Right Said Fred . . . er . . . Vladimir

I'm too sexy for my cat/
Too sexy for my cat/
Poor pussy, poor pussy cat

Right Said Fred, "I'm Too Sexy," 1992

Let's call it The Curious Incident of the Kitten in the Daytime.

I can't let the month slip away from me--despite the war in the Middle East, despite the train (or do I mean car?) wreck that is Mel Gibson's life and career--without writing about this rather unusual public display of affection reported in the news earlier in the month--the "kitten-kissing" perpetrated by the President of Russia upon the stomach of a five-year-old boy named Nikita, as he visited the Kremlin.

In short, what happened was this: Nikita visited the Kremlin. President Vladimir Putin spotted the young boy, stopped to talk with him, and in a "spontaneous gesture of affection" lifted the boy's shirt and kissed him on the belly. Putin later said that the boy reminded him of a kitten and that he couldn't help but kiss and cuddle him.

Well, I don't know about your worldview, but to me, it just screams Newbery-Caldecott Children's Book Award winner. The simpler solution would be to invite Peggy Rathmann in to pick up where she left off with Officer Buckle and Gloria and pen Officer Putin and Nikita . Better still might be for Kevin Henkes to adapt his work, Kitten's First Full Moon, turning it into Kitten's First Full Belly Kiss. Or David Small could always produce a sequel to So You Want to be President--something like So You Want to Be Manhandled by the President of Russia.

Admittedly, it was a questionable, odd, even slightly lewd action, at least to Western European and North American eyes. Such very intimate contact made with the body of such a young boy, the tongues wagged. Tsk, tsk, isn't this what got Michael Jackson and Gary Glitter in trouble?

Well, no. Kissing a five-year-old's stomach in public is a long way from trying to slip "Jesus Juice" and lord knows what else to pubescent boys at Neverland Ranch. Saying you want to cuddle a cute little boy like a kitten is a far cry from trying to use your hard currency to barter young girls from their parents in a Third World country.

So not the same at all.

Initially, I was a little surprised by the encounter as well. But then I recalled the time I traveled to the former Soviet Union in the mid-1980s--until Dick Cheney and Karl Rove outed me as a CIA operative, the bastards, and I was forced to leave. While spending a month in Moscow and Leningrad, I found that Russian men in general weren't hung up on the whole men-don't-touch and interpersonal space weirdness you encounter in the U.S. and other environs. You know the behavior as if you'd read about it in Nature or Science:

Among colonies of the species, Yellow-Bellied Tight-Assed Non-Sap-Sucking Titmouse, it has been observed that in many situations, two males of the species will never sit together at a theater during an action movie. It is believed that this odd, apparently learned, behavior is due to the male birds' desire not to "look like a couple of homos" (Falwell and Robertson, 1969) to the other animals, or, possibly to avoid the risk of temptation in a darkened cinema during the film's gratuitous love scene.

Scientists are puzzled by this behavior, given the Yellow-Bellied Titmouse's propensity for buttocks-patting during play rituals and bear-hugging and sloppy kissing during alcohol-induced, trance-like states occurring during some social interactions, especially those exhibited during the Titmouse's annual migration for Spring Break in Cozumel and documented extensively in the nature film, "Guys Gone Wild."

My recollection is that, unlike our own native species, Russian men are quite demonstrative and affectionate, in a purely friendly and intensely physical way. It was odd for an uptight American to experience this, to see soldiers walk arm-in-arm down the street, to have grown men do the same with me, as well as hug and cuddle me while (primarily) sober in a public place just because they liked me for being me. For being an American.

That's so rare that, cheap date that I am, I'll take my affection where I can get it. Even from a bunch of Communists.

Other memories come forward. I recall once being at a hotel, the then-new but crumbling, Swedish-designed Prebaltiskaya (like a Volvo made at a Lada factory), and meeting some students celebrating their graduation at the hotel restaurant. Once we connected that evening, we were inseparable, talking, laughing, hugging, as if we'd known each other for ages. They even went so far as to escort me, arms wrapped comfortingly around my waist, to the men's room. We approached the urinal together and when I mumbled in a mix of Russian and English, "I'll take it from here," we all giggled. Completely innocently.

I even can recall being invited home by a Russian man one evening, where he proceeded to wake up the missus to meet me, then put on a Tina Turner record ("What's Love Got to Do with It?" if I remember correctly), poured me numerous shots of vodka, and then proceeded to . . . ah, well, never mind about that. Perhaps some members of the Russian Titmouse species are truly comfortable when it comes to man-on-man interpersonal space issues.

But rest assured, dear, sensitive readers, nothing untoward took place. Never, I repeat, never try to drink a Russian under the table--unless of course you want to pass out in a stranger's flat in suburban Tallinn, Estonia, and enjoy the thought of stumbling your way home at dawn. Nonetheless, at those moments, vomiting repeatedly in the apartment bathroom from low-grade alcohol poisoning will serve you well as a perfect anaphrodisiac.

Ultimately, though, I have to stand in defense of Vlad the Alleged Paedo-paler and proclaim him innocent (or at least not proven guilty) of all charges.

So let's get our collective mind out of the sexual gutter for a mo' and put it back in the political gutter where it belongs. Instead, ponder Putin's real reason behind this curious Kissing Bandit imitation.

Is there perhaps an election looming just beyond the steppes? Is the race so close that the .ru internet domain child pornography sector represents a major voting bloc to be courted? Or maybe the gesture was designed to put an end--for once and for all--to all those salacious rumors that Little Lord Putin came to power not through his political maneuvering and tactical deal-making but instead because he knew just the right way to make the late Boris Yeltsin turn beet red, then immediately melt into a puddle of borscht? Therefore, perhaps, comparing the boy to a kitten is Putin's image team's Cyrillic political shorthand for saying that the President of Russia prefers . . . pussy?

Oh, behave. (And I did, because that was originally the title of this post.)

I suspect it's more like this, though: A strong-armed political leader who used to head the KGB needs all the kinder-gentler moments he can get on camera. Kissing a child's belly and comparing him to a kitten seems to me like a crafty ploy by a lizard-like dictator to win votes from the mothers of Russia, and, thus, Mother Russia itself.

Still, it's easy to see how the incident could be miscontrued. I mean, it's probably the reason Our Fearless Leader decided that it was entirely appropriate--in fact, good conduct becoming a former Air National Guard officer and a frat gentleman--to give German Chancellor Angela Merkel an impromptu and unasked-for shoulder rub.

