It’s funny how failure affects your life, or at least how it has affected mine. I’ve figured out over this long, cold Winter that no matter how successful I am or how much more successful I may become, I will never remember any of the goals I’ve achieved since my 15th birthday. I really think that for 20 years, I almost stopped growing, except for the memories of those failures – those memories and their spectre continue to grow to this day.

I remember every single “FAIL” from my aborted high school career, my aborted collegiate career, my aborted journalism career, the time I spent working fast food, the times (yes, multiple) working retail, my aborted military career, the booze, the drugs, the sex and even some poor choices in music during those times (Milli Vanilli or Right Said Fred, anyone?).

I remember every botched teenage suicide attempt. I mean, my God, how embarrassing is it that you can’t even stick your head in an oven right? Nobody told me it had to be a GAS oven – I thought ANY oven would work, but I just ended up burning off my eyebrows, then trying to paint them back on a la Tammy Faye Baker Messner, which made me cry, then I really looked like Tammy Faye Baker Messner (because I thought I might look better with a little eye liner and mascara,too), and then I wanted to go buy a real gas oven from Keith and Theresa Jean just so I could start all over and do it right, but I was too embarrassed to leave the house without eyebrows, so I just got drunk instead.

So, yeah, I’m an awesome fuck-up.

Don’t get me wrong, though. My life has been filled with successes, big and small – I finished college (I’m thinking about a graduate degree in the fall), I learned how to hold down a job. I learned about art and music and literature and how to appreciate and invest in each one and how to make my passions make me money. I figured out I was a bi-polar freak and needed a cocktail of pills to keep me “normal.” I met and hung on to Gradon. I re-established a relationship, however tenuous at times, with my maternal family. I taught myself how to be creative, even though mood elevators and anti-depressants do all they can to stop that from happening.

Those are all major successes in my life. But when I look back, I don’t see those. I only see Keith McCoy and Chris Peeler beating the living shit out of me on the third Monday of my senior year of high school and me walking away from that building that no longer exists and never looking back.

I remember my mom’s funeral, although I don’t remember my great-grandfather’s or great-grandmother’s, although I loved them almost as much. By the time they died, death didn’t affect me anymore. It was just… a thing.

I remember every friend that, when I walked away because I got pissy or moved away or just turned in a different direction, I just said to myself, “Well, that’s done,” and turned off that part of my life as if it never existed.

*****

I never planned to get back in touch with anyone from my past. Simply put, it was just too embarrassing. Anyone who was there while I was growing up saw me screw up too many times and up until recently, that didn’t gel with the image I had carefully crafted of myself as an adult – you know, the perfect fag – thin(ish), styl(ish), wealthy (pay no attention to the debt behind the curtain), witty, clever, intelligent, ballsy, brash and Bette-Davis-tough-as-nails.

Then, I joined Facebook, and I discovered that people had been looking for me for years.

It didn’t help that I had changed my name – the whole thing – for my 21st birthday present to myself (“Maxwell” is a riff on my paternal grandfather’s first name; “Joplin” is a paean to Janis, because she was one of my soulmates – she was voted “Ugliest Man” by her classmates at Port Arthur High School and ended up telling them all to “Fuck Off” before she joined the 27 Club; and “Andrews” is my mother’s maiden name), so I was pretty hard to find. Besides, my family keeps my current location safer than a state secret (I’m the pink sheep, remember, never to be spoken of again).

And I discovered that the people I’d been too embarrassed to reach out to for 20 years had missed me. And they liked me. And they remembered things completely differently than I did. Somehow, at some point, I had made them laugh. I had said a kind word or done something shitty to someone on their behalf. Perhaps I’d shown a rare streak of loyalty or gotten drunk with them at a time when it mattered. Maybe I bought them a CD player and drank non-alcoholic beer with them. Maybe we drove along the levee, drank beer and listened to Don McLean and it was a moment they’d never forget. Some of them remember me always, always singing (ah, Little River Band, we hardly knew ye). But in some way, I had touched their lives, and I never knew it.

And I never imagined that they loved me. Many of them saw a kindred spirit. A lot of them hadn’t just wondered out of morbid curiosity what had happened to the choir fag with all the cars; they sincerely wanted to know that I was okay.

I also discovered that I’d loved all of them all along, too. And I’d missed them. And wanted to know that they were okay.

Now, I find Facebook isn’t enough, which is why I want all of you to watch the video I’ve posted at the beginning of this missive once you’re done reading. Obviously, the Heads were reaching for more of an allegory about organized religion, but one of the great things about lyrics and poetry in general is that you take away from it what you want, and to me, I want a bar named “Heaven.”

“Heaven” would be a dive bar where I would meet my friends every night of the week for happy hour, and longer on Fridays and Saturdays. We would all talk about our crazy lives and make each other forget how fucked up the world is and how wonderful we all are. We would all be there for each other. We would all laugh and cry together. We would bullshit each other and call each other on said bullshit, then laugh about it when caught.

And if somebody didn’t show up, we’d all go to said person’s house and find out why the fuck they aren’t there with the rest of us.

We’d meet at “Heaven” to plan trips to Prince concerts where we’d all yell “FREEBIRD!” and laugh and fight over who had to drive home.

And all my friends from different eras of my life would meet each other at “Heaven.” Clint and Clarie and Jan would meet all the guys and girls I’d grown up with and make everyone laugh as hard as they make me laugh. All of my friends who list themselves as “Republicans” on Facebook would meet my über-liberal friends and share mind-erasers and lemon drops and find common ground on health care legislation and welfare reform and gay marriage.

Drag queens and trannies would mix with the crowd, taking polaroids with the attorneys and judges and millionaires. Jeri Kay would stop one of said trannies and scream, “WAIT!” I thought it was something, but it’s SNOT!”

My Air Force buddies would be there, slamming shots and fighting over the jukebox, all to no avail, once they realize that “Heaven” is my bar and I am the deejay in this place – it’s my soundtrack, bitches. Then, they would roll their eyes and shrug, just like they always did when I forced them to listen to my music when we were stuck in Cheyenne.

Nick Anderson would be wearing his school girl skirt, offering to show his goods to EVERYONE, and EVERYONE would be begging him to do so.

There would be NO migraines at “Heaven,” and Lisa LeGaye and my other migraine buddies would be there every night.

Courtney Haynes would be fighting everyone off the stripper pole (never noticing the sign that reads, “THIS STRIPPER POLE IS RESERVED SOLELY FOR THE BENEFIT OF COURTNEY HAYNES – EVERYONE ELSE STAY THE FUCK OFF! – MGMT).

