instead I was struggling to chew chewy charred squid on a stick before hopping on an unbelievably  psycho roller coaster. My birthday happened to fall on our only day off from the show that brought us there. Time seems to drag us forward no  matter if we are digging our heels in as hard as we can, stomping out a serious tantrum, or choosing a light stress free Omega-like approach. Either way she rolls on regardless. So why can't I make a move? Living in New York City for the last thirteen years has been like swimming with a back pack full of bricks. Remember counting your blessings? The Secret? Remember that insurmountable, uncagable rush that comes from just naturally being alive? Not at the moment. A man I've been seeing said something that really resonated with me. He has a little saying that I love. "What you resist.....persists."  And how right he is. The very act of resisting the shitty details of your day puts your fears out into the universe, they get swirled around and flipped and reversed and come rushing back into your life ten fold again and again in a karmic hamster wheel. Trust me. I've never been more available for some sun and for the rejuvenation that comes with the sexy spring time and the natural changing of the seasonal guard.

         Easter Sunday just passed and it got me thinking about this particular "holiday". I flash back to being 13 again, covered in pimples, deeply locked in a Christian closet. The number of bibles that whacked me over the gay head my entire life could pile up so high that they could seriously eclipse the sun. I have a different take on the Lords day. I see Jesus as an exclusively mortal dude who's fame got blown so out of proportion that the entire world was turned on its head. That's when all the conflicting secular religious men decided to branch out into their own versions and mold their own story to fit their personal agenda. Nations began to fight over this one man and it started something so epic and dangerous....something of the likes this world had ever seen before....the Catholic church of doom and gloom. It's an unrealistic fantasy that snow balled way Way out of control and would never see the light of scientific reality again. Even in 2011 people are still buying the...died on a cross....rose again....washed in the blood of the lamb...deny thyself and all your natural gay urges garbage. Protests, marters, witch hunts, shady pedophile priests and bishops who scared hard working people into begrudgingly tithing whatever percentage of an already small weekly wage. And for what? Women were tied and fried alive for growing herbs in their garden or not swearing allegiance to the male dominated clergy. Heaven is a promise that not one single person has ever been able to confirm as true. Sorry mom. The business part of the organized church blows my mind completely! The Vatican is a scandal! All the secret back room deals, all the private diddling of innocent little alter boys makes me about as nauseous as I can be. And all this time the ultimately priceless merchandise for sale was ironically an invisible salvation not from our present sinful circumstance, but for another life altogether. Sounds like a busted pledge with some high stakes to me. If I'm gonna be tortured this incarnation about where my soul is gonna spend eternity I want fully produced prime time television commercials constantly advertising, promising, and promoting a flashy after-life. I would cast Sara Silverman as the spokes woman for all those spots. I think if Jesus Christ had a better press team I'm sure more people would be sucked into the spiritual abyss that is looking outward instead of inward for personal happiness. People like Ted Haggard, Pat Robinson, Tammy Fay Baker, and Rush Limbaugh aren't exactly the perfect face of Christian publicity. Some of them are truly like terrorists...especially Rush! I hate that nasty overly-opinionated beast. He should be on a cross! I think heaven and hell are right here on this earth and our reality is what we make it. We can be afraid of a Deity that doesn't exist or we can relax into our humanity and realize that we've got one shot to make the most out of this life. I'm not waiting around for the great return. A serious price for eternity has me thinking about all the people running around all day judging each other by an outdated, overly translated text that has been so regurgitated through political agenda that no one knows what was really said in the beginning, if anything was said at all! Jonah didn't live in the belly of a fucking whale people it's fairy tale. These are the depths of where my sceptical mind goes to when my religious doubts get the worst of me as I make a wrong turn down the Easter themed isle at Walgreens.  As I stare at countless choices of flourescent colored Easter baskets and chocolate covered peanut butter eggs wraped in shiny pastel tin foil, I can hear the screams of the inncent "witches" being lit up like fire crackers in the night. Then I get an evil smiling closeup of Wynona Ryder in the Crucible accusing everybody and their mother of sourcery and illegal magic. And how a bunny became part of the equasion of my eternal soul hanging in the balance of an unjust god I'll never know! To the world wide web.  I'm on to this shame game. It has fooled generations and I'm sure more to come. I know the twists and turns of a Christian guilt trip and just the thought of sitting through yet another snoozfest of a sermon on fags and their particular sins is enough to give me a Jamie Lee Curtis Activia moment right here on this number one train! There's a deep rumbling in my bowels that knots up with memories of an adolescence full of total unacceptance and semi-hate crimes from pimple covered, bangs that look like tidal wave sculptures, buck tooth hillbilly wonders. And sometimes these bad back woods cunts would be mean mean nasty country girls who's near future included either working in the BP gas station on Chapman Highway, restocking the fake flower isle in the local Super-Walmart, or taking one up the ass from Pa when he gets in from riding his tractor. These bitches names were Misty( pronounced Meeeeeeesteeeee), Meeendeeeeee, Deeana, and Shea. These hillbilly girly gangs loved to use the word faggot every time I came walking down the Seymour middle school hallway in my black turtleneck and Kmart sweater vest, mushroom hair cut, and probably listening to the Ann of Green Gables soundtrack while dreaming up a figure skating routine in my head. It was a lose lose all around. These horrible hicks were most certainly correct about the rainbow shooting out of my ass and probably are the very reason I'm gay in the first place. I'm just curious as to how I was the very last person to figure this out!   
   