"Hehe, when in Saint Petersburg for the G8 Summit, do as the Saint Peters do, hehe."

Top of the pops, bottom of the barrel

A moment of silence, please.

This week marked the end of Top of the Pops, the long-running BBC TV music show that for some 42 years brought to life acts as disparate as the Rolling Stones and Britney Spears to UK audiences and sometimes even to our own.

Watching Top of the Pops was an event for many, as Pops was more than a TV show. It was a cultural moment. While I often saw clips from TOTP, I rarely got to see the show "for real," usually on visits to Britain in the '90s and the 'Noughties, and once in a while on BBC America. What to say? Pops was garish, it was throw-away, it was "naff," as they say down UK way. But it was fun, too, and occasionally transcendental--just like good pop should be.

Pop music is something of a lost art in the U.S. these days. The kids these days just don't seem to appreciate a good melody, a hooky chorus, or an earworm-worthy song, instead finding all the pop cultural inspiration they need in rap and hip-hop.

Or at least I'm guessing. I think I stopped listening to American Top 40 radio sometime in the mid-'90s, probably at the point where every song consisted of more bleeps than lyrics. So I'm a bit out of touch. I now patrol the aisles of Borders and Barnes & Noble looking for CDs by acts--the Pet Shop Boys, the Blue Nile, to name but two--that first appeared on the music scene 20 years ago. Every now and then I'll play it middle-aged and in touch by adding a Keane or Streets CD to my collection--but I hear about these from college radio, BBC Radio 1, and RFI Musique, not Clear(ly) Channel(ing Satan)'s Mix 106.Sh*t.

So the passing of Top of the Pops represents for me--in a huge production number kind of way, replete with matching outfits and synchronized dance routines--the passing of an era, the passing of my era, in a way, where pop stars' TV appearances were eagerly anticipated, then discussed and dissected on the following day with my friends. Even as an adult, I've engaged in this, so it's not that I'm missing my youth. No, instead, I'm kind of missing my culture. And that makes me sad.

* * *

But while Top of the Pops may have gone the way of all, well, pop, the hits just keep on comin'. In case you weren't paying attention to the Culture Hit Parade this week and instead, for some reason, found the Middle East War more engaging and worthy of your time (silly vous), let's take a closer look at two chart hits that you may have missed.

New entry at number 1--Lance Bass and *NSYNC: "Girlfriend" (with Nelly)

Yes, finally, after being first bested by Stephen Gately of Ireland's Boyzone and reportedly even by Robbie Williams of Britain's Take That!, America's number one again!

Finally, an all-American boy band member has come out of the closet. This week Lance Bass owned up to being gay and proud even, which is really quite refreshing. I mean, he doesn't try to explain away or "blame" his homosexuality on any of the usual suspects--alcohol and drugs, being pimped out to make a living at too early of an age by unstylish and money-grubbing parents/guardians, or a "misunderstanding" (as in "Your honor, I'm not sure how my client's mouth became attached to that police officer's penis in a public restroom--I suspect entrapment!").

Instead, our Say-It-Loud-I'm-Lance-Bass-and-I'm-Proud was quoted in that source of all wisdom, People Magazine, as saying

The thing is, I'm not ashamed -- that's the one thing I want to say . . . . I don't think it's wrong, I'm not devastated going through this. I'm more liberated and happy than I've been my whole life. I'm just happy.

Good on ya, Lance. Sometimes, given the behavior of some of our clan (oh, we'll go there), it's not easy to hold our heads up high in public, but you did make us proud--and along the way scored yourself an impossibly attractive--if a little too Leni Riefenstahl's Olympia-for-comfort--boyfriend in Reichen Lehmkuhl.

Confidentially, Lance, I wouldn't anticipate it to last, though. I mean Reichen was on the Amazing Race just a couple of years ago with Chip Arndt as his "life partner"--and now he's in a committed relationship with you. Guess when he said "life" he meant "shelf life."

And then there's the "separate but unequal" quality of your relationship. Reichen is, as alluded to, of Aryan übermensch stature (or, perhaps, statue). You, well, no offense, Lance, but you might best be described as the Clay Aiken of *NSYNC.

But what a world, what a world. I mean, who would have ever imagined that groups like *NSYNC, with their emphasis on perfect hair, coordinated outfits, and 'tween and teen girls appeal, would be havens for homosexuals? Judging by these standards, then, Lenny Kravitz and James Blunt would be major flamers in a long-term relationship--at least until one member of the couple is caught on Hampstead Heath with grass stains on his knees.

In the meantime, Elton John--he of the saddest toupee and scariest wardrobe on the planet--would be trying out (and winning) the Ironman Triathlon.

Editor's note: Robbie Williams has never come out as gay; in fact, he sued the British press in 2005 for saying he was so. Nonetheless, he has certainly done a good job of being gay-for-pay-and-publicity over the years. And, please, dating Nicole Kidman, the world's highest-paid beard? Piffle.

Dribbling into the charts at number 40, another new entry--George Michael: "Fastlove."

While one former boy band member came out in a public forum, another former boy band performer was found, ahem, performing with his member in a public park.

Yes, it's official (again), George Michael has come out as a fine purveyor of tearoom trade with the working man.

The fact that George Michael is an out gay man is nothing new, of course. Ever since George first appeared on the pop scene as a member of Wham!, there were limp-wristed references to his homosexuality. Was Andrew Ridgely his partner in music--or his "partner"? Young guns, go for it!

The lisping voices became louder when the "Bad Boys" twosome danced the bum-boy boogaloo in the video for "Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go." Jumping around a stage in fingerless gloves, a badly dyed coiff that Frida would have killed for, and tighty blue-and-whiteys, performing like some tween try-out for Barbie's very own rock band . . . well, it was bound to prompt talk.

Of course, it was the '80s, a decade with a lot to answer for, stylistically speaking. Duran Duran wore eyeliner while Twisted Sister favored heavy pancake and rouge--and both were just copying the Glam era of the '70s, anyway. Nonetheless, upon seeing that video, even the most avowed 700 Club-watching, Christian shut-in among us couldn't help but ponder that George might exhibit a certain tendency in his private life.

Even after he unceremoniously kicked Andrew Ridgely to the curb--out of sight, out of the tabloids--"careless whispers" stalked George throughout his solo career, despite his efforts to surround himself with obvious signs of manliness and heterosexuality--like supermodels and royal fag-hag-to-the-stars, Princess Diana.

