Hey all! Well, I survived the makeover and the early Thanksgiving dinner at Mom’s. We are now relaxing a beautiful hotel in downtown San Antonio, and in the morning we will drive to Chris’ Mom’s. Then on to Cressie and Austin’s Thanksgiving evening. That is a WHOLE LOT of turkey…

Well, I pulled up as stealth as you can in a uhaul and redid my Mom’s living room while she was at work. Mom had asked me if I would help her with it, but I was still worried she would hurt my feelings somehow. (My Mom ain’t exactly sensitive.) I took down her sacred life-size talking Elvis, her collection of unusual beer cans, her dancing M&M toy, her vinyl Pillsbury Dough Boy, etc. and put them in her room… which is a crazy mishmash of all her other similar treasures. (OK, I will admit that talking Elvis was a long ago gift from me.) I had won an antique oak folding gateleg table on Ebay, and stopped in a small town on the way to my Mom’s to pick it up. The table was a beaut and turned out to be the real focal point of the room. (In fact, it folded out so generously, we had dinner on it!) All my planning and coordinating panned out, and I be damned if that old living room didn’t look sweet when I was done. The best part… Mom loved it!

I know it sounds cheesy and you would have to know me to understand it, but the artist in me really is in love with beauty. I feel bruised without it. I sincerely started out re-doing my Mom’s living room out of kindness because she had asked me to, but after growing up in that ugly house with so much heartbreak and violent memories, decorating the living room in Mom’s old house gifted me with some surprising healing and satisfaction.

I still drove out of that polluted, nitty-gritty, shit hole of a town like a bat out of hell… just like I did when I was 16… but this time, I didn’t burn rubber. I just cruised. In a hurry.

I would never go back to that town if my Mom didn’t live there. I have (mostly) forgiven my Mom, and I do love her very much. She has a cruel streak and beat her children in ways that would have gotten her arrested, but I know she loved me as best as she could. I see she is bitter for her own reasons, and I understand her better now that I am an adult. Still, I am not going to pretend my childhood was anything other than what it was. Yeah, I didn’t get enough love, but that’s mine now. I believe I am making up for it with my own life. I try to love as best as I can too, but we are all human, afterall.

Anyhooo… tomorrow… Christine’s biggo family! It’s only been a little over a year that I have been allowed in her Mother’s home. The holidays. Joy.

But for NOW… I got a bucket of iced beer, room service, and a pretty girl on my bed.

Happy thanksgiving, everyone!

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I took my wife out to dinner. That babygrrl ate like it was her birthday or sumpin’!!!

See if this makes you hungry — Chris had seared scallops wrapped in bacon with a sweet chutney and crispy fried spinach, a salad with fresh mozzarella and tomatoes drizzled with pesto and balsamic vinegar, two biggo cold water Australian rock lobster tails, and a huge baked potato. I had lamb chops with mint jelly, and chocolate cake with a molten center.

Our evening out was really nice, romantic, and we had a chance to talk and touch base. Even though we spend most of our time together, seems like we are always crazy busy doing something or another. I so enjoy Chris’ company when we have time to relax and appreciate one another. Chris is not only my beloved; she is my best friend.

Happy birthday, sweetheart. I love you so…

Earlier in the day, we wrapped holiday presents. Good laaaawd… we wrapped and wrapped and tied bows and stuffed bags and boxes in a fury, with tape and scraps and ribbons falling all over the floor! Then we arranged pretty packages in piles under the tree, stacked other gifts to ship to faraway friends, and made a seperate pile of gifts to deliver to our families when we make our turkey day treks next week. Now all we gotta do is Christmas cards. Scribble, scribble, scribble, lick stamps, and I am DONE. When everyone else is going crazy in December, I’ll be all chilly-chill.

I have a truck load of stuff to take to my Mom’s. Her house has never had any style whatsoever, and I am going to re-do her living room while she is at work. She really doesn’t have much, and in the scheme of raising four hellions, beauty was never a priority. I have been collecting things for a few months to coordinate, and I think it is going to look really nice. I had my my upholstery guy cover some furniture, and my seamstress made curtains and pillows that match. Got her a really nice beveled mirror and sconces, new lamps, end tables. I am planning to win a bid on Ebay for an antique hall table that I will pick up in Houston on my way to her house. I hope my poor ol’ Mom appreciates my effort and doesn’t change it around until after I leave. LoL

Cheers to everyone, and best wishes for a sweet Thanksgiving to you all.

PS. EDIT AND EYE ROLL - My delicate flower hollered at me from her computer across the room when she read my post, saying I made it sound like she ate more than I did. Well, you know, fat Daddy just had salad and a few diet crackers… LOL Not really. I shared her scallops and also had mozzarella. OK??? Happy now, baby?