Pappy would be recording everything with a camera, and “Heaven,” even though it’s a dive bar, would have perfect lighting, just for an artist of Pappy’s immense talent. Seriously. He’s amazing. (http://www.aptrickphoto.com)

There would, of course, be a dance floor, because what is a bar without a dance floor at least big enough for the queens and trannies and drunk girls on the weekends.

Karaoke on Thursdays, drag shows on Saturdays at 11:00.

The Halloween party would be so fucking good at “Heaven” that people would be in tears from the joy of it all.

*****

And I would wander through the room every night, feeling the heat emanating off all of your bodies, smelling each of your unique scents, and smiling and nodding and laughing and singing.

Occasionally, I would retire to a booth in a back corner and sit with Gradon and rub his thigh and take it all in and maybe cry a little, because I would have no other way to express such joy and love and happiness.

“It really is Heaven, Gradon,” I would tell him. “They’re all here, and this bar, this place, called “Heaven” is such a beacon of pure love and joy, there’s no way every living thing in the universe can’t feel it.”

“I know, Baby,” he would reply as he pats my knee.

“Now, shut up. I’m trying to get drunk.”

]]> http://neverwascool.com/2010/02/28/the-name-of-the-bar-the-bar-is-called-heaven/feed/ 0 Max http://neverwascool.com/2010/01/10/the-battle-of-hemorrhoid-hill/ http://neverwascool.com/2010/01/10/the-battle-of-hemorrhoid-hill/#comments Sun, 10 Jan 2010 14:15:51 +0000 Max http://neverwascool.com/?p=167 ]]>

There are certain things you don’t want to hear when you go to the proctologist, like…

“Jesus Christ!”

“Wow. That’s, uh, that’s… really fucking big.”

“Doctor, I need to go assist somewhere else, because I’m going to throw up in here.”

“Shit. I’m going to need the big needle.”

“I’ve never had to use this many stitches before.”

“Wait… what are those… is that… are those… son, do you notice that when you cough, you occasionally set off car alarms? Because I think I just found a set of fucking keys in your ass.”

On New Year’s Eve, I went to the proctologist – I’ll call him Dr. Goldfinger – for a little “minor” surgery.  I was suffering from a thrombosed hemorrhoid, which is what happens when you have a hemorrhoid, but the blood in the hemorrhoid stays in there, then clots and gets hard.

Imagine, if you must, walking around with a permanent, and quite painful, dingleberry between your ass cheeks.

I knew it was bad, because (a) I made Gradon look at it, (b) it hurt like a motherfucker, and (c) I was starting to sit side-saddle, but I had no idea how really bad it was until I dropped trou for Dr. Goldfinger and his nurse.

Hand to God, the nurse gasped and backed into the little metal table with all of the sharp instruments on it, knocking it across the room.  I felt Dr. Goldfinger turn his head as he spread my cheeks, and heard him exhale.  I knew I hadn’t farted (but immediately wondered how often that happened), then worried that maybe I wasn’t “spring fresh,” before remembering that I’d spent a good 30 minutes in the shower that morning doing everything but flossing and gargling with my asshole to be absolutely certain there was no “eau de poo“ when my mangina made its debut.  I wondered if the strawberries and cream douche may have been taking it too far.

The doctor immediately allayed my fears of uncleanliness.  The nurse asked to leave.  And not for the first time in my life, I was alone in a room with a man staring at my asshole. Unfortunately, this time, nothing fun was going to happen.

Dr. Goldfinger took a needle meant to pierce armor plating and began to repeatedly prick my ass.

No, the irony was not lost on me, but my screams covered my intermittent giggles.

Once my ass was a dead, barren hole (“Can you feel that?” “No.” “Can you feel that?” “No.” “Can you feel that?” “No.” “Can you feel that?” “Christ, Doc, what are you sticking in there that I’m supposed to fucking feel, a gawdamn chair leg?”)

Then, Dr. Goldfinger took his trusty scalpel and began to cut. And cut. And cut. And cut.

I thought about uranium. I’m thinking of investing in a couple of uranium stocks, and stocks make me happy. Making money on stocks makes me even happier.  Making money on green energy makes me happy and alleviates my environmental guilt, so I went to my happy place.

A couple of hours later (it was probably one minute or so, but there was a lot of cutting and thinking about uranium), I heard the doctor put down his scalpel and pick up some other implement of torture.  He then began to tug.  Then, he put his left foot on the base of the table for support and began to yank.

“Christ,” he said to himself, as if I wasn’t there, “I hope it’s not attached.”

Uranium, uranium, uranium. Carbon emission limits, carbon emission limits carbon emission limits, I furiously thought, shutting my eyes so tight that my lids hurt.

Then I felt the doctor release my ass and sit back on his stool and am pretty sure he wiped his brow. “Okay, all I have to do is sew it up, and you’ll be good to go.”  He then began to make a quilt.

When Dr. Goldfinger was done, he handed me a scrip for some antibiotic salve and a pain killer and said to call him if I had any problems, then he left the room.  I slowly stood up and looked over on the metal tray table. Sitting there was a blood clot the size of a peach pit.

I think it winked at me.

I found Gradon in the waiting room and asked for my phone.

“What for?”

“I wanna take a picture of it.”

“You are NOT posting a picture of your hemorrhoid on FaceBook. Now, let’s go.”

“You never let me have ANY fun!” I stomped out.

*****

The next day was our 12th anniversary. I told Gradon not to even think about touching me, and that if I caught him thinking about it, I’d make him watch all six Star Wars movies all day, every day, all year long.

I also had to poo, and I was scared. I’m a man, and I can admit it.  I had stitches holding part of my asshole together, and didn’t know what a turd would do to those stitches or my delicate flower (would it ever look the same?).

I sat down, did some Zen breathing exercises, opened Entertainment Weekly and tried to relax. I then gave birth to a fucking sperm whale.

“HOLY MOTHER OF GOD!!!”

The dogs downstairs began to howl. The neighbors called to see if Gradon had killed me.

I wiped the cold sweat off my forehead and looked into the toilet and saw…

… a pebble turd. About the size of a green pea.

I vowed not to let that happen again, so I drank mineral oil for the rest of the day.  This, too, proved to be a mistake.

Did you know it’s possible to shit pure oil? I didn’t. I was like Carol Brady with a bottle of Wesson Oil shoved up her ass, only I never got to sleep with Greg. Or her gay husband. I was afraid to fart because I might slip and fall in mineral oil mist.

I gave up and spent the rest of the weekend sitting in the bathtub, yelling down the stairs for Gradon to bring me random things, like my Kindle, mashed potatoes, and toenail clippers.

It’s been over a week now, and I can finally walk upright and my BMs have returned to normal (because I know y’all were worried).