Nevertheless, our hero was in very public denial about the love that dare not speak its name, at least in the pages of Smash Hits! Finally, when the time came for the big reveal on Survivor: Los Angeles Parks & Rec Division, George M. Co-Hand (as in, "buddy, can you lend me a hand here?") had to be flushed out of the closet. As you may recall, he was busted in 1998 after yanking his doodle a little too dandily in a park restroom for the viewing pleasure of an officer of the LAPD.

Ever since having the door blown off his bathroom stall of denial, La George has become something of the Courtney Love of gay pop stars, alternately moaning and groaning political (thus, ever striving for serious street cred, yet always coming out looking like a dill), grabbing inches (column inches) in the British press for his antics (drug busts, car accidents, generalized weirdness, etc.), and squeezing out the last drops of celebrity as he and his honey, Kenny Goss, race Elton John and David Furnish to their local UK registry office to exchange civil union vows.

Hmmm . . . but perhaps George has needed to squeeze a little too much out of life of late. For now there's the incident of his beating the bushes (among other things) with an unemployed tradesman on London's Hampstead Heath. As if that weren't bad enough, Michael has since made a spectacle of himself in the press and on UK TV making all sorts of specious claims, that what he was doing with that tradesman wasn't illegal (to which in the UK he probably has a point as public sex apparently is OK as long as no one can see it), that his dalliance with a stranger was part of his "culture," and that that was something no one not gay nor male had a right to comment on.

Oh dear.

Personally, this both gay and male person is of mixed minds about the incident. I would agree that male sexual expression and definitely gay male sexual expression can be different from that of the culture in general. (For an interesting pop cultural take on this, might I suggest viewing the final season of the U.S. version of Queer as Folk?) But having sex in public parks is no more a universal part of gay culture than dressing in women's clothes is. Some do it, but not everyone does, by any stretch. There would be gay men who would be horrified at the thought of "tearoom trade," as there would be straight men that would be thrilled to wear one of Krystal "with a K" Carrington's ballgowns. Survey a crowd of gay men at any protest march, reading group, or P-town summer rental, and you would find some guys who engage in both behaviors, some who engage in one or the other, and many who would not engage in either.

To each his own--but, George dear, please don't advocate that your very public downfall is the cultural standard to which we're all adhering.

In the end, the best I can offer is a bitter "Thanks, a**hole" to George for setting back gay identity and liberation a few years with his hard-to-justify, hard-to-fathom behavior. I'm sure millions of young men across the planet who were on the verge of coming out to their parents and friends really appreciate his "activism" on their behalf.

By the way, George, next time you want to express your sexuality in public, might I suggest you simply go on whatever replaces Top of the Pops and give a stellar performance of "I Want Your Sex"? Come on, guy, you can't have forgotten one of your biggest hits, can you? Then again, you ceased several years ago to be about pop. Nowadays, you're just all fizz.

But, sadly, not even of the caliber of Bucks Fizz.

Confessions of a failed Southern gentleman, Part I: (Agri)culture shock

If there were a savings and loan for Southern culture--a formal one with a charter and corporate headquarters in some high-rise in Midtown Atlanta, one where you could bank your Southerness and draw credit on it as you needed to--I have a strong suspicion that my Thrifty Dixie bank account would have been depleted years ago.

You see, among Southern purists--and the purity of the Southern race has been, shall we say, an issue, over the years--I have some deposits in my account, but, well, half of it's Confederate currency and half of it's Union. After all, I am the product of a mixed marriage--my mother being from North Carolina, and my father, from Kentucky, a bipolar border state. Some Kentuckians were slave-owners, and some Kentuckians wanted to preserve the Union and avoid the U.S. Civil War. And some of those Kentuckians were one and the same, slave-owners and Union-preservers.

Like Kentucky itself, my Dad's ancestors seemed pretty conflicted over the war. If the genealogical searches I've done are to be believed, my Dad's people were slave owners at some point in their history, at least in the 1600s and 1700s, when they were living in North Carolina and Virginia, before they emigrated to Kentucky. Not something I take pride in, mind you, but there you have it.

There's also the unauthenticated family lore that one family member during the war served as a spy for the Union against the Confederacy and as a counter-spy for the Confederacy against the Union. Props for ballsiness, uncle.

While I know less about my mother's people, I think it's safe to say that landlocked as they were between those two "mountains of conceit"--Virginia and South Carolina--the North Carolina contingent wasn't likely to register as conscientious objectors or start up a Freedmen's Bureau, offering up to their former charges (if they had any, and I'm assuming they followed a crowd as well as anyone) 40 acres of venus flytrap-infested property and a mule . . . deer.

I do know of one direct ancestor who served during the war, though--my great grandfather on my Dad's side, who fought at the Battle of Shiloh, Tennessee, in April 1862. But he fought with Union forces under the command of Ulysses S. Grant. Lord, the shame. Thus, I rather suspect that neither the Sons nor the Daughters of the Confederacy will be calling upon me to join their ranks anytime soon.

I have other credits and debits to my account, the fact that my Dad was in the military himself, certainly a longstanding tradition in some Southern families (+1). But being a military family means that you're viewed as something of an interloper wherever you live in the South. You're not of the place (-2), even if you spent all but a year-and-a-half of your life in that place. At the worst of times, the term "military trash" gets bandied about (-5), which is pretty funny when you think how anyone who would actually refer to someone else in those terms is perhaps the trashiest of us all.

* * *

There's an expression in the South that describes this peculiar institution of Southern authenticity: "Just 'cause your cat has kittens in the oven doesn't mean you call 'em biscuits."

Thus, we have lots of "New Southerners" with Chicago accents inhabiting Dekalb and Fulton counties. And we have Floridians, which no one can really explain. (Sorry, Sophia!)

But I would argue that I'm a full-fledged, fully baked biscuit. I have a number of deposits in my Southern street cred ledger. For example . . .

