Assume the Position

Lately I spend a lot of time pinching myself.     It sure beats the alternative of turning around, ass to the wind and assuming the position.    Be rest assured I can report that I’ve spent plenty of times assuming the proverbial position pleasurably and not so pleasurably respectively.  

I will try and not spend too much time on the negative nor the past; but I will say the past does deserve its acknowledgement if for no other reason than to not repeat the same damn mistake again.   I hate bending over for punishment or comeuppance.   Of course, if we believe in the tenets of Karma, the minute we throw out a bad deed we can expect that little bit of darkness to come back bringing  its stormy black clouds with it and rain on our parade.   The upside to Karma is that if we throw out good deeds we might enjoy more parades in the sunshine with blue skies.   Christianity also has its close code that says you reap what you sow, basically the same tenet. 

 There was a time in my life when I didn’t pay attention to any of it.   I knew it was real, down deep, so it wasn’t that I didn’t “believe,” but honey I sure spent a lot of time looking the other way.   Like I’ve said before, when ya fry chicken, baby ya can’t leave it one side for too long or it will burn and not only will that piece of chicken taste like burnt rubber but it will scald the grease and ruin the whole frying pan full.

I will also admit that for several years I spent too much time looking back and swimming the same rivers twice.   Standing in one place and stirring the pot too much can make your dish too chewy.   Sometimes you have to learn to turn the heat down, put a lid on, walk away and just trust your instincts and timing.   The same applies in life.   Sometimes you just have to deal with the fact you fucked up suck up any consequences and just let it lay where it is.  Dwelling in the past too much can make you stale, bitter and brittle.  If you swim in one place too long you give out go under and drown.  

Back to the present, sometimes being happy does not just mean getting what we want or any sort of physical rewards; but I believe being happy is realizing and owning your mistakes as well as your good deeds and knowing you have a choice to live beyond your past and that the past is, well the PAST.   It is behind you and hopefully more often than not when you assume the position it is for a pleasurably raucous joy ride!

Let Me Eat Cake (Mama Pat Clayton's Carrot Cake to be Precise)

It has been a cake walk kind of Sunday morning.   Wanting to bake a few of my “specialty” cakes for the upcoming week for various people, I woke up before the light of day and begin mixing, stirring, greasing, flouring, and baking at 325 for golden buttery delights.   At some point during the baking marathon around six AM(ish) I realized I was hungry.  The coffee was just brewed wafting its deep aromatic rich earthiness throughout the quiet morning house when in the corner what did my little Southern boy eye did spy?   Carrot cake!!!!!!!!!!!!   Not just any carrot cake, but Mama Pat Clayton’s lip smacking your brain to jeezus good carrot cupcakes she had made for her darling grandson’s first birthday party we attended Saturday afternoon.

When Marie Antoinette supposedly or allegedly said that infamous phrase, “Let them eat cake,” I have to say there are several times in life when I think she bends down her pretty powdered head down from heaven (or perhaps up from the belly of hell ?) and whispers in my ear that gorgeous phrase of hers.   Those words that were seen as obscene elitist utterances at the time when her French country citizen’s were starving in poverty; but like any true Southern Queen I’ve taken her phrase to heart and powdered & painted it up to mean that life is just too damn short so let me eat cake!  I'm just saying ya never know when you’re gonna get your pretty powdered coiffed be-wigged head chopped off so ya better just eat cake when ya can and enjoy life.   Besides isn’t cake one of the small yet decadent and sometimes exquisite tastefully sinful little delicious journeys our taste buds take every once in a while.  I mean, most of us don’t eat cake every day…….or at least I don’t, so to me it is a nice little treat and seems almost a sin not to take a moment and savor a sweet little bit of cake. 