Gradon says I’ll think twice before I have another abortion, and I keep telling him it was a parasitic twin named Veronica and I had to have her cut out of me so the birds and Timothy Hutton would quit following me around. I then had to remind him of “The Dark Half” by Stephen King so he would understand my obscure pop culture reference.

The moral of all this is, don’t strain when you poo. Like the Hues Corporation said, just relax and let it go and let the turds float.

Or something like that.

]]> http://neverwascool.com/2010/01/10/the-battle-of-hemorrhoid-hill/feed/ 1 Max Elephant Procto http://neverwascool.com/2009/12/27/friends-and-lovers/ http://neverwascool.com/2009/12/27/friends-and-lovers/#comments Sun, 27 Dec 2009 12:40:34 +0000 Max http://neverwascool.com/?p=160 ]]>

I don’t think it’s any secret that, before Gradon tamed me, I was a slut.

Actually, I prefer the British term, “slag.” It sounds more like something one would find in a quarry, as if I was a lovely piece of granite, just waiting to be laid across your countertop.

In any case, I lost my virginity when I was 11 and before you wonder, let me hasten to add that no, I was not molested. It was with another 11 year old and we were both VERY willing participants.

“You mean these things do more than pee?”

“I think.”

“What else do they do?”

“Here – I’ll show you.”

Oh. Oh. Ooohhhhh. Don’t stop showing me, motherfucker. Don’t you dare fucking stop.”

We showed each other all kinds of things, in all kinds of inappropriate places – church, Boy Scout camp (be prepared, I always say), airplane hangers, roofs, basements, parks, in the middle of the road (we were into the Beatles), school and yes, ladies and gentlemen, across some of your countertops.

At some point, we discovered that we weren’t the only two boys out in the cotton fields of the Bootheel having a gay ol’ time.  There were others. Lots of others. And I figured, Why eat the same thing for dinner for the rest of my life when there’s all this variety? I’m young, incredibly fucking dumb and full of… joie de vivre, so why not taste all that the buffet has to offer?

I guess I was 12 or so by that point, and that’s when I started really enjoying life. I did it with every willing participant I met and believe me, there were A LOT of willing participants.  I’ve always been surprised that there were so many, considering that (a) we were in the middle of no-fucking-where and (b) I was built like a Butterball turkey with four toothpicks stuck in it, but no one ever complained, so even though I was disgustingly fat, boys still wanted to screw around. I guess beggars can’t be choosers.

Getting my driver’s license opened up even more opportunities for me, because I could now (a) screw in my car and (b) screw guys from neighboring towns. To this day, I refuse to own a car with anything but leather interior because of what I did to the interior of every car I owned as a teenager (I’ll leave those details to your imaginations). To whomever has my first Miata, sorry about the stains on the roof – TOTALLY not my fault.

And don’t think for once second that I changed my ways once I was a member of the United States Air Force.  If anything, I only refined previously acquired techniques, offering many an airman a safe port in a long storm (I should note that most – all but two, in fact – have since come out of the closet and are enjoying their queer lives).

By the time I was living in New Orleans, I had dispensed with any pretense at all, using one of two trusty pickup lines. If I thought a guy was merely fuckable (i.e., he had no more than three prosthetic limbs and at least a weak pulse), I would walk up and say, “Hey. Wanna fuck?”

If I thought the guy was really cute, I’d accidentally-on-purpose bump into him and mumble, “Did you tell Harpo to beat on me?” á la Oprah in “The Color Purple.” If he laughed, then I’d sleep with him. If he frowned 0r just looked at me like he didn’t get it, I’d tell him he was culturally illiterate and move on.

But that was many, many years ago. I’m old now. And dammit, I’m tired. These days, if I see a cute guy other than Gradon, I sniff and say something like, “Yeah, but he’s not as cute as he thinks he is,” knowing damn well he is, but who has the time, energy and money for the chase anymore?

All of this brings me to a very interesting conversation I had via Facebook over the holiday with an old lover and friend. I should note that I was not originally going to change the names of the parties mentioned herein, but Gradon insisted that I do so, reminding me, “Bitch, we don’t have enough liability insurance for all the people that are gonna sue us over that damn blog.  Your family’s probably already gonna take everything we have and there won’t be anything left for these guys to fight over, anyway, so just change their fucking names.”

So, for the purposes hereof, I’ll use the names “Rick,” “Mark” and “Steve” (because, as all Southern men know, all gay men are named Rick, Mark or Steve, and all gay men have track lightin’) and “Tom,” “Dick” and “Harry” (because I needed a second cliché).

Facebook’s neat little chat window popped up, and it was Rick, a friend and lover from ages ago. After a few niceties were exchanged, Rick said that he’d often thought of me (NOTE: I didn’t save the chat transcript, so please pardon any poetic license, but I promise the spirit of the conversation as herein relayed is true).

“I’ve thought about you a lot through the years, too, Rick. I should have moved to Memphis with you when you invited me.” When Rick left the Bootheel to head to Tennessee, he asked me to go with him, but I chose to stay, I think for my job at the time. “But everything happens for a reason, I suppose.”

“Mark is on Facebook. He’s on my Friend list.”

Mark was another former lover whom I adored, but it was never meant to be.  We dated for a week, and after seven days, Mark told me he was in love with me.  I was definitely in major like with him, but love? I didn’t love anybody when I was 19 except Madonna.

“Really? I haven’t seen him in years. I’ll have to look him up.” (Mark is happy, healthy and partnered and grew up to be a great guy, by the way.)

“Steve is on here, too.  You remember, Steve, don’t you?”

Uhm, I thought. This is odd. Steve and I also shared a brief and sordid past. “Sure, I remember Steve. How’s he doing?”

“He’s fine. He’s on my friend list, too. So is Tom, and so is Dick and so is Harry.”

I blinked.  Dick and Harry, I definitely remembered.  Great teenage sex, but I don’t remember any sort of love connection.  Who the hell was Tom?

I paused to look at Rick’s friend list and Tom’s picture triggered my memory.  Oh, THAT Tom. Now, I remember Tom.  Tom was great in the sack and very, very sweet and I thought we would date for a long time until he did something that totally freaked me out.

He peed. Sitting down. Every time. My immature mind couldn’t face such unabashed femininity. We were men, for God’s sake! We pee standing up! We piss willy-nilly and let the urine fall where it may.  We shake it and hike our legs to put it back where it belongs.

I remember leaving his apartment and stopping at a pay phone to call my surrogate sister for some advice.

“Courtney, the strangest thing just happened.”

“You topped?”

“No, bitch. Tom peed.”

“Wow. That is totally weird.”

“Sitting down.”

She waited a beat. “Dump him.”

“Really?”

“Think about this: does he shit standing up?”