• I have fond memories of James "Jim Dandy" Mangrum and Ruby Starr from Black Oak Arkansas performing "Jim Dandy" on late night TV in the early '70s. In hot pants, platforms, and crazy red hair, Ruby (herself a Southern interloper originally hailing from--good golly, man--Toledo, Ohio) would belt out "Go, Jim Dandy, Goooooooo!" in her gutsy growl. Jim Dandy would strut the stage like an early, credible version of David Lee Roth, long-locked, shirtless, and painted into skin white tights, his, erm, member leaving an indelible impression on the front of his pants--as well as on my pubescent mind. Thanks for the memories, Jim.
• I grew up saying all sorts of weird things--like "housinary" (for subdivision or "housing area") and "ice taters" (for "Irish potatoes"), corruptions of standard English that are best explained in a separate post. I also swanned and swannied--or at least heard people swan and swanny--growing up, terms that do make an appearance in the Oxford English Dictionary. I do declare.
• Oh, and those little crackers you get six to a pack, eight on special, produced by Lance out of Charlotte? I grew up calling them "nabs." They are great with a Pepsi, a Sundrop, or even a Cheerwine.
• I don't smoke because I know how hot, sticky, gummy, and disgusting a tobacco field is. I know what a tobacco worm looks like, too. Trust me, this is one worm that even chugging an entire bottle of mezcal won't help you swallow.
• We carried a towel with a "Rebel" flag design to the beach every summer and never saw a problem with it. Pride in being a Southerner, even a white Southerner, doesn't mean you want to oppress African Americans. I'm not saying I'd do it again, knowing how strongly the image offends some people, but it is possible for a symbol to mean two different things to two different people. Still, if some people equate the stars and bars with the swastika, my life will be full enough without having the image of that flag on a beach towel or flying overhead at a Southern statehouse.
• I've been to a hog killin' and a pig pickin', and I don't feel particularly conflicted at the thought of either--even if my pet pig as a child (unimaginatively named Arnold after the porker from Green Acres, but the part you should focus on is that I had a pet pig at all) ended up as bacon, sausage, ham, etc. In fact, as a child, I was enchanted by the dancing pigs in the Frosty Morn' commercials. "Sing it over and over and over again, Frosty Morn . . . ." Those little piggies were delicious! As god as my witness, I can't help but believe that meat has a place at the top, middle, and bottom of the food pyramid.
• I have a distinct memory of staying with my grandparents on their farm one summer and having to rush to the hospital when my grandmother grew ill one night, only to realize that I had forgotten to pack any shoes for the trip. Speaking of trash, I never have I felt more PWT (po' white trash) in my life than at that moment, standing in the waiting room in a shirt, jeans, and my green-bottomed, grass-stained feet.
• When I say I'm ill, I might need a doctor but chances are I don't. What I mean is that I need you to get the hell out of my face. "The way that Jerry Falwell uses God as a billy club. He makes me so ill!"

So I have my moments, credits to that bank account. Nonetheless, I suspect I'm something of a disappointment as a Southerner, too. For every credit, there's a debit--or even a full-on, red-ink, cain't get nuthin' on account 'cause I'm a no-account debt--in the opposing column.

• I cannot imagine owning a truck. Ever. I can understand the need to be able to haul stuff from time to time, but the Mini Cooper and the Toyota Prius do offer a hatchback model.
• I don't like sweet tea anymore. I tend to drink Diet Coke and Diet Pepsi these days. In restaurants, I forget to ask for iced tea sometimes. When I do, I put Splenda or Equal in it, rather than sugar. (Sugar doesn't desolve in iced tea, just settles at the bottom of the glass. Plus Splenda has fewer calories.)
• I can never imagine going to a performance by a comic who calls himself "Tater Salad."
• I have only three country albums in my collection of nearly a thousand CDs. They are as follows: Patsy Cline's Greatest Hits, Rosanne Cash's Seven Year Ache, and a compilation entitled, appropriately enough, The Queens of Country. You can't go wrong with Dolly Parton's "Jolene" or Jeannie C. Reilly's "Harper Valley P.T.A." You can keep Faith Hill and Reba, thanks all the same. I would like to own Van Lear Rose by Loretta Lynn or that last album by Johnny Cash, the one featuring Nine Inch Nails' "Hurt," if anyone out there needs an idea for a birthday gift for me . . . .
• I have a strong aversion to organized religion of any kind. In fact, I have a strong aversion to disorganized religion, as well. I'm not much of anything, really--except, not an atheist. Thanks to my parents and sibs, I have a pretty good moral compass, if I do say so. I don't need an organized or disorganized body of anything telling me how to behave. I don't need the threat of fire and brimstone to keep me on the straight and narrow. I don't need Jot the Dot.
• I love soul music from the '60s and '70s. However, I could never imagine wearing a t-shirt that proclaims I'm a member of the Soul Patrol. I could never imagine seriously telling anyone that I'm 29 again, either.
• I'm convinced that nouveau-riche Atlanta is one of the portals to Hades.

So that makes me overdrawn, cashed out, busted, flat broke, destitute, and out of checks--plus the darn teller machine just ate my ATM card to boot--at Southern Savings and Loan.

Confessions of a failed Southern gentleman, Part II: Belle Watling's revenge

My recent trip to New Orleans underscored the realization of how far I have wandered from the fold. As I mentioned previously, I do love the culture and the cuisine of the Crescent City, the fact that it is a classic urban city, as well as a Southern one. I feel sexy there, I feel comfortable there, I feel at home--but that could just be the tourist talking.

However, I suspect I would no longer feel at home in North Carolina, at least after a meet-up with two of my friend Spencer for Let's Tarheel compadres. In my meaner moments, I secretly refer to these two as Goober and Gomer, but that doesn't quite capture them. They are classier, smoother, and better educated than that. They are prissier than that, as well. Maybe they could be called Helen Crump and Thelma Lou. Thelma Lou was actually nice, though, and Helen was from Kansas, not North Carolina. Better still might, given age and disposition, might be to refer to them as Aunt Bea and Miss Clara, with the latter being the worse of the two. If you fail to get any of these Andy Griffith Show references, you are most definitely not a Southerner--at least not a North Carolina-reared Southerner. Nor are you a regular viewer of TVLand.

I've replayed this scene in my head a number of times and checked in with others just to make sure I'm not missing anything. I related it to my friend EcoGal, in particular, who, like me, is a Pennsylvania-based North Carolinian (a reverse carpetbagger, if you will) with impeccable Southern street cred, and she, too, doesn't get why Our Miss Clara took such issue with my behavior in the Big Easy.

Perhaps Eco is just being kind--we Southerners do that; good manners overrule honesty most of the time, although the situation described below would beg to differ. Eco and I are friendly enough that I think she'd be quite comfortable saying to me, "Land sakes alive, chile, could you have acted any more like a Yankee?"