Cakes are special to me because not every cake, especially store bought, is cake I want to waste the calories on.   Possibly because my dear Southern Grandmothers and Mother had their own specialty cakes and they were only baked for special occasions.  Strawberry shortcake, German Chocolate cake, and Chocolate cake all made from scratch by my mama are three decadent treats that I only get to have on special occasions when I am home because they are cakes mama makes from scratch and no one else seems to come close.   Any kind of New York cheesecake is like my sweet tooth’s equivalent to pizza.   If my sugar level and waist line could afford it I could eat NY Cheesecake everyday.   Then there is Tootsie’s pound cake which is more than a pound I can tell ya.   Paula Deen would hit me in the face with a turkey to get that pound cake out of my little grubby hands if she knew how much butter was in that sucker.   And then last but not least there is Mama Pat Clayton’s carrot cake, although yesterday she upped the ante making them into cupcakes which translates to just one nice bite for me which further translates into 4 or 5 cupcakes later and possible sugar coma by noon.   She smartly only sent me home with 4 that I “HAVE” to share.  

The jury is still out on whether or not I will “share,” but my first one this morning was the perfect little taste and burst of heaven in my mouth washed down by fresh coffee!   YUM!   What a wonderful way to start a Sunday!   Cheers to Mama Pat Clayton, her out of this world carrot cake and yes, cheers to Marie Antoinette, I get it girrrrl!   Cut my head off but let me eat cake, damn’t!

Kitty Litter (Much Ado About Remaining True to Yourself)

Don't shit where ya eat!   Long before I knew everybody's grandmother or daddy had supposedly coined this all encompassing wise phrase, Junebug Guice used it to much aplomb and effect when she delivered it in the kitchen I was working in during my college days.   She had many little sayings that undoubtedly were hers that still stick with me to this day; but no matter who originated the saying, I still maintain that it is a wise truth to be heeded even during the most tempting sexually fraught moments of your life.   Say, fudging your boyfriend's best friend.   Not that I would have anything to do with that kind of behavior (wink wink); but needless to say, and I know it comes as a shock to most since I'm such a true Southern Belle of epic grace and grand sweeping style with an  unparalleled blessing of gentility found only in the most delicate dew kissed morning glory!  (Clearing throat and pausing for any potential lightening bolts descending upon my precious lil ole curly top!)   BUT allegedly, and I'm just saying, theoretically I might have been around that proverbial block once or twice, got dizzy, got lost and perhaps shit where I ate!   As Dolly as my witness if any of that did happen I most undoubtedly was drugged by a communist yankee and cannot be held totally responsible!

However, even if we do shit where we eat, at some point we have to own our shit.   There is no use in faking a case of the vapors and playing coy with the Rhett Butler's of this world; because honey it will come back and sting you in the ass harder, madder and faster than a yellow jacket in heat!

Beyond dealing with our actions and learning from our mistakes we have to also guard ourselves against those who wanna change us and perhaps mold us to their framed picture of us in their mind.   Owning our shit goes a long way in getting to know ourselves better and getting to know ourselves helps us respect ourselves and protect ourselves against the false prophets and stanky tallywhackers out there!

I am not talking about putting up walls and hardened barriers against relationships; but it sure helps to know thyself.

When I first began doing drag I was overweight by drag standards and was traditionally not looked upon as a show stopping possibility.   So when I took hold of an amateur night opportunity I was able to show those who counted, anyway, that beneath my size 16 dress I might have some potential as a performer.   Needless to say I paid close attention to make up tips, dance tricks, stage gestures, etc.   I began to get booked regularly enough and I began to get notice from audience members as well.   I had many opinions on how my stage personae, Kitty Davis, should act, look, weigh..........you name it some queen or queen groupie had an answer.   I listened to a lot of it, did a lot of it and some of it was good advice but a good bucket full of it was bullshit.   I realized I was the one being sent out there to be the clown or the Phyllis Diller.   I love Phyllis Diller and she is a trail blazing original, however, she chose to be Phyllis Diller, I was being  told to be Phyllis Diller to essentially make the other queens look pretty and talented.   Whether this was intentional or not, when I had enough I realized Kitty Davis had to be MY Kitty Davis.