But back to my chat with Rick. “Oh. Okay,” I responded, wondering why Rick was bringing up this parade of former fag shags?

I had become extremely uncomfortable. As usual, Gradon rode to the rescue, this time by walking in the door with our youngest niece in tow. I quickly said good-bye and signed off, but didn’t stop thinking about it.

What was Rick trying to say? Had I hurt all these boys? It was never my intent, and if I did so, then I am truly sorry and I hereby apologize.

Was I young, incredibly immature and, as Aerosmith sang, F-I-N-E, fine (fucked-up, insecure, neurotic and emotional)? You betcha.

Do I regret my trysts with these guys?  No, not at all. Each was special and wonderful in its own way, like sex is supposed to be when you’re a horny country boy looking for love in all the wrong places.

And I hope everyone else had as much fun as I did.  Because I did have fun.  In the middle of all the growing up bullshit, I had a lot of fun. Hell, I’m still having fun, it’s just that I’m having fun with Gradon these days.

And I’ve learned something I didn’t know how to do then: I can laugh at myself now. In fact, I spend a lot of my time laughing at myself, because I do a lot of really dumb shit.

And, on occasion, I’ve been known to pee sitting down.

Urban life in the South can be very challenging, but I try to follow the Tao. You know, go where the Chi and my anti-depressants lead me.

But people tell me I have a bit of a temper.  My gay sister-in-law once said, “Bitch, you went straight from bitter to mean.” He’s right. And nothing brings out the foaming-at-the-mouth, jibberish-yelling, brain-eating rage zombie in me like trying to get to work. Especially considering that I’m in a transitional phase in my life and moving from workaholic to lazy asshole and no longer want to go to work.  I want to have a house full of kids dosed on Benadryl and collect funds for popping them out.  I want to be on the dole, people.  My bullshit cup runneth over.

And yet, I was in a relatively good mood yesterday morning before I pulled out of my driveway.  I’d reconnected with some old friends on Facebook (one of whom I thought was dead – talk about a happy surprise), the dogs were being relatively good, and I had meditated myself into believing that my Southeast Tour 2009 wasn’t going to be all that bad.

Then I got on the road.

Then an asshole in a 1992 Crown Vic with rims designed by H.R. Geiger didn’t want to be behind a MARTA bus anymore, so he decided he wanted to be where I was.

Then I decided to lay on my horn.

Then he decided to pull some little pussy gun and point it at me.

That was a mistake.

“Oh, HELL no!” I said, as I dug in my purse, a Marlboro dangling from the left side of my mouth, slowing just enough to stay even with his back quarter panel.  ”You have picked the WRONG FAG TO FUCK WITH!”  I found what I was looking for in my purse and accelerated ever so slightly.  ”THAT’S RIGHT. YOU CHOSE THE WRONG CURTAIN, BITCH!”

I pulled even with the asshole to see that he was still pointing his little ghetto snapper at me. I lowered my passenger window and pointed my Glock at him, and politely yelled, “I AM NOT A CHRISTIAN!  I WILL SHOOT A MOTHERFUCKER ON CHRISTMAS WEEK, BITCH!  THAT’S RIGHT!  I FUCKING HATE CHRISTMAS!  I HATE THIS CITY!  I HATE YOUR FUCKING RIMS, AND I FUCKING HATE YOU, SO COME ON, MOTHERFUCKER, LET’S DO THIS!  LET’S DO IT!  COME ON!  COME ON!”

He hit his brakes and made the next right turn.

Pussy.

If there’s a moral to this story, I suppose it’s that one should be careful on whom one pulls a gun.

One never knows how pissed off the faggot is behind curtain No. 3.

Happy holidays.

Ah, the holidays. Chestnuts roasting on an open fire, and all that shit.

Not for me.

Sometime today, tomorrow or Thursday, I will begin a race worthy of “It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World” through the Southeast in an attempt to spend a few hours with all of the people most important in my life.  My trek will take me through Georgia, Alabama, Mississippi, Arkansas, Missouri and Tennessee before returning to Georgia late Sunday.  Depending on traffic (which will absolutely fucking suck, I will spend 24-30 hours of the coming days sitting in my car, alternately screaming at some idiot cruising along at 35 m.p.h. in the left lane and crying in frustration.

At the end of each leg of the trip, I will get to spend a few waking hours with family and friends to show them that I love them and give them fabulous shit to show them that I love them enough to make up for not being around the rest of the year.

The first leg of the trip will take me from Atlanta to Jackson, Mississippi. It’s normally a 7-hour drive; however, this week, it will be a 15-hour drive, with 8 hours of said time spend trying to get out of Atlanta.  Troy State the Terrier and Levi Fly the Jack Russell will be with me, and they both think they’re better drivers than I am (they are, but don’t tell them that), and Levi Fly doesn’t travel well, which means I will arrive at my mother-in-laws covered in dog hair, slobber and vomit. At least the vomit left that Troy State the Terrier doesn’t lick off before trying to French kiss me.

Christmas morning, I’ll get to watch Gradon’s family open their presents, including my two nieces, both of whom will be somewhat disappointed with the thousands of dollars we’ve all spent on them and the Tiffany jewelry we bought them. Due to lack of sleep and everyone asking me to fix their computer, I will finally snap and yell at the girls and tell them next year, I’ll get them both clothes from Family Dollar. The girls will cry. Gradon will yell at me. Gradon’s mother will yell at him.

Norman Rockwell never painted a picture so grand.

Around noon, I will head north along I-55 to Caruthersville to spend a few hours with my family, where I will hear how much my cousins do for my grandparents and be reminded at every turn (literally and figuratively) of what a fuck-up I was 20 years ago.  At some point, my grandfather will begin to discuss who is going to get what when he dies, my uncle will begin to discuss politics and American HIV/AIDS policy, and I’ll get a migraine.  My family will, no doubt, be unimpressed with their carefully selected gifts, and my grandmother will keep trying to slip me a twenty so I will go somewhere and eat something, because she’s convinced that I’m completely broke and don’t have the gas money to make it home.  I will become incredibly insecure and try to justify my life, but will sound like a horrible bore, instead.

If I’m lucky, I’ll get to see my surrogate sister Courtney and my friend Dana.  No complaints, there.  That will be the highlight of my year (until December 28, when I see Lady Gaga – sorry, girls, you just don’t compare with Gaga).

After a day-and-a-half spent with my family, I’ll be back on the road to Georgia, where I hope to arrive some time before dark.  I will arrive tired, stinky, and emotionally and mentally spent.

I won’t want to see the inside of a car until April or May.

On Monday, people will ask me how my holiday was, and I will look at them as if they’re batty.  ”It was a bunch of yellow stripes on gray pavement.  Lots and lots and lots of yellow stripes.  Thirteen hundred miles of gray pavement.”