Because that was what I was accused of. And in the South that's on the level of calling somebody white trash, discussing your sex life or your income at Thanksgiving dinner, or revealing that you think Ted Kennedy would have made a good president. You might as well pack your bags and head back to Boston or the Soviet Union or wherever it is you crawled out from, son. In fact, I'd forget the bags and just put the pedal to the metal on your Mini Cooper or the Toyota Prius and take the first interstate north. Welcome to Maryland, please drive gently.

But you be the judge. Spencer, Aunt Bea, Miss Clara, and I met up at a hotel on the edge of the CBD, the Central Business District. (Y'all, ain't New Orleans cute?) We more or less agreed upon heading over to Café du Monde for some strong coffee with chicory and warm, fresh beignets, which is near Jackson Square in the heart of the French Quarter. It was a warm day--sticky, humid, maybe upper 80s, low 90s (it was New Orleans in June, chile)--but cabs were hard to come by and no one seemed particularly interested in figuring out the bus system or strolling down toward the Riverwalk to catch the streetcar. So we walked.

Now it was warm, I'll grant you that, but it wasn't heat-stroke-inducing weather, at least as far as I could tell. Dear Spencer and Aunt Bea were troupers, but Miss Clara was having one of those how-can-you-feel-pretty-when-you're-constipated days? (or something) and was not amused. Like any good Southerner, he immediately grew suspicious of me for looking as though I was, I dunno, having more fun than him, remarking on how cool and dry I appeared and wasn't that peculiar? As if understanding the power of Burt's Bees Herbal Deodorant and heavy puffs of Shower-to-Shower under each arm was something to be suspicious of.

We finally sauntered into our destination and squeezed around a table in the air-conditioned part of the Café du Monde and waited for the staff to attend to us. And waited. And waited. And waited.

It had been a number of years since I'd been to Café du Monde, but I vaguely remember having this problem before, that is, hanging around until the wait staff noticed you, never really being quite sure whose table you were sitting at, trying to make eye contact with somebody, anybody who might help, but being ignored totally by a staff that has seen one too many tourists to care about your bontemps rouler'ing, at least on their time. Two days after this visit, while having Sunday morning coffee with another friend, Edge of Seventeen, the same thing happened again. So I suspect I'm not mistaken here.

On this day, however, I noticed the table next to us had been waiting for some time as well, at least as long as we had. And I noticed that whenever we tried to get a staff member's attention, they ignored us. I was willing to give everyone the benefit of the doubt--a shift change perhaps or maybe like the service industry in other parts of the city, they were understaffed and overwhelmed as well. But there was past experience to consider. And there did seem to be a lot of staff moving around, just not anywhere near us . . . .

One waitress finally passed near enough that she couldn't get away easily. I asked if we were at her table. She was leaving for the day, she explained, and pointed to another waitress a couple of tables away, who was busy chatting and laughing with other customers.

"That one," the departing waitress said.

Hmmm, I thought. "I'm going up to the counter to see if we can get some help."

"Now, aren't you just in a hurry. My, you've left the South, and now you just aren't used to the proper way to behave," said Aunt Pittypat.

"No," I said, slightly amused by the direction of the conversation. "It's just that we've been waiting a while. What's improper about wanting to get waited on?"

Now I have no patience for a tired ol' queen trying to "adjust" my behavior to conform to her idea of what's propriety. I'm older and have more insurance, as one says. But eyes on the prize, eyes on the prize . . . .

So I strode up to the counter with my best confident-but-friendly air and asked one of managers whether we were supposed to come to the counter to order or did the wait staff come to us.

"They come to you," he said.

"Ah, OK. Well, we've been waiting for about 15 minutes for service, both us and the table next to us. So maybe someone could come over soon and take our order?"

"Sure."

"Thanks very much," I said with a smile. And meant it.

The table next to us had watched the exchange and thanked me for my efforts on their behalf. But, oh dear me, Miss Clara looked like she'd just been propositioned by the minister at the church social--or, worse, by the minister's wife.

"Well, you clearly have lived up North for too long and have forgotten how to behave. We in the South just don't act like that."

"Um, how did I act exactly?" I said. "We've been waiting here for a while, and I thought that was long enough."

"Well, you know how you are. I don't need to be the one to tell you," said India Wilkes.

"Yes, I do know how I am," I said with a smile. But didn't mean it.

"Well all right then," said one of the ladies who sneered at Belle Watling.

Within a minute of my having gone to the counter, a waiter turned up, apologized rather profusely ("No need," I said, "We just weren't sure how things worked"--see what I mean about manners overruling honesty?), and had our drinks and beignets to us a few moments later. I tipped big when the bill came. I was truly appreciative of what he'd managed for us.

So success, but, oh, I never know when to quit. Maybe I really don't know how to behave after all.

The sly Southern snake in me waited until Clara had quaffed some iced coffee and had a mouth and face full of powdered sugar and fried bread.

"Isn't this good!" I said.

"Mmpfmpfmmm," the Belle with No Balls replied.

But then the Northern gaboon viper in me won out.

"And just think, if it weren't for me, you bitches would still be sitting here stewing in your own sweat."

Ah, so now we know how I am. And so does Miss Clara.

* * *

So let's recap. I'm almost 45 years old. I've lived in Pennsylvania for 1 year, Maryland ( a border state) for another, and spent 7 years in Washington, D.C., a decade and a half ago. That totals 9.

So 45 minus 9 equals 36. Thus, I've lived for 36 years in Southern culture and 9 years in Yankeelandia.

Thus, I suspect I sound like a credible Southerner, accent and all most days. Yet with some auditors at Southern Savings and Loan, this is one teller who is sure to come up several picayunes short in the cash drawer of authenticity.

Next thing you know I'll be talking about sex and money at the dinner table, showing off photos from my recent visit with Comrades Mikhail and Raisa Gorbachev at their sprawling collective farm outside Moscow, and shopping for foreign hybrid cars and other Blue State accessories.

But, you know, If it means I get plenty of coffee and beignets, don't sweat like an ol' nag workhorse as I plod down Decatur Street, stand up for myself every now and again, all the while getting to yank the chain of the eternally passive-aggressive--well, just call me the senior senator from Massachusetts.

