Friday night of ho, ho, hos.

I spent some of yesterday afternoon catching what quality time as I could with Carrington. This meant riding along in her SUV to run errands and pick up her litter from day care. Carrington, my life-long friend, has three boys. I am a huge fan of families with three boys (being the youngest of three myself). Carrington has three boys: the oldest is just four.

Having three boys under five is just chaos. I got to witness this first hand. But I will say these kids are so totally cool. And I expected no less considering their parents.

Part of the errand running was going by Office Depot to pick up some printing for her mother. Never let Office Depot convince you they are a printing service. Neither printing nor service transpired.

I thought that as long as we were headed to a printers, I could whip up some seasonal calling cards for my visit, take them on a flash drive, and drop them off for printing while we did our other things. While that turned out to be a complete waste of our time, a Kinko's had recently opened down the street and I was able to drop these off for pickup by close.

Friday night I got to go to an open house hosted by another friend since I was four, Eleanor Fuqua Williamson, and enjoyed catching up with a host of other friends I haven't seen in far too long, but whom I have also known and loved since we were in first grade. Some story-telling, some catching up, and some gossip. And as I was still mostly without voice, lots of Jack Daniels. For purely medicinal reasons, I was assured by the otolaryngologist husband of my first kiss.

Keith had invited me along for a night of gay holiday party hopping. Despite lifetimes of biblical abuse, many southern gays still raise the roof for LBJ (Little Baby Jesus). Well, really, it's just an excuse to dress up and host if you have just redone your McMansion. But still, happy happy fun times.

And it's nice to know that even as out of the loop as I am from the Nashville gay scene, there are always familiar faces when I drop into these random events. The hosts couldn't be lovelier, and I loved their sense of environmental responsibility, and humor.

I felt as if I should have brought some myrrh.

Unfortunately, after this party, the evening went downhill faster than an Olympic ski jumper. We crashed went to one party waaaaay out in South Bejessus (just past Nipper's Corner). The condo here was in some creepy beach/nautical theme throughout the house. Every room, every nook and cranny was nautical/pale blue. It was so pervasive it was rather disturbing.

Keith, in his awe, took many, many photos. I'll have to check if they have made it to flickr.

And I won't get into a rant here, but WTF with people paying for caterer/bartenders who don't know how to mix a drink? No bartender worth his margarita salt should ever have to use a jigger. Much less for every. single. drink. And a vodka soda not only does not need measuring, it does not require washing out a cocktail shaker, shaking, and straining over ice. Do not wonder why the entire party is waiting in line at the bar.

From there we went to a party that was surely closing down (no I just called!) over in Germantown.

Germantown is a cool, urban part of Nashville. This place was not even Germantown adjacent. Just between two sets of projects and rival gangs, someone scraped a condemned house and put up two cookie-cutter condo townhomes. And some silly fags bought them.

You know you are at a gay party when you arrive past 11:00, there are still a dozen people there, and you are the first one to crack the seal on the bourbon. That, and the owner kept alternatively cajoling and chastizing his microdog, whom he repeatedly called by its full name: Coco Channel.

Somehow, that's even gayer that owning a timeshare in a sling at a SoMa sex club.

I'm just sayin'.

From there it was just a short hop to a very cool space in The Mills, which is an ancient (cotton?) mill renovated into beautiful lofts. There was another third-degree friend tag along aprty to go to, although the guys I was with weren't too keen because it was "basically a straight party." Whatever.

By this point in the night, my voice was no longer hoarse, it was completely kaput. Just whispers and aspirations now. Out of habit, I started signing, and was pleasantly received by two women who also signed and we had a nice conversation once I conveyed that I could hear, but I couldn't speak. After another glass of Jack and soda, and some snacks, my voice began to slowly recover.

We were there about 15 minutes before two of my companions felt the need to warn me, somewhat alarmed and breathless, that, "Uh, this group of people are all from Club Ménage...uh, this is a swingers party. Are you okay with that?"

I had clued in a little bit when I saw the husband of one couple I had met emerge from the bathroom with the wife of another couple, and they were both pulling their pants back on.

That, and the freedom with which the women felt my person during conversation.

Once confirmed, I totally played it up. I adopted a persona and joined the fray, if only in banter. Wife-swapping and multiple partners was the general play of the field, but only a few of the guys were into other guys. And even that came with a tinge of shame. It seems the swingers scene here was about bisexual wives, and their husbands who are cool with it because it means three-ways. But rarely MMF.

Keith and Swinger

An interesting Christmas party.

You may have noticed from past flickr sets that Keith is ever ready for the arty shot. Here is is taking a shot of discarded shoes. Now that I think about it, he should have enough shorts of discared shoes to start a series. Or some sort of fetish coffee table book.

Another image that could become a theme: the passed out girl.

And then there's this young hottie and his date.

He recognized my name. His first job was working for my brother Mac. I keep meaning to mention that I ran into him (just not from behind).

Keith's flickr set from the night.