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Mmmm. Hmmm. Fat Daddy Rhon the Cherub wearing the Santa hat… gonna find out who been naughty or nice. Yeahhhh… I sho’ got some switches for the naughty little grrrls.

See, I have carted around the same ol’ raggedy-ass hot glued Christmas decorations in broke ass old boxes for like 20 years. Why? Because I am a cheap-ass, and also because I am kinda sentimetal.

Every year, Christine’s round lil’ face lights up and she says, “Hey, can we get new stuff for the tree?” But Daddy says, “We already have stuff for the tree, baby” and then my babygrrl makes The Bratty Face. (You know how she do.) And then I huff and puff out in my crowded storage shed, and soon all that crap gets strewn over the living room, and I get annoyed as hell with the task of it.

This year, there is a 700 pound bed frame blocking my storage room, and my garage is a mess. My pinchfist ways are but a feather on the scale with my fear and loathing of that garage. So… embracing my duty as an American consumer, I tied some reindeer horns on the pickup truck, put on my camouflage pants and my backwards cap, and over the fields I go… laughing all the way. I went hunting for holiday bargains!

My inner Liberace was free… free at last. With ultra-faggy, florid thoughts of rococo and sugar plums dancing in my head, I found the prettiest things — gold plastic feathers and sparkly white faux pine cones, and a homosexual Santa dressed in what looks like virgin’s wedding gown. I found these little turtledoves with fluffy white feathers shoved up their asses, shimmering glass icicles, and rolls of gilded ribbon. Do you know they now have these pre-lit trees that fold up like an umbrella?

Okay, I will admit it! I love Christmas! Everything resplendent with gold and silver, opulent to my queer eye. Yes! I love giving gifts! I even buy Christmas gifts in July. I love making a list and checking it twice! I even love Elvis singing Blue Christmas, and Dolly Parton singing about hard candy. I love my Mom’s fruitcake, soaked with so much liquor; you need to chase it with salt and a lime. I love the the auto-justification for sheer ornamentation, the flam, the glam, all the rich jewel tones of the holidays. Eggnog don’t taste so much like raw eggs when served in a sliver-plated punch bowl, now does it? Mostly, I love the cheesy notion of good tidings of great joy.

(Bite me, fuckas. I said I was sentimental and trynna to make merry over here.)

Yes, I just wanted to announce that there is once again happy sappy shiny crap strewn all over the living room, And it is beginning to look a lot Christmas!

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There is a documentary on at the moment called “No Secret Anymore” that tells the incredible story of two of my heroes, Del Martin and Phyllis Lyon. They are a Butch-Femme couple in their 80’s, and they have been together since before most of us were even born. They still live in the same house in the Castro that they have shared since 1953, and they are still in love.

When they were a young couple, Phyllis and Del were starved for a community of like-minded folks, so these two brave pioneers set out to create much needed community… during the Mcarthy era. In doing so, they literally changed the world for the rest of us.

And they never stopped. They were there during the women’s movement, Harvey Milk, all of it. They even got married last year during San Francisco’s renegade wedding blitz at City Hall.

I met this couple once. Ordinary and extraordinary women, those two. My hat’s off to two warriors of love. They did it TOGETHER.

Click here to read about the documentary, now showing on the Sundance Channel.

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Me n’ Miz Chris. Photo by Seth.

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Okay, I know some folks who didn’t get to make it down to Big D this past weekend are wondering what they missed. Now that I have had some sleep, I will fill ya’ll in.

I am left with a pile of chairs that didn’t survive, way too much cheese, two floating kegs, a buncha used espresso pods, and mattresses in every room big enough to hold one. And incredible gifts! And wonderful memories. And my Butch fort/studio out back now smells sweetly of girl.

Michael came in early and helped me get the backyard ready. I set out over 30 chairs, and couldn’t even imagine the cool peeps from across the continent that would soon be filling them. My Chris was off on airport runs all of Friday, while I had some help preparing the feast. Cressie made 20 pounds of her yummy BBQ brisket dripping with hickory sauce, and we had also had gulf shrimp in garlic, several kinds of gourmet sausages, southern potato salad, baked beans, corn on the cob, queso and chips, rolls, deviled eggs, celery and pimiento, and cherry tomatoes stuffed with chives and cream cheese.

Out back, we had two iced kegs, ice chests full of sodas, and a full bar, marachinos and all. Fisto started making Dirty White Mothers that had a few Femmes hollering before too long. As the drinks got stronger and darker with rum, the name changed to Dirty Motherfuckers, and then …Dirty Assholes. I caught a glimpse of Jetboy rimming his glass. All through the evening, hollerin’ and whoopin’ would rise up as more old friends made it in, and a round of excited hugs would ensue.