The loose bead that unraveled my pageant gown was a conversation that I had on a long midnight drive back from a pageant somewhere in the South.   The conversation was with my bar owner who was booking me at the time.   He essentially told me my only chance of continuing in drag and becoming a regular in shows was to take his advice and be the fat funny one.   "Accept your limitations," he told me.   Surprisingly I never got mad, but what he said to me resonated deep within and hurt this ole tough bird.   When he suggested that I change my name to "Pussy Litter," and become a raunchy punch line on stage I drew the line and begin to withdraw from that particular venue.   I think my name appeared once as Pussy Litter and after that show I refused to be booked any further with that name.   A certain life long friend helped me see that.   It sure wasn't all my "self awareness," at the time.   She told me that essentially "Pussy Litter," sounded like a nasty washed up freak pole dancer in a low rent strip club in Alabama.   No offense to my 'Bama boys, (smooches boyz) but that image was enough to jerk me awake.   I only won two tiaras in my time; but at least one was won by my own will and determination not some one else's interpretation.

Still years later I come back to this story even though I'm not in drag as it helps to keep me grounded.   I had a fabulous smashing run as Kitty Davis (which is trade marked and copyrighted bitches so don't even think of taking it)......BUT......Kitty still much remains within me and her claws of steel come out anytime this magnolia is being shaken and chopped on.   Kitty Davis later took control of that shitty incident and did a pretty good couple of years using Litter in various forms for show titles and eventually a weekly show titled The Litterbox with Kitty Davis.  (Which is also trademarked queens, so don't even think it!)   It was my way of taking back some power.   Grabbing that power helped me shed the needed pounds and eventually gave me a healthy inside and outside.   Now just like Jack and Jill I have fallen down and crashed my crown(s); but ya know each time you pick yourself up from a fall, damn if ya don't heal a little stronger!

On My Knees (Prayer, Sex & Madonna?)

I heard this lyric the other day that was not original or special by any stretch of the imagination however it got me to thinking how many times "on my knees," or variations thereof we hear in lyrics of pop music and monologue in Lifetime movies.   "I'm on my knees begging ya," seems to be an all too familiar refrain.  The gesture, I suppose, shows that we are humble enough to be on our knees begging for forgiveness, proposing, praying, scrubbing bathroom floors, or giving head.

I think back to my childhood church days and how much time we spent on our knees with heads bowed in prayer.   Especially during the end of the preacher's sermon when the pianist begin playing softly the song, "Just As I Am," and those who felt moved came to the altar to bow in public for salvation or just plain benediction.  I'm not sure back in the day if I was just too shy or too prideful; but I always had a problem with going down front.   It wouldn't be the only time in my life that I would have a problem in going down.

Years later when I was a pre-teen Madonna came out with a song called "Like A Prayer."   Pepsi paid Madonna millions for an ad with this song before her then infamous (and some in the church would say blasphemous) video hit the airwaves on MTV.  Due to the mixed sexual and religious imagery in the video  and whatever other reasoning Pepsi pulled the commercial off the airwaves which catapulted Madonna's song and incidentally the video (only allowed for play on MTV after 9PM)  to huge success.   I can only muse that Madonna's agent and accountants immediately got down on their knees when the money from the chart topping ground breaking video came flooding in.   I can never imagine Madonna in a confessional; but if she had of been I'm sure her penance came with a wink and a sly smile.  

Almost twenty one years later Madonna is not only still singing reinvented and remixed versions of this song on her tours but it also becomes an almost saintly gospel rousing song for the Haiti earthquake relief telethon.   It didn't shock me that people found this song uplifting and dare I say, "spiritual," because this song had always held that moving quality for me when it was first released but it actually seemed to resonate even above the Boss's rendition of "We Shall Overcome," which almost made me not want to see the telethon.  A more conservative acquaintance from back home actually said she downloaded the song from I-tunes and wondered why Madonna didn't stick to more uplifting songs and stop being so "nasty and sex-ule."  I immediately went back to my vision of Madonna tucked away in a dark confessional winking and smiling!  

It occurs to me that religion and sex are not across some vast chasm with a spiraling dark hole leading straight to hell between them.   I'm sure Evangelicals would love to hang me upside down on cross for what I am about to say (please make it at least a rhinestone encrusted cross and not one of the old rugged ones!)  BUT I think the Bible not only has many great metaphors for living, poetry for mindfulness; but also some hints of sensuality.   [Notice Evangelical Zealots I said sensual not sex-ule]    The lady washing Christ's feet with her hair and how about the Song of Solomon (aka The Song of Songs) which some theologians say talk about a romantic rivalry between King Solomon and a rustic shepherd for the love of a young maiden.   Some say it was even the inspiration behind Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet.