I hope the rest area poets brought their best this year, and I promise to post pictures on Facebook of all the lot lizards I meet along the way.

You might be amazed to learn how packed a gay bar is on Christmas Eve, but there are a lot of lonely gay men and women looking to drown their sorrows on Christmas and every other day of the year.  Mine is, by and large, a lonely tribe, but some of us are very, very fortunate.  I’m one of them.  My last lonely Christmas was December 25, 1997.

I wasn’t alone at my Christmas Eve pity party – there were thousands of guys wandering New Orleans’ Fruit Loop – that’s the group of gay bars that run along St. Ann and Bourbon – and everyone was having a gay old time.  Besides, we knew we weren’t the first…

… last night, Prince spent another lonely Christmas.

… Elvis had a blue one.

… last Christmas, some guy gave George Michaels’ heart away.

… Santa Judy (Garland, that is) wished for some asshole to have himself a merry little Christmas.

… and Dolly had a Hard Candy Christmas.

You get the point.

We were all drunk, and snow was falling in all the gay bars in the French Quarter that night.  As a Christmas gift, all the dealers were offering special pricing, and everyone was taking advantage of it.

We drank. We snorted. We sniffed. We laughed. A few cried. Mascara, sweat and tears ran together. A lot of us sang and everyone danced.

And we toasted.  We toasted to Santa Judy.  We toasted to Santa Diana, who had died during Southern Decadence the previous August. We toasted to Santa Madonna and sang “Santa Baby.” We toasted to Santa Claus, the Great Gay Christmas Bear.

At some point, the party died down and a hundred or so of us ended up at Rawhide 2010, the famous dive bar near the end of St. Ann.  The homeless drag queens of the Quarter had taken over the place and were doing impromptu numbers on the pool tables, dodging the lights and spilling drinks on the felt.  We all lodged cigarettes in our lips and cheered them on.

Although the bars of New Orleans never close, we all eventually ran out of cigarettes, drugs, money or a combination of the three, and walked out together into the morning light.  We stumbled down to Bourbon Street and stared toward Canal Street and, without saying anything, began walking as a group in that direction.  Imagine it…

…the tweaks.
…the twinks.
…the freaks.
…the queens.
…the bears.
…the leather boys.
…the prepsters.
…the trannies.
…the hustlers.

All together, walking down the middle of Bourbon Street on Christmas morning, toward some unknown destination.

It was too quiet; the quietest I’d ever heard the Quarter.  Still buzzing, I began to sing, but I don’t know why my addled brain picked this particular Eurythmics song…

Six o’clock in the morning
And I’m stepping through the streets
The pavement’s cold and empty
Got the blues beneath my feet.
Big old sun is rising up
So elegant and thin
Another day is over
So a new day will begin
And the word said hey…
It’s a brand new day

Oh baby baby baby
I dreamed about you
Please tell me tell me tell me
What I’ve seen could not be true
You have taken my existance
You have filled it full of stones
You have turned into a stranger
Now I need to walk alone

But I won’t be sad
But I won’t be destroyed
No, I won’t be sad
I won’t be destroyed…

And the word said
Hey… it’s a brand new day.

I didn’t realize it, but we’d stopped. Everyone was staring at me. It struck me that I didn’t know any of these guys. And they were just looking at me.

I turned to walk away, completely embarrassed.

And they began to clap. And whistle. And yell.

I turned around, laughed, curtsied, then wandered away.

It was the only true “movie moment” of my entire life.

Seven days later, at 2:30 a.m. on January 1, 1998, I met Gradon. At Rawhide 2010, of all places.

I’ve never spent a lonely Christmas since. I thank God for that every year.

And I thank God every day for the wonderful surprises life brings.

Hey… it’s a brand new day.

I hate self-discovery when it comes at the hands of someone else.  I think it ruins the entire point of the “self” in “self-discovery” for someone to tell one something about oneself that one doesn’t already know, which is what happened to me this week.  I had an epiphany shoved down my throat, and I fucking choked on it.

Apparently, much to my shock and dismay and several other cliches, I am a very, very tacky drunk.  Here’s what I was told last Monday morning:

“Max, everyone loves you.  Everyone that meets you just adores you.  You’re charming and funny and smart and brilliant.  And then you drink.  And everyone hates you.  Hates. You.  Absolutely, positively, fucking hates you.  You are a tacky, evil, loud, sloppy, catty, bitchy drunk, and people don’t want to be around you anymore.”

My boss was not happy.  At all.  In fact, I thought I was about to be fired, and it was only by the grace of God that I wasn’t.

But, I could not believe what I was being told.  I am now, and have always been, the life of the party.  There is no party with the great and powerful MAXINE.  Until that very moment, I always thought that I was a very witty and funny drunk – Noel Coward, Tennessee Williams, Truman Capote, Janis Joplin, Tallulah Bankhead and Oscar Wilde all rolled into one tasty, overstuffed burrito.

Then, it hit me.  Noel Coward, Tennessee Williams, Truman Capote, Janis Joplin, Tallulah Bankhead and Oscar Wilde were all notoriously sloppy, mean drunks.

Shit.

I spent the rest of this week reflecting over the past 22 years of raising hell, and realized that my boss was probably right.

It became apparent to me that this pattern of poor behavior has always been present.  I don’t drink often anymore – almost never, in fact, but when I tie one on, I tie a double-fucking knot.  I’ve never understood why anyone would drink without wanting to get shitfaced.  It’s like saying, “I’m a social crack-smoker.”  I’m not a social drinker.

I’m a social drunk.

Here are a few examples…

I got so drunk at a party once that someone had to drive me home while Gradon stayed behind with our friends.  The friend driving me home had never been to my house, and when he asked me where I lived, I replied, “Ga-ga, ra-ra, ma-ma, blah,” which, if you’re not Lady Gaga, in drunk-speak was my address, but was unintelligible to sober ears.  I woke up a few hours later, naked, in a strange bathroom, my head soaking wet from putting it in the toilet to throw up.  I finally made it home to a locked door and a really pissed-off husband.

I’m banned for life from ever seeing The B-52’s in concert.  The last time we went, Fred Schneider said, apparently in jest, “Y’all can dance naked, if you wanna.”  I took it as an instructional note to the audience and before anyone could stop me, I was standing in the middle of Chastain Park Ampitheatre in my boxers, a bottle of wine in one hand and a bottle of Bacardi in the other, yelling at the band, “What’s that on your head????”

I tried to walk home from an Aerosmith show at the Pyramid in Memphis once.  Some cops picked me up on the bridge and took me back, but not before I threw up in the back seat.  I doubt they ever got the smell of Keystone – the bottled beer in a can – out of the backseat of their patrol car.

