Post-Gay Kinsey Scale

"What else should I be?
All apologies.
What else could I say?
Everyone is gay."


                  - Kurt Cobain, "All Apologies"


Almost from the moment it was published, in 1948, in Alfred Kinsey's Sexual Behavior in the Human Male, the "Kinsey Scale" (also called the Heterosexual-Homosexual Rating Scale) was controversial. Kinsey attempted to describe a subject's sexual history or episodes of sexual activity on a 7-point continuum, from exclusively heterosexual to exclusively homosexual.




Over time, critics have found the scale to be not comprehensive enough to cover all sexual identity issues. In our current climate of Metrosexuals and "bromances" between ostensibly non-homosexual men, it would seem the Kinsey Scale needs an update. Based on no scientific research whatsoever (but with a whole lot of miles on my own sexual history), I present my Post-Gay version of the Kinsey Scale. You know who you are.




(6) Exclusively homosexual:
"I ain't had pussy since pussy had me."


(5) Predominantly homosexual, only incidentally heterosexual:
Would probably throw rocks at it.


(4) Predominantly homosexual, but more than incidentally heterosexual:
Issues!!


(3) Bisexual:
Bored = Horny.


(2) Predominantly heterosexual, but more than incidentally homosexual:
Gay for pay.


(1) Predominantly heterosexual, only incidentally homosexual:
Can be had, requires a 6-pack of Budweiser.


(0) Exclusively heterosexual:
Can be had, requires tequila and porno.

Crazy Dog Guy

He's been dead for six months, but it feels like six years. Except for when it feels like only six days, or six hours, and I realize I still miss him with an intensity I never thought possible. Those are the bad nights. There aren't as many of them recently, but when they're bad, they're really bad and often last well into the next day.


His name was Burr, but as with many pets, he was called a variety of names at the whim of his absurdly doting owner. He was Sir Burr, El Burrito, Der Burrgermeister, Burr Buddy, and, most often, Burrrrrrrr. Maybe all he really understood was the one syllable sound, the "burr" part, but for over 18 years, he answered to all of the above.


Burr was given to me as a gift by my then-boyfriend (I'll call him Randy) only a few weeks after my beloved Husky mix Balfour had to be put down at the age of 11. I never imagined I'd have another dog that would outlive old Balfour, or one that would mean as much to me as he had. But like me, Randy was also a dog person, and his short-haired dachshund, Stacey (on her second litter), and German Shepherd pup, Gram (only about a year old), had somehow managed to produce an adorable litter, and 8 weeks later the puppies were going fast. Randy's grandmother, with whom he lived, had already claimed what she'd decided was the prettiest one, dark and sturdy like Gram, but told me I could come over and pick out either of the two puppies that no one had yet taken. When I went to see them, I realized one was the runt, smooth and favoring his mother more than his father. He was a cutie, but shy, and he scampered away from me as I stepped up onto Randy's grandmother's porch. And then the other puppy, long-bodied and long-haired, an apparently equal mix of his parents' features, walked right up to me as if to say, "About time you got here." I picked him up and he immediately made himself comfortable in my arms and fell asleep. "Why, that one's already took up with you!" said Randy's grandmother, and she was right. This puppy had picked me. From that moment on, I totally belonged to him.


If that wasn't the instant I fell in love with Burr, it certainly didn't take much longer for it to happen. He turned out to be the best dog I've ever known, and very likely the last dog I'll ever own, since I can't imagine another dog that's not Burr in my life. The Jekyll and Hyde transformation from dog person to Crazy Dog Guy, however, doesn't require 18 years in most cases. One could argue that heredity and environment play a big part in the onset of the syndrome. If that's a fact, I come by it honestly. My Aunt Annabel had been in the habit of attaching a house key to her dog's collar whenever he went out roaming her North Knoxville neighborhood, just in case she didn't hear him come back home. And my Cousin Patsy would bring her dog, Max, bags of Cheese Krystals with no onions and no mustard. (The onions were bad for a dog's digestion, and Max simply didn't care for mustard on his hamburgers.)