The reality is that the church rather it be the Catholic church or the Southern Baptist church, is full of sensual, if not sexual symbols and rituals.  Although I have to say I've been to several Presbyterian churches and have never felt sensual.  Madonna was just ballsy enough to put it out there.   Madonna is often labeled a provocateur; but I happen to believe she just follows her heart and has the business sense to know how to make it go Ka-ching!

I do remember one of the rare times I went down front to confess my sins.   We had a visiting pastor and our youth choir had rocked the rafters of that little church prior to his own rapturous sermon.   So emotions were especially high in the congregation.   I had been saved as a child; but in my teens I had begun struggling with my own sexuality.  By this time I had {gasp} sexually messed around with a preacher's son, {bigger gasp} was having oral sexual relations with a well known local hairdresser and {huge muther fucking gasp} was well into a year long affair with my English teacher's husband.   He was also a teacher at a rival high school in the county.   I have to admit by this time in my teen years I had learned more ways than one to make being on your knees a religious experience. (Don't pardon the pun, it works!)   I'm just saying, I had plenty on my guilty plate to motivate my need to go down front and get on my knees.  

I guess one could say that going down front to kneel in front of a congregation is the Southern Baptist version of self flogging.   The worst possible version of this practice would be going down front to beg forgiveness if half or all the congregation knew of some half baked version of the rumor/truth that drove you to go down there.   Joined by me at the altar on this momentous and spiritually humbling day were Walty (Walter) Marshall and Bev Beddingfield.   At this time both were respectively making public amends for well known or alleged well known sins.

Walty was recently back on the wagon, back with his wife and trying to walk the straight and narrow (if not at least trying to weave down it) after an arrest for spousal abuse and drunken disorderly conduct.   He was well known for this behavior before the arrest; but the sheriff throwing his ass in jail was certainly confirmation of years of speculation.

 Bev Beddingfield was an uppity well groomed, high heeled pew humping slut.   She was married to a hottie who was not only the Church's favorite "good boy," but he was also from a family in the community who owned much land, many orchards, and lest I say was worth a pretty penny to go along with his million dollar smile.   Bev, to spite her good fortune, could not be trusted with any deacon or for that matter with any pastor of a church within a 100 mile radius.   I guess she had a small town version case of being power hungry.   My granny used to say, "if you're gonna get caught at least get caught doing it up big time."  So in my opinion for as uppity as Bev always presented herself I always thought at least get caught with the Mayor or Senator Bev!   At least she would have the potential of front page headline grabbing humiliation and some potential good hush money.   But as it turns out Bev settled on deacons, preachers, choir directors, and supposedly one female primary Sunday school teacher.  [Allegedly]   Well on this day Bev and Walter's shit had hit the proverbial fan.   So that walk must down front must have felt long and dusty.   Bev did not swish so grandly and if one squinted you could almost see a hint of shame in her posture; but ya had to squint the right angle to not miss it.   Anyway I imagine their trip down front that day was harder for them than for me.  

My secret was not out and in fact my stint as the humble teen rededicating his life to Christ was tauted for months within the church as an example for all other teens living in "today's society of peer pressure."   I would say that initially I was moved to go to the altar; but by time I had to get up I couldn't!   You see, the associate pastor whom I thought was kind of a Tom of Finland-esque had come over to pray with me and "intercede" as they like to say in the Baptist lingo along with one of the eldest deacon's grandson (another Blue Ridge Mountain boy dreamboat) also came over to intercede and pray over me.   It was stifling enough to have these respective hunks for Christ hovering over me, whispering words of Christ's love for me in my ear and rubbing and laying their hands on me that I kind of really forgot my true destination in my prayer and sported wood.  You could have had one helluva a tent revival in my pants!   Yes I had a true spiritual awakening going on down front on my knees and the singing ended too soon.   I remained on my knees pretending to still pray as the rugged piece of wood in my pants at last lay down.