The last time I saw AC/DC, my friends had to lean me up against the back wall of the Memphis Coliseum because I was too drunk to stand up on my own.  I threw up on the four rows of people in front of me.  Then, I laughed and drank some more whiskey.

One Thanksgiving night, Gradon and I decided to go out with our friends, and I told him I probably wasn’t going to drink.  He got pissy and said, “I guess we’ll be home by 9:30, then.”  I thought, well, I’ll just show him.  And I did.  I drank half a bottle of Crown Royal, went to the bar and proclaimed that I was the hottest faggot up in there, picked a fight with a guy, got thrown out and was home by 10:30.  The next morning, I had to take my dearly departed dachshund, Spartacus Jones, to the vet for his shots.  I thought everything was going fine, until we pulled onto our street on the way home, hit a bump, and I threw up all over Sparty, the truck, me, the windshield (they should really put wipers on the inside for such occasions) and everything else.  Sparty and I had to stand in the front yard in front of God and everybody while Gradon sprayed us down with the hose before he’d let us in the house.  Then, he made me clean up the truck.

And then there’s New Orleans.  I won’t even write about how drunk I lived in New Orleans, but suffice to say, it’s a city where they serve booze at Dunkin Donuts, and I was often happy about that.

At the firm Christmas party last Saturday night, I drank enough gin to qualify me for outpatient surgery.  I then proceeded to…

…loudly discuss sex, politics, religion, business and money.

…tell an attendee that my wedding ring cost more than her hovel of a house.

…bitterly complain to the waiter that there weren’t any burgers or tater tots on the menu, and could he run to Sonic Drive-In for me?

…flirt with every cute married man in the room (totaling one). And his wife.

…tell everyone I was sick to death of hearing about Tiger Woods.

…tell everyone I was sick to death of hearing about their fucking kids.

…tell everyone I was sick to death of hearing about Tiger Woods’ fucking kids.

…respond to everyone who said, “Merry Christmas,” by frowning and saying, “Happy Hanukkah,” even though I’m not Jewish.

…discuss fashion by telling an attorney I wouldn’t be caught burned at the stake in what she was wearing, but that was okay, since I didn’t have to shop at Lane Bryant, and why didn’t she just say the hell with it and wear a Snuggie?

…when asked by an attorney’s wife when I knew I was gay, respond, “Oh, about the same time I learned about anal bleaching.”

…tell an attorney that if he said another bad word about the New Orleans Saints, I’d take another attorney’s Payless Jimmy Choo knock-offs and stick one of them in his forehead.

Gradon said that for me, I was on my very best behavior.  At least security didn’t get involved this time, like they usually do.

So, I find myself at a crossroads in my life, and I suppose it’s time to take another step down the road that leads toward full adulthood.

Dammit.

Freud wrote that most gay men have a Peter Pan complex, fascinated with youth and clinging to it with everything in their being.  I guess the old perv was right. Never-Never-Land has been a blast.  Alas, it’s time to leave the Lost Boys to their own devices and tell Wendy I won’t be showing up at her window anymore, asking her to sneak out with me for a night on the town.

As George Michael, the ultimate Peter Pan, once wrote, “My friends got their ladies/They’re all having babies/But I just want to have some fun.”

Ah, George.  I guess since you’re a multi-millionaire, you can stay with the Lost Boys.  I’m gonna grow up and go home now.  It seems I’ve had enough fun for everyone.

That’s not actually me as a kid, but it may as well have been.  I actually did have socks that color in the 80s.

I also had a rainbow suit.  Hand to God.  It was a matching shirt and short set made of rainbow candy-striped material that my mom bought for me (“Vertical stripes, Darling, so you don’t look as fat”), and I think I wore it two or three times a week.  It had elastic in the shorts, so it fit my fat ass rather comfortably.  I loved my rainbow suit.

I hadn’t thought about it in years until a friend reminded me of it this week.  I got it around the same time I started doing my own laundry – I guess I was 12 or so – and since I thought you could wash everything together on cold with a little detergent and bleach, it wasn’t long before the rainbow started to fade.  I didn’t care.  I kept wearing it.

I looked like a younger, gayer Marlon Brando.  If that’s possible.

When the rainbow suit finally started to show holes from too many washings, too much stretching at the seams and too many times being shoved in the dirt, I carefully placed it in a shoebox and buried it in the backyard.  I held a funeral for it – I think Lee and Jeri Kay were there – as I looked on in my Swatch sunglasses, wishing I had a veil.  Or at least a really good John Hughes movie soundtrack.

The reason that I bring up the rainbow suit is that my friend who reminded me of it, my surrogate big sister, in fact, also reminded me that until Gradon, I’d been on my own for a very, very long time and generally making a mess of things.  And notwithstanding my last post, it wasn’t entirely my dad’s fault.

I tend to hold my mom up on a pedestal.  To me, she was a god.  It’s easy to deify someone who died when I was 15 – I didn’t really get to know her as an adult, which means I was only partially aware of any faults she may have had.  I now realize that I have spent most of my life emulating her in nearly every way; so much so, that I doubt I can fix it.

I’ve spent the last few days thinking about the lessons I learned from my mother, and I’d like to share them with you.  Some are wonderful advice; some, not so much…

1. Family is not important.
2. Friends are temporary.  Don’t get attached.  Use them to your advantage and move on before they hurt you.
3. Money and status are the most important things in life.  All of one’s self-worth should be tied to what one is wearing, what one is driving and the color of one’s American Express card.
4. If you have good manners and great taste, you can fit in anywhere.
5. Never buy into fads – fads are for people with no taste of their own.  Only buy the classics.
6. Never accept anything less than perfection from yourself or others.
7. Bipolar disorder can be fun if you have good credit.
8. Never let anyone see you reading trash.  They’ll think you’re common.
9. Never let anyone see you reading Vonnegut.  They’ll think you’re affected.
10. Music is extremely important to everything.  It’s the universal language, based on mathematics.  Even aliens can understand it.  It is mythical and beautiful and in order to truly enjoy it, you have to learn about all of the classics.  No, not Bach and those assholes.  The Beatles, the Stones, Janis, Patsy, Memphis Minnie, BB King, Elvis (Presley and Costello), Little Richard and the entire Motown canon.
11. If you know pop culture, you can have a conversation with anyone about anything, and they will like you.
12. Children make great accessories.  In order to succeed in business, you must have at least one, but two is the optimum number.
13. Golf is extremely important to business.  If you hope to succeed in business, you must play golf.
14. Single malt.
15. Use your Southern charm to disarm those around you.  Never let them see the carving knife you’re holding behind your back.
16. Fat is the same as tacky.  They are both shameful in the eyes of God.
17. Cooking is overrated.
18. Eating is overrated, too.
19. Never let anyone see you cry, unless you can use it to your advantage.
20. Love is a fairy tale.  It doesn’t exist.