There's something about a man with a really big deck

[Editor's note: Yay! I can upload pictures to Blogger again! This website's got more kinks than a strip club in a town full of Southern Baptists.]

I've got a really big deck, if I do say so. While it's not San Fernando Valley estate-of-a-porn-star huge, it's definitely above average--or so *blush* I'm constantly told. I'm not just bragging--it's the honest-to-Jeff Stryker truth. [Editor's note: Perhaps not a good link for sensitive readers--but then, you are reading *this*.] Why, my deck is long enough, wide enough, and strong enough for any man . . . to do a little container gardening in his spare time.

* * *

Sure signs of my aging and the impending apocalypse (because I will take everyone down with me when I turn 45 this year): I spend my time quizzing my female friends, such as NoRella, Sophia Loren, and the Artist Formerly Known as Jean Naté, about which is the better firming lotion to use. And any time left over, I spend gardening.

Some people strive their whole lives for riches, only to discover that they can indeed take it with them. (See you in hell, Ken Lay!) Some pass the time in search of the big 'o,' the mother of all orgasms--or at least the oft-repeated one. Some yearn for peace and social justice (although perhaps they're taking a break from this concept in the face of the nascent World War III Pursuit: Middle Eastern Edition currently playing out at a refugee camp not near you.) And still some focus on achieving the perfect tan. (This is Pennsylvania after all, where apparently no one ever met a leathery hide that didn't look better in bermudas or a sun dress. Or so they think.)

But me, well, I've given up the stamp collection, the Sims, and repeats of Kath & Kim on Sundance for . . . gardening.

Lordy. It's come to this, has it?

This is a first for me, so please be gentle. I've never had a great deal of success with gardening, whatever the reason. Over the years I've exhibited a lack of rapport with rhododendrons, a disappointment with dahlias, and a torpor when it comes to tulips. But I suspect, more than anything, I've lacked space, time, and interest in the small and simple joys of growing your own fruit, flower, and veg.

Oh, I can certainly charge top dollar for flowers in a florist shop and am something of a minor-league playa in selecting the most obscure vegetable in the produce market and figuring out how to put it to good use in a recipe. (May I recommend the parsnip? Boiled with a little butter and freshly ground nutmeg, it can be almost sublime.) But having a green enough thumb to grow my own? Feh. When it comes to home horticulture, I'm usually all thumbs and no green. A homo alone, as it were.

What I've also lacked is a yard, and this is something of a prerequisite for full-scale, full-tilt gardening. Despite the best efforts of well-meaning friends (one can be generous and assume) to drag me by the scruff of my bank account into their own special kind of suburban hell, the ugly truth is that at my ripe old age, I'm still not a homeowner. Instead, I remain merely a flat-dwelling, convention-flouting, religion-questioning, booty-shaking, equal rights-awaiting, card-carrying friend of Dorothy, brother of Oscar, son of an urning.

I'm a bit out of step with the times and my age group, to say the least. A case in point: While some people my age are hitting the highway in their Chevy Suburbans, replete with hubristic bumperstickers like "My child is more of an a**hole than yours," I mull over the transportation and style merits of owning a "harvest moon" beige Volkswagen New Beetle (with the turbo diesel option, just to be practical) in a cold climate. And still while others pass their days spackling off in their their bathrooms and getting hammered and nailed by their contractors in their designer kitchens, I spend my hours trying to determine which colors complement an orange sofa; figuring out a payment plan for buying a 32-inch, wall-mounted, HDTV; and waxing eloquent over my superb, new apartment, the nicest, roomiest place I've lived since leaving home.

Just forget about spending your money on that new Blue Nile or Dannii Minogue record, they say--buy some caulk instead! Forgo that long-desired holiday in South Africa or the emigration to a better way in Toronto--you should be weighing the plusses and minuses of adjustable- vs. fixed-rate mortgages! Avert your eyes from that lovely stainless steel French press from Weaver's that your mother, Vivien Leigh, just graciously gifted you with--instead, give up the notion of helping the people of New Orleans by ordering your beans online from Community Coffee and ask your parents to help you with the downpayment on some Central Pennsylvania fixer-upper, replete with autumn gold and avocado green shag carpeting (which would match the orange sofa, I'll give you that) and chocolate brown laminate kitchen cabinets! In a few decades, when you finally give up and give in, declaring bankruptcy from the upkeep and the heating bills, you'll thank us!

Honestly, even without having been called out on my own brand of social terrorism from time to time, it's a wonder I haven't already headbutted a few people in the chest over this sort of thing.

I guess because homeowners can't naturally reproduce, they have to recruit new members into the cult--sorry, I mean, club, no wait, lifestyle. Thus lots of proselytizing, lots of incentives to make this alternative way of living more attractive. Now mind you, I'm not homeownershiphobic. In fact, some of my best friends are homeowners. But, I'm sorry, being a homeowner, well, it's a lifestyle choice, isn't it? (Heavens, you couldn't be born that way, could you?) And with me, well, you're barking up the wrong forest, I'm afraid. I just can't envision myself adopting the homeowner lifestyle anytime soon. Maybe ever. After all, I've got my reputation to consider.

Why the above would be compelling arguments to buy a house to any person, gay or otherwise, is the hits and beyond of my comprehension. What's that children's story . . . or maybe it was a Bible story? . . . about the mouse . . . or some rodent . . . that played while his country cousin . . . or suburban sister . . . stored grain . . . or nuts or whatever . . . for the winter, and then the playboy chipmunk died a cold and miserable death during a global warming-induced flood--or a snowstorm? Yeah, that one, that's me, the secret city squirrel--except I continue to live and thrive, and I get to do whatever I want, whenever the mood strikes me.

Ha! The Singleton's revenge may offer no equity and other financial concepts I don't quite fathom, but it is indeed sweet.

All this is to say (bet you never thought I'd get there) that I still don't have a yard to call my own. This isn't something I'm particularly sad over, mind you, having cut grass to a sufficient degree of satiation as a child. Normally, however, a yard facilitates one's efforts to garden.

But as mentioned previously, I do have a very big deck. And it's a beauty alright. Thus, after a year of settling in to my new apartment, this past spring I began my very own pot garden.