Bev Beddingfield used to always make a grand gesture in "finally," giving in to sing a solo each Sunday.   Each Sunday the choir director (whom she had boffed) had to conjole the fake blushing bleach bottle blonde back up to the front to sing a "special."  Every Sunday Bev sashayed  her 6 inch come fuck me pumps, and snug panty line showing above-tha-knee skirt to go sing a no doubt "tearful special."   Half the women in the church would roll their eyes as did my Granny at the dramatic ritual.   One day about a month before Bev's affair with the Pastor came out; my granny leaned over as Bev sashayed to the front and whispered in my ear, "any woman wearing that much flowery perfume is sure covering an awful stink!"   Not a month passed by before Bev's little secret hit the good Christian women's rumor highway.   The Pastor was drove out of town (literally); but I guess the deacons of the church had received a little of their own "on her knees," brand of mercy begging from Bev herself and she remained in the church as a modern day face to the biblical story of the "fallen woman."   One thing I learned with Bev is that the Baptist love a good story of scandal and sin; but they also love a good old fashioned story of redemption.   Maybe I was blessed, or lucky, or maybe both but for some reasons my little small time crimes of passion stayed hid from the church I attended; but just in case I still remember my Granny's saying and always make sure I don't overdo it on the cologne.  

I remember for a time it seemed a fad for boyz coming into the bar  to proudly bear rug burns on their knees.   I guess it was the genuflecting equivalent of a hickey.   Unfortunately for me, over time I never had to prove my slutdom thru hickeys or rug burns as after a few leaded drinks it became apparent as to my talents, transgressions, and perhaps after a few more drinks the possibilities.   Besides if I had of gone down on my knees in those cocktail drenched days the likelihood of me getting back up would've been comical at best.

Joan Rivers has a line in her stand up comedy that basically says if you want her on her knees then throw a diamond on the floor.   Joan, I am with you, besides I do a pretty good job of regularly humbling myself upright.

A True Belle: Loving & Remembering Dixie Carter

Actress, author, singer, and true Southern Belle icon are just a few labels that could be used to put Dixie Carter in a category or box.   After having caught Dixie live in her one woman cabaret show in NYC I realized Dixie Carter could not be held by one category let alone a box.   She was a sheer cool sensual force of nature.   She gave life to lyrics when she sang that would give the 3D technology being used in movies today a run for its money.   Rarely in my lifetime have I came across a performer on stage that goes beyond performance and enters an ethereal type realm that hits like a silver bullet to your heart, soul and spirit.

I believe that kind of special spirit and force is what gave Dixie's legendary TV role as Julia Sugarbakker on the hit sitcom Designing Women such a wallop.  Julia was more than just a sitcom character she became her own iconic women's lib, gay rights, HIV/AIDS awareness, race relations megaphone.   Dixie Carter herself was a brave woman who broke convention in the late 70's by leaving the New York City theater/Broadway community after a painful divorce and becoming a single mother of two teens for the fickle show business world of Hollywood.   Though this journey may not sound that daring, you have to realize she was 40 when she made this whirl wind life changing decision.   Friends literally cried and begged her not to go out of fear of Dixie being broke emotionally and financially by Hollywood's well known infamous disregard for women in their 40's.   At this time in Hollywood history only a handful of true strong willed women had been able to sustain any sort of prolific star and work power.   Dixie with her true Southern Belle grace and grit took Hollywood by its big "H," and turned its head around.   Nothing came easy, even though Designing Women was a huge TV hit it was initially canceled in the first season.   Dixie Carter and co-star Delta Burke having received many fan letters from women and gay men respectively decided to go on a crusade to save their then "little," sitcom.   They got their second season after bringing in the fans and thank GOD!   Whatever would we have done without Julia Sugarbakker speaking her mind, tossing her hair, enunciating big ten dollar words the only way Dixie could, and crossing those legs in elegant disdain on que with hands on her hips gesturing full on battle engagement.   You may not have always agreed with Julia's politics; but she firmly established a tone and debate that was hard to de-construct.