A few of our Femme friends had to make an entrance, of course. When Medusa’s flaming red head passed through the French doors, patio furniture suddenly flew off the deck and landed in the bushes. No one was seriously injured. Ivee and PapaC came around the side of the house, with GIRLINA following! Gee was a special surprise guest and even Butches squealed at the sight of her sweet face.

We stayed up as late as everyone could tolerate, laughing, drinkin’, smokin’, talking, listening to everyone’s favorite old songs, dancing, and acting crazy. The vibe on Friday night was YAHOO! A great group hug.

On Saturday, the beautiful Femmes went off to lunch. Left to our own devices, the Butches began devising various evil scenarios as we huddled over our sandwiches on my deck. We thought of doing a panty raid and hanging the girls panties from my awnings, but common sense (and intense fear) prevailed and we elected to get inked together instead. It took the better part of the day for 12 guys to get tats, so our girls pulled up and we all hung out on the gay strip in front of the tattoo parlor. I now have a biggo lobster on my forearm. It’s a SCORPION, dammit. Any fool who squints can clearly see that.

All 30+ of us had Tex-Mex together in a family-owned place, shared an enormous cake, and then rolled on down to the Butch-Femme club for dancing. Our B-F bar has a biggo patio and pool, and as the night progressed much of our party wound up out there, sipping drinks, chatting and laughing. This group could shoot the shit FOR DAYS. So we headed back to my deck and did just that until the wee hours of the morning.

One of Suzi’s favorite things to do in a group is to make people confess their sins. The night owls huddled over citronella candles as we shared our personal stories for hours. We talked about how our child was hurt, how we survived, our regrets and triumphs. It was very, very sweet. Suzi, of course, never confessed. She never does.

On Sunday, Miz Chris got her kitchen wenches together and cooked up over 100 eggs and 15 pounds (!!!) of bacon to feed the troups. We also had refried beans, tortillas, homemade salsa, tamales, and Mexican pastries. WickedSuzi was mingling through the crowd with a steaming plate of crispy pig, softly offering: “Bacon? Bacon?”

We said goodbye to a few beloved friends on Sunday, and others stayed on. Some of the Femmes went for another round of shopping, and the rest of us lazed in the sun on my deck, listening to music and telling tall tales. Gee made my espresso machine do things I never knew it could. Late night talking again. Of course.

You know me n’ my baybee gotta squeeze a five-day weekend out of every event, so Doosa, Michael, and Cressie and Austin were here until just yesterday. We did what we do best – drink too much caffeine, eat yummy stuff, shoot the shit, dish, make fun of ourselves, and laugh like hyenas.

Michael is still camping in my fort out back, and I am fixina go get him to help me hose down the devastation and get my yard back in some order.

Thank you all for being here and for making my 40th and Christine’s 35th so special. The party would not have been the same if any of you weren’t here. I feel so blessed from having each of you in my life.
To those who didn’t make it… you were so missed by everyone!

I will treasure the memory of this birthday weekend always. THIS DADDY’S HEART BURSTS FOR YOU ALL!

Thank you.

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Kerry just called Bush to concede the election and congratulate his opponent…

I am nauseous this dark day.

Mostly, I am concerned about the social climate in our country, the apathy. I feel like we are primed to allow a huge loss of our freedoms, before the masses will even realize what we have lost. Only history will show it like a timeline, and that is only if history is allowed to be true.

I have been out for about 25 years. Back then, queers were so oppressed, there was a feeling of family amongst us. Just to be gay was bravely political. Almost all women were still sensitive to issues that could affect the freedoms of other women. (It was the pill that brought about “women’s lib” in the 70’s, afterall.) Back then, there was no such rhetoric as “politically correct”.

I have seen so much more awareness raised about tolerance in my adult life. So much ground has been gained in the last 25 years with the great rolling boulder known as human rights. We cannot fathom that today we are all walking on doors that were ripped out at the hinges by the sheer might of a crowd others who cared enough to dedicated themselves to this task of making change. We enjoy so many freedoms, I fear many Americans are desensitized.

You would think this scary swing to the extreme right would again consolidate the left, but now who is left to be the left? Who will be the watchdog? Who will sit in the streets? When you can be investigated by the FBI for anti-Bush sentiments in your LJ, or denied admittance to a political rally because of your tshirt, who will speak up? How long before we lose our right to speak up at all?

A democratic vote is such a powerful thing, but today, I feel powerless.

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