Burr liked his doggy bags as much as the next guy, but he was not, for the most part, a high-maintenance pet. He was kind of laid back, actually. One of the more interesting things about Burr was that he would never ever try to snatch food out my hands unless I offered it to him. He wouldn't even gobble up something from the floor unless I told him it was OK to. I've never met another untrained dog with that kind of self-discipline. I say "untrained" because I never felt the need to teach Burr not to grab for food, or for that matter to make him obey me in any way. He always just seemed to do what I asked him to do, even if he didn't quite like it. It's for sure that Burr was smart enough to learn tricks. I suppose it's possible he had a form of canine ADHD. He could easily pick up on how to fetch a rolled up sock, for example, delightedly running for it and bringing it back to me . . . one time. The next time I'd throw the sock, he'd look at me as if to say, "Again? You saw me do that already, right?"

Scientists are discovering that dogs are able to learn a far more extensive vocabulary of human words than was once believed possible. Burr apparently understood a great deal of what I said to him, not the least of which was the phrase "Not for dogs." If I happened to be eating chocolate, something one should never give a dog, I'd simply say, "This is not for dogs" and Burr would walk away with a resignation somewhat akin to logic. No begging, no continuing to watch me with pitifully sad eyes. He got me. That's something I can't even say about most human beings.

Going from dog person to Crazy Dog Guy does not happen abruptly, but is rather a progression-- no, make that a digression along a continuum of emotional attachment and loss of sanity so gradual that you can convince yourself it's not noticeable to others, and therefore not at all pathetic. Then eventually you just don't give a shit. This can be precipitated by a lack of fulfillment in other aspects of one's life, difficulties with interpersonal relationships, and the stress of work and family commitments. In my own case, I'd spent years bouncing from one short-lived grant-funded job to the next while caring for an aging mother. This left me too tired to get out much and unavailable to friends with whom I'd previously spent lots of time. My interests waned, my social life fell by the wayside. But I couldn't wait to get home to Burr each evening, and I spent my weekends, my vacations, and all my time off just hanging out with him. And that was absolutely fine with me.


Even when they recognize it for what it is, most people don't understand the transformation into Crazy Dog Guy. A psychiatrist I sought help from when I was extremely depressed at watching Burr's health decline in his later years had the insensitivity to tell me I should go ahead and get another dog before Burr died. A backup dog, as it were. She claimed she understood what I felt about Burr because she'd just spent $35 at a pet salon to have her dog's toenails painted electric blue. I told her I would probably kill myself instead, she agreed to write me a prescription for antidepressants, and I never went back.


After my mother's death, I spent even more of my free time with Burr. He had grown to be as much her dog as mine, the two of them keeping each other company while they waited for me to come home every evening. Now, with no one else at home, Burr got lonely and bored, so I tried to be there for him as much as possible. The expected health problems of a long life were subtle-- a cough, the eventual inability to jump up on the couch with me-- and toward the end he'd go through spells of feeling so bad that I pondered having him put down. Each time, though, he would rally, and I was grateful that he hung in there as long as he did, even though it must have been tough on him. In his later years, when he slept, Burr's nose would twitch and his legs would kick and he'd emit low woofing noises. By this time he was a geriatric dog, barely able to walk from room to room without stumbling, but in his dreams he was a Warrior Pup defending our backyard from wildlife intruders. On the night before the morning he died, Burr couldn't bring himself to eat, could only drink water, and I knew it was time to take him to the vet the next day. Late that night, as I lay down next to him, I told him he could let go if he needed to, that I would be all right. Crazy Dog Guy that I am, I'd swear that Burr looked back at me, right into my eyes, and understood just what I'd said. Then he sighed and put his head back down. When I woke up a few hours later, he was gone.

Was he an extraordinary dog? I think so, but I'm aware that everyone thinks that about the dogs they love. I will say that he was as extraordinarily devoted to me as I was to him.




Burr always wanted to be in the same room with me, so I eventually had to place several dog beds around the house: in the living room, my bedroom, the room where I have my computer. He didn't even like to eat in the kitchen, probably because I rarely did. I would put his food in his dish next to the kitchen door, and he would promptly pick it up, Snoopy style, and carry it to where I had settled in with my plate. Wherever I was, there he was. For 18 long, too short, wonderful years, there he was.