Oops, pot garden. Commonwealth term, innit? That's what my coworker and #1 plant supplier Madame Kiwi calls my experimentation in household hoein'. Better known as container gardening in the States, no matter what you call it, it's simply the act of buying containers at Target, Williams-Sonoma or Ashcombe Farm, dumping in some over-processed and over-fertilized potting soil (what I like to call Miracle Glo, 'cause the phosphorescense it gives off at night is so Three Mile Island-esque), sticking in some seeds or bought or borrowed plants, and voilà--c'est la dolce vita, el gran jitomate, die grosse Kartoffel!

It all started out innocently enough. I bought a book on container gardening in the early spring, then immediately lost it in a pile of newspapers and L.L. Bean catalogs on my coffee table. By the time I found it again, I was too daunted by the elaborate plans, soil zones, and color schemes for these designer container gardens to do it myself. I mean, I just wanted some herbs and a few tomatoes, not the Harrisburg Metropolitan Statistical Area equivalent of Sissinghurst. (Just call me Vita "Potato Sack"-ville West, cultural-critic-in-residence at Sissyhurst. Cheers, thanks a lot.) I wanted something simple, and I wanted something that would have practical returns--for example, something nice to look at and something tasty for my table.

But I work with a generous bunch. When they're not bringing in the fruit and veg of their labors, they're bringing in leftovers from their labors--extra daylilies, pepper plants, tomato plants, annuals, perennials, mutuals, perpetuals (I'm still working out the terminology), and the like.

Plus Central Pennsylvania is something of a gardening gangsta's paradise. There are five months of cold, seven months of warm, and twelve months of humidity. There are nurseries galore, and nearly everyone you meet is in a muddle over mulch, a conundrum over compost, a funk over fertilizer. How can you mess up a garden with all this cosmic, eco-friendly energy pressing you on?

So far, I haven't. A couple of free daylilies and two pepper plants have turned into a bit of an urban oasis in my little town--at least my version of an oasis, which is limited in scope and scale and doesn't involve rocket-launchers, disputed territory, or the latest fashions among the kibbutz-and-purdah crowd. I now have a nearly rubber-baby-buggy-bumper's crop of herbs (flat-leaf parsley, lemon basil, lavender, rosemary, and dill), vegetables (squash, bell peppers, tomatoes), and flowering plants (delphinium, sunflowers, daylilies).

I've made my mistakes, botching one crop of dill while trying to transplant it into another container and torturing to death some flat-leaf parsley with too much exposure to alternately Death Valley Days and Lower Ninth Ward-like conditions.

Although both are doing fine, I started my beefsteak tomatoes too late I'm told, but I'm hopeful at least to have some fried green tomatoes for supper by fall. And currently my sunflower crop lacks a certain oomph, only being about a foot-and-a-half in height. Come November though, the frost-bitten stems should make for a lovely holiday wreath, no?

Nevertheless, in spite of my floral flops and vegetative vexes, I have managed to use my own dill and basil for home cookin', having parlayed the tragically transplanted former into a rather tasty avgolemono soup and absconded with some of the lemon basil for a summery, not-too-shabby tomato-and-mozzarella salad. I now even have some peppers soon to be ready for harvest. And the yellow and orange daylilies and purple and blue delphinium have provided some much-needed color on an otherwise boring--but big!--deck.

Oh, I'm still lacking a few things to be a proper gardener. More gardening knowledge for one. A better sense of garden design for two. But I'm referring to my lack of more important gardening essentials--specifically, accessories. For example, so far, I've failed to secure the proper patio furniture to enjoy the garden to the fullest--namely a chaise longue, a misting tent, a garden gnome like the one from Amelie, and a seven-month's supply of mefloquine to fight against the malarial conditions found throughout the Susquehanna Valley.

To remedy this gardening crisis, however, donations are being accepted. Folks, feel free to make your checks payable to "Container Garden Aid."

Still, I swear I never thought this would happen to me. Gardening. Jeez. How long before I start extoling the merits of vermicomposting, weighing whether to terracotta or not to terracotta my pots, and scouring the shelves of my local gardening shop for pesticide-free, well, pesticides?

Heed my words: The apocalypse is indeed nigh upon us.

Next thing you know, I'll be forgoing the small pleasures of my life--a subscription to the daily New York Times, new expansion packs for the Sims 2, and a revolving credit line at Amazon.de and Amazon.fr for all the schlager pop tunes and French rap albums a guy could want--to buy, egad, something resembling a house.

Y'all, if I get to that point--or buy a truck 'cause it's good for haulin'; start weighing my homeowner's insurance options in a public forum; join the Log Cabin Republicans; or begin to dress up any future dog I might own like a big ol' bumblebee 'cause I think it's cute--you have permission to headbutt me in the chest or anywhere else vulnerable.

Just keep your hands off my tomatoes.

A pasty body of evidence

You want proof . . . I'll give you proof . . . .

I gave myself to Anderson Cooper, and now he never calls

Dear Diary,

Please pardon my lack of a tête-à-tête with you recently, cherished friend. I'm just now catching my breath, after my whirlwind tour of New Orleans, the city of sans souci, of fleur-de-lis and fancy dress balls, of heat and humidity, not to mention hot and cold running hookers. Quel romance!

Oh Dear Diary! Had a wonderful time, wish you were there--but at $10 a day for an internet connection only usable in the lobby of the Hotel Astor, well, I'm sorry, mon cher, but I had to keep all my news and views to myself while spooning and mooning in the Crescent City.

I have so much to tell you! The food, the friendships, the FEMA-inspired design elements. But the most important thing on the agenda is this--my night spent sharing oxygen with Anderson Cooper!

Now, Dear Diary, I know what you're thinking. I haven't always been so kind to the Coopster. Yes, I have said that he resembles a prematurely graying Howdy Doody and that with just a touch of henna, he'd be the kissin' cousin of the Dood--or even Reba McEntire.

And, yes, I have complained that he was just another intelligent, pretty-boy Yalie with well-accessorized ancestors. Sort of like our dear President--except for the well-accessorized (tsk, tsk, Laura and those pants suits) and intelligent parts.

And, yes, I have disparingly remarked that his mother, the grande dame fashion doyenne Gloria Vanderbilt, perhaps designed those attrocious jeans of hers with his skinny, white-boy ass in mind.

I can be so unkind, Diary Dear, as we both know.

But I don't know, maybe it was the heat, maybe the humidity, maybe the mold spores infecting my brain and the risk of pestilence creeping alongside of me like an overheated, Louisiana drunk in quest of a quarter for another bottle of malt liquor. Or maybe it was simply the thought of my molecules touching Anderson's molecules (yes, I was *that* close). No matter the reason, bosom soulmate, but I must tell you this: I think I'm in like! In like with none other than the blue-eyed, silver-haired, pasty-fleshed He-Man of CNN.