Dixie brought such grace to every character she gave life to.   Her Emmy nominated guest turn on ABC's Desperate Housewives showed us just how deep, dark, and varied Dixie Carter could go to tell a character's story and to entertain the public.   Whether Dixie was delivering a three punch monologue such as her iconic and legendary "The Night the lights went out in Georgia" speech as Julia Sugarbakker on Designing Women to cooing and sensually slithering her voice across lyrics by John Wallowitch in her one woman cabaret show Dixie Carter brought the grace, style and true grit of her Southern heritage to Hollywood, the stage, and beyond.  

There is one episode of Designing Women in which Dixie's character must sing a very daunting version of the gospel song, "How Great Thou Art."   That episode always stirs me deep within and I believe that she has joined the angel choir and is undoubtedly singing lead as only Dixie Carter could on "How Great Thou Art." 

Catch A Tiger by His Ho!

I miss the golden age of Hollywood!   Scandals were hushed, and if revealed they played out like great directed movies.   Maybe it was simply the black and white and limited technical advances back then that made things seem more stylish and demure.   The fact is that the harsh colored glare of todays scandals and shockers reported seem tawdry and cheap.   They don't hold up.   I chalk it up to our reality show based ethic that renders us powerless against twitter tweeting CNN headline crawling shorthand texting (OMG!) based culture.   We have officially created our own society of attention deficit disorder public.   I do not use the term A.D.D. lightly.   When I was an assistant teacher in a public school system in the early 1990's there were very real signs of students with A.D.D.   The disorder, A.D.D., like many mental dysfunctions took a long time to be noticed by the medical community and it seemed by the mid 1990's that we had just begin to get a lot of these kids and adults some much needed help when the tech world just exploded with all kinds of bells and whistles guaranteed to entertain, awe and yes, (quote, unquote) save us time.   However no one made the statement or admitted to the realization that it would steal concentration, common manners, social graces, and well the list goes on.   I firmly believe we as a society catapulted ourselves into a nationwide epidemic of our own synthetic brand of A.D.D.  

Who can be bothered to listen to the actual news, just watch the crawl at the bottom of the TV, or get updates via Twitter, or better yet, forget in depth investigating altogether and just text our own version of the news 24/7.   Driving has become extremely dangerous as on an almost daily basis I have to break, stop, or honk at someone who is to busy texting or talking via cell phone to realize they have drifted into my lane or cannot be bothered to heed the stop sign or red light.   And just when I thought it was the driving that was dangerous it is the walking as well.   As a city dweller for many years I have loved the fact that most of my needs can be met by walking.   Now not only do I have to be very careful of those not stopping at signs and crosswalks behind the wheel because their attention is dedicated to their cell;  but I have to dodge other pedestrians because they are too tuned out on their texting or talking while walking that they cannot be bothered to realize they have bumped into you or are standing in your way carrying on a conversation as you try all kinds of body manipulation tricks to reach around them to get to something on a shelf they are blocking in a store.   Oh they see you; but something about their cell phones renders them stupid and generally able to not give a shit that you are in front of them doing gymnastics to grab a six pack of butt wipe.

Which brings me to reality TV shows and Hollywood scandals in general.   The last decade has seen an explosion of no talent nobody's become rich and famous for whining, bitching, moaning and crying themselves into melodramatic lathers and meltdowns in a show about themselves.   If you are a washed up rock star by all means get a reality TV show built around you bitching about the music industry, and close ups and you dealing with not dealing.   And if your are a washed up TV actress please please get a TV reality show built around the size of your big fat ass with endless shows built around kvetching about how you used to be gidget sized and now you are plus sized buffoon cartoon punching bag for late night comedians.   Beyond all of this it is the ability of the American public to even believe any of this is "reality."   It is as staged and scripted as Tiger's press releases.   Bringing me back to Hollywood and its scandals.   Can it really shock any of us that a very rich and powerful athletic personality was having affairs?  Really? REALLY????  (Okay one more time for dramatic flair)~ REALLY ???????????  In the old days of Hollywood this kind of dribble was accepted by those that knew the star as a true reality of power and privilege and money.   So no one went out of their way to "report," these infidelities, etc.  It only became "scandal," if it somehow got leaked or public attention. In the event that a gossip columnist had an ax to grind with a studio star in those days the studios usually was able to "convince," the columnist otherwise or at least put their own glossy spin on it.   The public was happy and the star did their appropriate amount of time out of the limelight and returned when their next movie was a hit and all was forgotten against the praises and flash of front page headlines of success and glory.  

