Christmas Eve (our big family deal) was wonderful, and Christmas morning pretty magical. I even got a full-body-tremor of excitement out of my niece Ellen with her gift. It's fun to give gifts which were not on their lists, and really special when they are visibly excited at the surprise. For Ellen, age 9, I gave a gift certificate for two pedicures-for her and a friend- at the Venetian "First Class Spa." (Two comments: Pedicures because manicured colors are not allowed in school. And while the Venecian may be the most popular nail spot in Green Hills, it looks like an over-accented sweatshop and they could learn a great deal from the ubiquitous nail spots in SF. Not to mention I pay $25 for a spa mani/pedi across the street. Venetian pedis alone are $30 each.) I also gave her GCs to the Maggie Moo's next door.
I love that Ellen is in that pre-teen period where she can play the young lady and the little girl. She has grown-up attitudes for many things, but still loves her stuffed animals and play time. And she still thinks her uncles are cool.
Which of course, we are.
Bradley's gift was not met with as much enthusiasm, as even though I had cleared this with the parents weeks prior, they forgot and got him the same thing. So he arrived at Sheppard Place wearing a Red Sox hat similar to what lay wrapped under the three. (The version I ordered was, of course, the cooler one. Thanks to my Boston connection RMJ.)
So Christmas Day was magical. Christmas Night was hysterical.
After Christmas breakfast and the stockings and presents under the tree, eventually Jay & Steff and the kids went home to Sneed Road to play with other kids, and Mac and Emily left to rest up before the big Christmas dinner with her side of the family.
So for the bulk of Christmas Day, in the afternoon and evening, I was the only child left at Sheppard Place. I enjoyed chilling in front of the fire with Mom and Dad, playing with the new toys, and spent most of the day helping mom clean up from the morning and our big dinner the night before.
However, Christmas Night has always been a Big Night Out for the southern homo. I am extremely fortunate that I enjoy time with my family. I know many people, and many more gay people, who find time with their families over the holidays to be more about quantity than quality. And sometimes the quantity is measured in fluid ounces.
As Buffy once said to Willow, "I think that much quality time with my mother would lead to some quality matricide." On the nights of Thanksgiving and Christmas the gay bars are to capacity.
I received several calls from friends to meet me at Tribe. I texted back saying I was on my way, but with the empty nest pangs of the day it was difficult to extricate my self from my mother. And then neighbors stopped by to visit, blocking me both bodily and vehicularly. Finally en route to Tribe I was a good 30 to 40 minutes behind. I got calls from Chuck (in from San Diego), Brad (in from SF), Jason (in from SF), Keith (local) and Scott (local), looking for me. All of them were hanging out in a crowded bar drinking alone(ish), and it occurred to me that all of these guys were sitting next to each other in a bar waiting for me but none of them knew each other.
Brad kills me sometimes. He is perhaps one of the sexiest men on the planet, with an easy confidence I can only marvel at and envy. I believe he fears nothing... except apparently being alone in a bar or a room full of people he doesn't know. Funny that. However, Brad being Brad, I would not expect him to be alone for long.
I arrived to a warm welcome with many more friendly familiar faces than I expected and felt oddly like a homecoming king. Added bonus: I got to spend a little time with great guy and club proprietor David. I was on the same flight out from OAK with his sister, bother-in-law, and their two kids. David had been in Mississippi with his partner Michael to visit his family, but had beat feet back to the preferable Nashvegas. (We are grading on a curve.)
The excellent Christmas Day continued. Brad had been approached by several men, whose attentions he graciously declined. One man bought Brad a beer by way of introduction, and was fairly attentive but Brad extricated himself kindly as he was "waiting for a friend." The gentleman went back to his buddies at the bar and commented, "Does anyone know if Wilson is in town? Let's call him." Brad had to ask, "Excuse me, do you mean Wilson Hardcastle?" And that's not the amusing part.
The gentleman in question was Scott, and when they told me this when I got there I couldn't help but laugh out loud. THAT WAS HOW I MET BRAD IN THE FIRST PLACE. Scott had tried to pick up Brad years ago in a slightly seedy gay bar on Franklin Road. Later that night, Scott introduced me to Brad (who had driven in to town to drink, be in a gay bar, and escape his crazy family out in the boonies) as Brad also lived in SF. So perhaps we'll just do this again every couple of years.
The entire night was a blast. But there is one shining moment which stands out-one of those laughing-so-hard-you-can't-breathe-and-have-to-hold-to-something moments. San Francisco, meet Nashville. Nashville, San Francisco. You may now butt heads.
Unfortunately, many of you reading this are not Nashvillian or particularly southern and so the confusion and humor may be lost on you. The standard drunk food in Nashville is Krystal's. In SF and NYC, you get a slice. In Nashville, you drive through Krystal's. Everyone does. When I came in at 4:00 A.M. from the Swan Ball with a bag of Krystals (after dropping off my drunken date at her home), my parents (also home from the ball) were in the kitchen eating Krystals. For those of you unfamiliar, think little square burgers a la White Castle. But that really doesn't do it justice. Nor justice to the corn pub, chili corn pup, and other artery-hardening greasy treats. When one has a Krystal, it seems like it was the best idea in the world. When you are finished, you are less convinced. The next day, your digestive system and exit tract have quite the contrary to offer on the matter. We do not phrase this condition as such. But I shall not invoke such base language as this is a family blog. Well, a whoring, alcoholic family blog. We have families too.I have never known someone to eat a Krystal sober.
They are also open 24 hours. (My brother Mac once learned that the 24 hours are not necessarily in a row. But that is another story.)
The night went on. Fun, and cocktails, were had by all. As it was Christmas night, Tribe was closing early, and there was discussion about the next plan. Keith, unlike the rest of us, had not had a large Christmas dinner was not pleasantly stuffed as the turkey of the day. Keith was pushing a food agenda—preferably late night appetizers at Sunset Grill. The rest of us wanted to continue a little more festively, and overall we decided to head to the Chute (coincidentally the aforementioned slightly seedy gay bar). The Chute is, in fact, slightly seedy, but it is also the second nicest gay bar in Nashville. There are dozens of gay bars in Nashville, but only Tribe is quite nice (long time SF'ers can think of the AP). So with only one great, second best can be pretty far down the curve. I'm just sayin'.
After disjointed discussion, the Chute emerged as the new destination, so Keith decided he would rush ahead so he could stop for some food before joining us at the next bar. Brad asked, "What are we doing?"
"We're headed to the Chute."
"Where did Keith go?"
"He's going on a Krystal run and he'll meet us there."
"Oh man, that was the best sex I ever had."
uh, excuse me?!
I had to process for a moment. Unsuccessfully I might add. Once in high school, on a dare Gantt Bumstead walked into a Krystal bathroom, removed all of this clothes, and walked out. So nudity and Krystal are not to my mind entirely mutually exclusive.
"uh, What?"
"I mean, I'll never do it again but man, that was the most intense orgasm I ever had."
"Okay... I'm still on 'What?!' Did you like get sucked off in the bathroom or something?"
"Huh? Sex on crystal was just intense...but I am not into that really."
The light bulb of comprehension went on and I lost it.
In Nashville, a Krystral run means four tiny cheese burgers and fries for about $3. A "crystal run" in SF means finding a dealer before you dance shirtless and high in a club all night. Krystal Burgers ≠ crystal meth.
I was laughing so uncontrollably it took me several minutes to regain my breath before I could explain that the only high Keith was getting was going to be to his cholesterol level.
[Update: I went to the Krystal website to grab some images. They now offer WiFi. That scares me.]
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