(You certainly didn't think I was talking about Wolf Blitzer, did you, Dear Diary? I mean, really, I could never fall in amour with a man that whose name sounds like a character Vin Diesel would play in an action movie . . . or a man who the neighborhood children would taunt with the greeting, "Good morning, Mister Blitzer, how's your sister's blisters?" Shudder!)

I was so fortunate that I bumped into my dear friend, Spencer for Let, at the Morial Center on Monday, June 26, 2006--a day I shall now consider mine and Andy's anniversary, naturally. For it was Spencer that reminded me Anderson Cooper was the featured speaker at the conference I was attending--and he was speaking that very minute in the Grand Ballroom!

(An omen, Dear Diary, an omen. A ballroom--and soon to be revealed, a glass "slipper"--it was fate! Kismet! Shangri-La! Bali High School Forever and Ever! Ease on down the road! Billy, don't be a hero on the night Chicago died! Very Cinderfella-like, minus the Ugly Stepsisters.)

Like well-fed mice rallying around a pumpkin in a vain attempt to recreate a tableau of horses and carriage, Spencer and I scurried up the escalators and scampered into the ballroom just moments before Anderson began to speak. The luck, Dear Diary!

And soon he appeared in all his blue-blazer, nice-shirt-no-tie, 10 p.m. Eastern/9 Central manliness, simultaneously charming and controlled, sensitive and seductive, passionate and professional--all things to everybody, as only Anderson can be.

But just like those people who receive messages from the Martians via the tin foil stuffed in their hats, or even that woman who keeps breaking into David Letterman's house who keeps receiving on-air messages through the Top Ten List, I knew Anderson was speaking only to me, words and meanings that only I could hear and comprehend.

And here's what he had to say to me:

"Raplicious, come buy my book after the talk. It's only, like, $24.95 + tax! Hardcover, first edition! You can get a copy signed by me. In fact, if you're clever, you'll get in line twice, once for the signing and once to say hello!"

And that's just what I did, Dear Diary.

It took forever, mein schmerz, but it was oh so worth it. I stood in line while Spencer purchased the books, but when the book-buying line went slower than the meet-and-greet line, I stepped out to let others with books go before me. Generous, yes, cara mía, but selfish, too, for I was hoping I'd be last in line and, thus, have Anderson all to myself.

But, alas, the book-buying line was slower than my march down the aisle at Saint Louis Cathedral. The clock was striking midnight (actually, 7 p.m., but please indulge my dramatic reenactment), and the signing was about to end. So I got back in line, walked up tall and proud, extended my hand, and said with a smile, "Hi, Anderson Cooper, it's a pleasure to meet you!"

I thanked him for his impassioned, perceptive speech, and just for his all-around excellent, committed reporting during the Hurricane Katrina disaster. And he smiled, looked me straight in the eye (so piercing, so blue), and shook my hand back! Anderson Cooper touched *me*--and didn't immediately use an antibacterial handsoap after the experience!

He asked me where my book was, and I told him I didn't have it quite yet, that my friend Spencer was in line trying to buy it now. And he quite charmingly chatted with me for a moment before I needed to move out of line to let a new upstart get his/her book signed.

No sooner was I done, then Spencer arrived with the books, bless his heart. So we both got back in line and once again found ourselves before the Super Duper Mini Cooper!

"You got your book!" he said. Dear Diary, Anderson Cooper remembered me!

Then I rather jauntily said, "Yes, but I also wanted to continue the conversation from before." And then Anderson Cooper chuckled at my joke. He laughed with me, not at me (a point I must stress for all future readers, full of bitterness and jealousy who might speculate otherwise). How can I not use the "L" word this guy, Dear Diary?!

Unfortunately, my comrade-de-plume, neither Spencer nor I were quick enough on the draw to slip our telephone or room numbers to Anderson--although the next day we did tell all our colleagues that the headboards in our hotel room were the backdrop to Anderson's reporting on that evening's Anderson Cooper 360.

So no late-night rendez-vous by the Andrew Jackson (alas, not Cooper, not yet anyway) statue in the square in front of St. Louis Cathedral, no moonlit walk along the banks of the Mississippi, no guerrilla asbestos-removal project-for-two in the Lower Ninth Ward after midnight. But, Dear Diary, I didn't go away empty-handed either.

For you see, after Andy left his signing table, Spencer and I scoped the area for mementos and trace amounts of DNA, and lo and behold, we hit the souvenir, skin cell, and saliva jackpot like it was a nonstop weekend of sad shopping and sleazy sex at South of the Border!

Spencer grabbed up the very Sharpie that Anderson used to sign all those hundreds of books with (including our very own). And I, Dear Diary, absconded with the very drinking glass that Anderson used to de-parch his pucker (if you'll pardon the expression) while talking to all his fans. I have the glass now positioned on my bedroom dresser--sleeping with it under my pillow was entirely too impractical, not to mention ill-advised under my health insurance plan--where, along with the moon and the stars, I bid it good night just before I fall asleep.

Perhaps someday soon Anderson will come riding on a gallant steed through my neighborhood in search of the "glass sipper" that perfectly fits his sweetly bowed lips. I'll play it cool, all demure and unskanky-like, then with a flourish reveal the glass, hidden discreetly behind my back. I'll murmur seductively, like a middle-aged, male Holly Goodhead in James Bond's Moonraker, "Is this the vessel you're hoping to fill, Mister Cooper?"

And, of course, it will be.

We'll then live happily ever after in a loft in the Dakota on Central Park West off Mummy's squillions. I'll photograph and garden for a living, while Anderson retires to his study to write nonfiction bestsellers and perfect speeches for his book tours. On weekends, we'll motor up north to our country chalet in Vermont, in our canary yellow Saab 9.3 convertible, with our springer spaniel Molly and our rescued greyhound Spike in tow. And one weekend on a whim, we'll cross the border into Quebec, where we'll find a registry office in some quaint French-speaking farming village, where we'll become legally and spiritually Mister and Mister Anderson Cooper-Licious.

Oh, life is a glorious cycle of song, a medley of extemporanea;
And love is a thing that will never go wrong;
And I am Marie of Roumania.

(Editor's note: With sincere apologies to Miss Dorothy Parker.)