I hate to use the phrase; but "back then," we really cared about the news.   Elizabeth Taylor and Eddie Fisher was the Angelina and Brad of their time but as scandalous as that was this Hollywood tale did not upset the daily news or even front page headlines of any newspaper.  You had to search an entertainment mag if you really truly felt the need to indulge in someone else's misfortunes and fuck ups.   Today it all has just become too accessible.   You no longer have a career of headlines, nor even a clichéd fifteen minutes of fame, you are lucky it is five minutes.   Once in a while you have a Tiger being caught with his ho(s) and it has the ability to flood and overwhelm every available news, blog, entertainment news, and gossip outlet preempting serious stories.   Sure Haiti maybe got a good week squeezed in; but we eagerly got back to the latest in a line of confessions from Tiger and his defrocked liaisons.   There was another huge earthquake somewhere and then a mining disaster in one of the fifty states but I really couldn't see or hear the news over the all important approval polls, commentary, and all out media blitz over Tiger and his return to the scene in the Masters.

It is dizzying and sad.   I think we don't want to wake up.   Sadly or maybe cynically I think we want to just accept our A.D.D. as a nation and find it easier to pseudo-focus on the latest sound byte rather than insisting on real news and shows based around storyline, plot, and characters.  

An acquaintance recently told me it was much easier just to just keep walking than offering an apology for their rudeness if they had run into someone while walking and texting. After all it was only a split second, no one was killed or even really injured and in fact the person texting told me that the other person should have been watching where they were going and realized that the person texting was "busy."   When I hear rationalization like that I can't help and think that we have a helluva lot more issues and headlines in this nation than a pro athlete putting his johnson on every nine hole he visits.   I'm just saying!

Deep Fried Guilt With A Side of Forgiveness

The old saying goes, "that which does not kills us makes us stronger."   And I'm thinking there are all sorts of things out in this crazy world that can kill us; but in my humble opinion there is not a more painful death than that of the death of a soul.   I know, it sounds very philosophical and high brow, doesn't it?  Not so much.   Physical loss of a loved one is hard and traumatic and leads those left behind on earth to a path of grievance, healing, and sometimes searches for answers.   I imagine those deaths that are not natural, meaning those deaths via murder or suicide are the deaths that leave the greatest holes and vast amount of unanswered questions in the hearts of many a loved ones left behind on this earth plane.   But there is another death, a death that is not physically a total loss.    With this death there is still brain activity,  a heartbeat, a breath.  It is, instead, a death through the loss of spirit, hope, and smiles.

Approximately 16% report being diagnosed as suffering with "depression," in 2009, which this statistic is based on those who "report," their diagnosis, or bluntly those who admit it.   Various sources estimate that this means a much higher percentage are too embarrassed to report their diagnosis and alarmingly an even higher, (almost triple the percentage rate) go undiagnosed either due to lack of access to proper healthcare and/or mental health specialists.   Which leads me to the fact that I have lived with depression since my early teens.   I have done three stints in therapy and am on my fourth medicinal therapeutic protocol.   I went sixteen years between my last medical anti-depression drug prescription and the most recent which is newly titled a "mood stabilizer," protocol.   During those sixteen years I weaved in and out of depression but was able to keep my dark soul in the light through jogging, yoga, palates, diet, and what I thought was sheer determination and will power on my part.   Who knows, maybe it was due to my own mind power; however none of that seemed powerful any more over the past three years against the waves and sometimes Karina type hurricane force floods and storm winds breaching the levies, dams, and sea walls of my heart, soul and mind.   Six months ago I gave in and begin another round of the newest medical treatments for depression.   So far, (knock on the proverbial wood), the last prescribed meds seems to be bringing the hurricane beast inside me into a more tolerable submission.

When I let go of my pride this last time around and admitted needing some scientific intervention via drug therapy and the fog of my own self obsessed psychosis begin to lift and I begin to realize just how many of my very close friends and outlying acquaintances ARE presently being treated for depression and/or some sort of other mood disorder, i.e. bipolar and anxiety disorders, it hit me that I was not alone.   The other thing I realized in talking to these select friends and acquaintances was  we all carried this deep seeded sense of guilt that others without the messed up brain chemicals might otherwise have let go of as easy as wind spreading white flurries through a field of dandelions.