I agree with a lot of her advice (I still role my eyes when I see someone reading Vonnegut – who the hell are you trying to impress?), but so much of what she taught me is just… well… fucked.

Unfortunately, I drank the Kool-Aid.  It was grape flavored and bitter, but I slurped it down and like the rest of the Monkees, now I’m a believer.

I think about how I measure the success of my life and it’s all about money and status.  I don’t have any other ruler by which to compare.  I see my friends who have kids, and I get it – y’all are raising the world’s next generation.  Someday, you’ll probably be grandparents.  Everything you do is (or should be) for your kids.

Gradon and I have 4 dogs and 1 cat and although I love them all very dearly, I don’t have to worry about a college fund for them or getting calls from school telling me that Troy State the Terrier has been in another fight or that Levi isn’t progressing very well in Social Studies.

So, what’s left?  I go to work.  I work really, really hard.  I earn money.  I come home.  I spend money.  I invest money and earn more money.  I spend more money.  I sleep.  I get up.  I got to work.  I earn money.  I spend money.  I sleep.  I go to work.

Please, somebody tell me there’s more to life than what the Godfathers sang about – Birth. School. Work. Death.

I realize this is not very politically correct of me, especially for a gay man, but I am pro-life (please note: just because I’m pro-life doesn’t mean I think everyone has to be – it’s my belief, but it doesn’t have to be everyone’s belief).  I think life is the most precious think in the universe.

I’ve seen too many lives end in my 37 years.  I’ve seen the energy we all hold leave a person’s body at their moment of death, and I can’t believe for one minute that it’s all random, that we’re not meant to be.

And I don’t want to think that I’m meant to be here to accumulate stuff.  I really don’t believe that, should I ever meet the personification of God, he’ll say, “Congrats, dude.  You died with the most toys.  You win.”

There has to be more than the pot of gold at the end of this faded rainbow.

If anyone knows what that is, I’d be more than happy to listen.

Until then, I have to go to work.

I can’t remember the change, but the dollar amount was $15,863.00.

It was my 18th birthday present from my dad – a bill for $15,863 and change for raising me from the age of 15 on.  He woke me up that morning, and I thought, like a jackass, that he was going to wish me happy birthday and give me a little talk about “being a man now.”  Instead, he threw an envelope at me and said, “Have this in my account by noon” and walked out.

Inside the envelope was an itemization for what it cost to raise a fucked-up teenager from the day his mom commits suicide until the night before he turns 18.  My father had kept a complete accounting of every penny he’d spent on me over three years – dental appointments, food, rent (mom’s death had left him debt-free), gas money, clothes, school stuff – everything (I had already paid for my mother’s funeral when I was 15, which my grandparents were very surprised to learn a few years ago, since they had also helped my dad pay for that service).  It was all written in his psychotically neat hand on notebook paper in blue ink and totaled at the bottom.

$15,863.__ [sic]

My 18th birthday was also the day I received access to my trust fund – the life insurance my mother had left in my name, which was a slight I don’t think my father ever got over – and he expected me to pay him back for raising the boy who, at that time, was his only son.

I did.  When I went to the bank to get my money, I made sure that my dad got what he wanted.  In retrospect, had I been a stronger person, or had I been the man I am today, I would have written on the bill, “Please file suit for collection of this amount, you gargantuan, alcoholic asshole.  P.S. – Go fuck yourself with a flagpole.”

But, I was 18, and he was my dad.  At that point, I could never imagine a time that my dad and I would be estranged, much less that he and I would go nearly 20 years without speaking, so I paid the bill.  He’s probably glad we didn’t enter into a payment plan, since I was flat-ass broke less than a year later.

At least I can say I don’t owe my dad a goddamn thing for raising me.

I know I wasn’t an easy kid to raise, and I realize that I was always a major embarrassment to my father while I was growing up (let’s face it, y’all, I came out of the womb with jazz hands, one holding a Marlboro and the other a tony cocktail), and there was that time we got into a fist-a-cuffs when I was 17 and I broke a few of his ribs (he had it coming), so I really shouldn’t be bitter.

But I was. And I am.

When I flunked out of college, Dad quickly informed me that I couldn’t move back into my childhood home with him, his new wife and his newly adopted son (I wasn’t invited to the wedding).  We pretty much stopped speaking after that.

But, again, he was my dad, and I still wanted him to be proud of me, and I wanted him to love me.  I have never, ever admitted this to myself or, obviously, anyone else before, but I joined the Air Force solely because I thought it might finally make my dad, as well as my grandparents, proud of me.  It had nothing to do with being a patriot (even though I am) or serving my country (still proud to have done so).  My motivation was simply to be loved and to hear from my family that they were proud of me.

And it worked, at least for a little while.  My father and I briefly reconciled toward the end of my tour, but after I came home, we got into a fight about (what else?) money, and that was it.  From the time I was 22 until my 37th birthday this year, I didn’t hear from him – no birthday or Christmas cards, no phone calls, no fuck-you-very-much, nothing.

Then, my grandmother ran into him at a restaurant one night, and he apparently went on and on about how he didn’t know why I’d cut him out of my life, what he’d done wrong, didn’t know anything about my life and would “really like to see me one last time.”  I heard similar stories from other people in Caruthersville (it’s a short grapevine, but it’s really thick).

Cue guilt trip, stage right.  My grandmother Marcelle (with whom I’ve only in the past couple of years begun to get along with) started guilting the living shit out of me to see my dad.  She brought it up every single time we spoke on the phone, which was at least once a week.  The woman wore me down like a No. 2 pencil.

Then my grandfather had a heart attack and I chose to spend my 38th birthday in Caruthersville so that I could see him.  My grandmother also convinced me to call my dad and see him while I was there.

I tried to set up a meeting with him at the casino in town – you know, somewhere public with lots of exits – instead, he showed up at my grandmother’s house where my maternal family was gathering for an impromptu dinner.  I answered the door and he walked in and said, “Hey, is @^*(&$ [my former name] here?”

“Hi, I’m Max,” I responded, as I shook his hand.

“Nice to meet you, Max. Is @^*(&$ here?” he asked again.

“That’s me, Dad.  I’m Max.”

He looked at me like I was a Democrat at an NRA convention.  His wife, Clemmie, finally leaned over to him and said, “That’s your son, Paul.”

“Oh. I didn’t recognize you.”

“Yeah, I’ve lost some weight.”

“And you’re old.”

“I hear that happens.”