       I've come to the realization that Jesus Christ was and is a huge douche bag and should he be spewing all that nonsense in this day and age he would be instantly arrested and committed into the closest psychiatric facility with a quickness. I know all too well the collateral damage that can come from forcing yourself into an eternal spiritual contract that takes the work out of creating your own destiny. How can my sweet little country mother even sleep through the night if she actually believes that her bagel-bumping, weener worshiping, foreskin loving first born is going to thrash around in constant and utter agony, consumed in a fiery horrible Hell for ever and ever?! Leviticus is shady and rude. Christians and Jews dream away the tedious hours in their day jobs, foaming at the mouth as they imagine God appearing suddenly out of the blue reigning fiery glitter and camp from the heavens like Lady Gaga bursting through the clouds in a diamond studded Swarovski chariot....angel choirs belting their faces off Broadway style and calling our your name in glorious perfect harmony. And let's not forget those blaring trumpets exploding into your ears....Duh! Please, Jesus ain't coming back without a hundred piece full New Orleans brass band and hip hop dancers in gold sequin visors. The lord done come yall! It will be like Oprah's first reunion special however long after her final episode airs. The millions of soccer moms hanging onto every inspirational O-quote like its air are about to lose their minds every day around four o'clock when they have to say goodbye to the only black person they've ever known. Trust me we will never ever be rid of that woman. Now her "OWN" network will make her even more invisibly present than she already is! Oprah will be back with a vengeance mark my words. Hell, she basically got the other O elected president for Christs sake. All this waiting and wondering will have this world and all its blind faith believers twiddling their thumbs and scratching their heads until the end of time itself. No one is coming to save us folks. Well maybe Obama of course.....or Denis Leary!  Happiness doesn't just fall into our laps like a lottery. It' something to be pursued without bounds and savored like fine wine. I have Harley. She is my center and soul mate. Not that I myself have achieved a mind blowing Buddha like bliss that threads together every moment of my day. Nope, not even close. But I know what's right for me. I just try and find a calm enough mind space so that I don't kill the guy that comes charging through the subway doors before I can even get out, plowing into me like a line backer. I get steamed way too easily and need my fuse to be a lot longer than it is right now. Therapy is an easily justifiable expense when you have anger management issues in New York City. People on top of people on top of more people make for one claustrophobic homo.

          Daddy is getting his groove back after the tres tragic catastrophe of 2011 when he dropped his IPhone in the shower (don't ask) and lost three fully completed blog entries that took the plunge without being saved first! For me this is bigger than big....it's a disaster of epic proportions. Juicy blog entries gone forever, never to be fully recreated. My deep issues with procrastination that paralyze me some(all)times. I'll never forgive myself for not simply saving them before my three hundred dollar phone did a double axel into a soapy tub! I was rendered speechless (if you can imagine) for weeks on end and my thumbs were on strike. There's no solice for the lazy. I hate the sickening feeling of trying to recreate the original witty first drafts, which I consider to be my verbal children, and trying desperately to recapture my particular bullshit on a theme. It's like trying to save a sinking ship with  kids floaties and you never really find it again. Or your bitching about it can evolve into something else altogether like this one has. Loosing unsaved work for me is like and intense episode of Law and Order BVU.......blogger victims unit! Must I text whilst sitting on the throne next to the shower? Water and Facebook don't go together my friends. My dreamy little smart 3G IPhone took a nose dive and made the technical splash of doom. Insurance wise AT&T has fucked me hard with no lube and no warning. Thus I've had no comment for a long time. There's no good time for a computer screen to go dark when you're a writer. (I've always wanted to say that!) It feels so right coming out of my mouth even though the only thing I've ever published was a melancholy, tortured, hideous poem about coming out of the closet which I had to pay for myself to submit. So basically it doesn't count at all.

I have a problem. I tend to feel the need to end every sentence with an exclamation point. Why do I think that every singular thought needs to be stressed and accentuated? It's like laughing at your own joke...it's so so wrong.