I recently decided I was tired of swallowing some of my own en trees of deep fried guilt so I set out about making amends to all of those involved of this past event.   All of us who were apart of this unfortunate battle of wills had our own side of the story and for the longest time I hung onto my side of the story as being the more accurate and that "they," were the stubborn ones and that they OWED me apologies.   By the time I had finished my letters of apologies I had realized that there was no way I could expect responses nor should I.  Most importantly throughout the process and exercise of writing these letters I realized that the biggest dose of forgiveness owed was the side dish and ultimately antidote to my guilt  I had pushed aside and denied myself for several years.   Like an emotional anorexic I had denied myself the nourishment and filling calories of forgiving myself.   I had starved myself of the gift of forgiveness.  As we all well know in the South, the en- tree is sometimes an excuse to justify gorging ourselves on the sides. In my case, emotionally, I had over indulged on the guilt and left the side of forgiveness wrapped up neatly under a shield of cellophane and pushed far back into the refrigerated recesses of my heart and mind.

Even though I received positive responses and "understanding," prose back from those I had sent letters to, it was the forgiveness I found for myself that allowed me to digest the whole event once and for all.   As with any fatty food, i.e. deep fried, an over abundance for guilt in anyone's emotional diet can slowly kill you.   Sometimes depression doesn't allow us the mental tools to chose better and healthier choices.   I don't believe we accomplish anything by backing away from responsibility either; but like any good and full meal we should always throw in a few lighter options with a sprinkling of forgiveness to at least make the medicine go down.

A Tisket A Tasket A Big Boy Basket

Easter in the South is much like Christmas in the South.   They are truly bookends in a religious zealous fertile ground.   You have the humble arrival of a savior born in a manger, turned out by the innkeepers providing a big metaphor in how man would later turn its back on the savior which brings us to Easter.   So if the Messiah came in like a lamb he definitely went out with all the pomp and circumstance worthy of a grand Greek tragedy.   Hold on, it was a Roman tragedy, wasn't it?   Although Roman tragedy isn't seen as great mythology and taught as literature, this one alleged historical event however became a tale that has kept millions on the straight and narrow and filling the felt lined collection plates of all churches from the little white churches in the pines to the grand cathedrals decorating every ornate corner in Europe.

My own childhood was shaped by these two holiest of holy holidaze and to a great bonus it also allowed for time off from school.   The savior is born and you get gifts, Santa Claus, candy filled stockings & at least two weeks off from school.   The savior is crucified, risen from the grave and you get candy filled baskets, bunnies who lay multi-colored hard boiled eggs, & at least a week off from school.   As a kid this was all I needed to keep me a dedicated believer and seated in the pew at our little white Southern Baptist church in the pines!

As I grew older and all the historical facts begin to bump up against all the religious walls I had so faithfully erected to keep me safe from hellfire I begin to find other tricks and treats to put my mutual two religious holidaze faith in.

The gay culture is clever in that it realizes that not all of its family members will not be able to escape the trappings religious and otherwise of each of these big Christian holidazes respectively.   The typical gay bar is there for its family from Turkey day till the New Year as an oasis and therapeutic escape from the hours spent with birth families gorging on dysfunction and carbs.   At Easter we in the gay community have already begin to work on our summer beach bodies and by Mardi Gras time are ready to start our own spring resurrection.   By Easter weekend there are plenty of  Peter Cock-in-tails hippity hopping all around the scene in the shorts showing off beautiful tanned hairy legs, tightly worked out buttocks and praise jeeeezus many bulging boy baskets abound.   (Big hint, if the eggs your Peter Cock-in-tail is carrying in his big bulging boy basket is colored and hard boiled, I would drop the basket and run to the nearest STD clinic!)   The infamous "white parties," usually have begun by this time and we officially kick off the season of white, sun, kick ass margaritas  and hopefully well endowed overflowing big boy baskets.   I have to say this is a much more fun way to hunt for Easter eggs!