He was bombed.  Absolutely fucking smashed.  I don’t know how in the hell he was standing upright.  He said he and Clemmie were on their way out for dinner to celebrate their anniversary, and they thought they’d stop by to say hello on their way out.

I was fucking mortified.  I’ve been as drunk as he was several times in my life, but never without the involvement of tequila.

I said it was nice to see them and that I’d see him at the boat the next day.

Once they left, I apologized to my family.  “Sorry about that.”

“About what?” My grandmother Marcelle asked.

“About him showing up over here so drunk.”

“What do you mean?  He’s always like that.”

Oh, Christ, I thought.

The next day, my dad called and asked if I could just come by his house instead of meeting him at the casino.  I begrudgingly agreed – I really had no desire to see the house where I’d grown up, full of memories of my mother and bad memories of my teen years.

I stopped at the liquor store on my way there to get him some beer and myself a pint of rum, and we sat in his workshop and talked for a couple of hours.

My dad spent the time covering the following topics:

1. How proud he is of Andrew, his adopted son.
2. God, I sure was a fuck-up growing up.
3. The liberals are destroying the world.
4. He’s really proud of Andrew, and putting him through college, paying his rent and bought him a car.
5. Do I remember what I fuck-up I was?
6. Goddamn liberals.
7. Andrew may be the second coming of Christ.
8. I may have been the gay Anti-Christ.
9. Speaking of gay, let’s bond by allowing him to tell me every time he beat up a faggot.  No, really, Max, you’ll get a kick out of all these stories.  There are a lot of ‘em.
10. Sure is a good thing Andrew didn’t turn out like you.

I kept adding more rum to my Coke, until there wasn’t any Coke.  Or ice.  I should have just been slamming from the pint.

Dad never asked me about my life.  He never asked how I’d met my partner of (at the time) 11 years, how I fed and clothed myself, if I was healthy, wealthy or wise.

He didn’t give a shit.

Eventually, my ego – or the rum – got the better of me, and I covered the following topics:

1. I told him that I really didn’t care to hear any more fag bashing stories and that if he and his buddies had run into me and my fag posse (Gradon, Clint and Clarie), we would have kicked the living shit out of them and left a Louboutin sticking out of his fucking forehead for good fucking measure.
2. It must be embarrassing to know that your fucked up faggot son now makes more money in two months than you make all fucking year, and yes, my Rolex is real.
3. It must also fry your beer-battered brain to know that your queer kid did every goddamn bit of it without any help from you.  He got himself educated, found a life partner, lives in a gorgeous goddamn house with an art collection that rivals the MoMA and has a life filled with love and laughter.
4. You’ve sat in this house, rotting for the last 20 years, but I’ve fucking lived!  I’ve had adventures that would curl your hair and straighten your toes.  I’ve been places you can’t imagine and seen things you can’t even read about.
5. It’s a real fucking shame you’ve missed all that, and it’s an even bigger shame that now that I’m an adult and really coming into myself and my best years, you’re going to miss that, too.
6. I’m glad Andrew didn’t turn out like me, too.  That would have meant you were a total asshole, instead of just an asshole to me.

I don’t think he heard a word I said.  When I told him I had to go, he only wanted to see my car.  He said it was nice, and I left.

Thankfully, my surrogate sister Courtney got me really, really drunk that night, but that meeting with my father opened flood gates for nightmares that continue to this day.  At least once a week, I dream about high school and how bad it was, how bad he was and how bad I was.

I’ve spent the last 20 years running from the boy I was, going so far as to change my entire name and doing my damnedest to become a different person.  In many ways, I’ve succeeded, and in others I’ve failed miserably.  I’ve learned that what happens to you when you’re a kid shapes you for the rest of your life, no matter what.

I don’t think I’ll ever talk to my dad again, at least I hope I won’t.  I’d really like to close that chapter of my life for good – it’s what this posting has been about – I’ve been writing it and re-writing it in my head for months.

I’ve also decided that Gradon and I are going to revise our estate documents next month.  I want to make absolutely sure that if I get hit by a MARTA bus, Gradon gets everything and that my father gets absolutely nothing.  Nada.  Zero.  Michael Jackson and I agree on at least this much.

*****

I don’t know what happened to that bill for $15,863.  I’d kill for it, though.  I would trade my entire art and memorabilia collection – the painting by Grace Slick, the Rinards, the James Dean painting, the autographed Janis Joplin album, my Prince tambourine, the Icart, the albums signed by Annie Lennox, the Cadmus, hell, I’d probably cash in my Berkshire Hathaway and Apple stock – everything – just to have that bill framed and hanging above my mantel.

I spent so many years trying to forget who I was and where I came from, and now it is so very important to me that I remember everything.

Otherwise, how will I ever become the man I need to be?

Apparently, we’re celebrating National Asshole Day here in Georgia today.

I learned this on my way to work this morning, when I discovered that I was sharing the road with every asshole in the fucking state.  People were driving worse than normal through the ghetto, and that’s really saying something.

I realize that it’s extremely difficult to fill a chipped Lee Press-On Nail, scratch your weave, text, mix a margarita, beat on your kids sitting the backseat, text your girlfriends and jam out to the radio, all while managing to simultaneously steer and press the accelerator, and God knows I admire your temerity, but don’t get pissed at me when I look at you like you’re an asshole when you swerve at my beautiful little Swedish car and nearly run my ass off into the Fourth Apostolic Church of Jesus Was Born and Died For Your Sins and Rose Again Because He is the Alpha and the Omega Bread of Life Congregation Church parking lot.

No, I’ve never seen the First, Second or Third iterations of this meeting hall, nor do I care to.

Obviously, I was pissy by the time I got to work.

I stepped onto an elevator with 400 other people and pressed the button for my floor and just as the doors were about to close, a little woman shoved her Avon Calling tote through the doors and hobbled on, forcing all of us even closer together.  She then chose to look at me and say, “You could have held the door.”

I wasn’t even close to the door.

Having determined the holiday at hand, I wanted to be in the spirit of things.  “You could have showered.”

People gasped.  I guess they didn’t get the memo about National Asshole Day, either.

Later, an attorney called me and said, “I need help with this lease.”

I said, “Yeah, well, I need medical grade marijuana, so I guess we’re both fucked,” and hung up.

A homeless guy asked me for a cigarette, and I told him McDonald’s was four blocks down Peachtree Street, on the left.  He repeated his request, and I said, “Look, go get a fucking job, then you can have all the cigarettes you can fucking buy, just like me.”  I then checked the time on my Rolex, just for effect, and walked away.

On my way home, I’m hoping to run over a few small children.

Wish me luck.

Or don’t.  Go to hell.  Whatever.