And this is what makes Burr's absence so acutely painful. Throughout my entire life-- and I will be 55 this month-- I have never not had a dog. Now here I am, for the first time, learning to become accustomed to a truly empty house. Trying to figure out, for the life of me, how I'm supposed to transition back from Crazy Dog Guy to just a dog person who lives without a dog. Trying to figure out how to live without Burr.

I Am A Jim Wayland

Ever Google yourself?

Oh, get your mind out of that filthy gutter. You know exactly what I mean. You're not famous, you're not rich, you're not written about in publications obscure and obscene. But in this age of information gathering and limitless online data, it's almost a sure bet that typing your name into the Google search engine is going to bring up at least an entry or two about yourself, your activities, and your whereabouts on the night in question.

Or maybe not. How common is your name? I assumed mine was fairly common, except in its full form, James Yadon Wayland. (Yadon was my mother's maiden name, and James Yadon was my maternal grandfather. His two sons died as teenagers, and so I was given Yadon in the hope of carrying on the family name. Sorry, Grandpa.)

But take away the middle name, and the Google hits for mentions of James Wayland number about 15,800, and over 6,700 for Jim Wayland. Either there are quite a few of us around, or I need to lay off the Ambien.

A close inspection of the search engine hits for my name reveals a multiverse of identities, which I categorize as either Historical Jim Waylands, Contemporary Jim Waylands, or Fictional Jim Waylands.

Dr. and Mrs. James Wayland

Historically, we haven't done a lot. Probably the most prominent one was a Dr. James Wayland, founder of the 100-year-old Wayland Baptist University in Plainview, TX. This man donated 25 acres of prime real estate and $10,000 to start "a university to be based on Christian principles, believing that education within the Biblical worldview had the power to transform lives in an even greater way than education alone could do." Obviously, this man is no relation to me. (I do like the fact, however, that Wayland U. allowed a group of black teachers to enroll there in 1951 in order to take a class needed to retain their teaching certification. Quite progressive in pre-Civil Rights Era Texas.)

A few other contemporary Jim/James Waylands seem to have done pretty well for themselves. One James is an account manager for a large insurance firm in Hartford, CT, and another is an electrical engineer (specializing in Defense and Space) in Birmingham, AL. In the United Kingdom, James Wayland is in management counseling, and in Sydney, Australia, James Wayland is a civil engineer. I was especially interested to learn that a James Wayland is the author of a novel titled Trailer Park Trash and Vampires. But I also learned this James lives in Virginia with his wife and two daughters, ending my momentary jealousy. (I do like his name on MySpace: "Jimmy B. Damned." Wonder what he would think of "Paris Hilton's Pussy"?)


The other Jim Wayland I would most like to meet has a Ph.D. in counseling and mental health, and practices in Georgetown, TX. Imagine what it would be like to seek psychiatric counseling from someone who has your same name! Who would know you better than you? Whenever the question "What would Jim Wayland do?" came up, well, I'd simply call and ask me. "Dr. Jim Wayland, you have Jim Wayland holding on Line 3." And what would the receptionist think when I went for my first appointment? "Hello, I'm here to see Jim Wayland." "Yes, sir, and what is your name?" "Jim Wayland." Even better than "Who's On First"!


Fictional Jim/James Waylands, though . . . that's another story altogether. In the 1997 film "Deceiver" (MGM), Tim Roth plays "James Wayland, a brilliant pathological liar who's suspected of cutting a prostitute in half, and the actor revels in the chance to create a personality that's ghostly and layered, a dissipated, haughty, filthy-rich ne'er-do-well, a man who's inevitably faking you out at the moment you're most sure you're seeing into his heart." Oh yeah, I'm definitely related to that guy.

The biggest surprise for me, though, was to find a character named Jim Wayland in a sci-fi/fantasy novel, Freehold, by Michael Z. Williamson. The story takes place in some sort of futuristic military facility, has a female protagonist, and, for one brief chapter, an antagonist with my name.


"Her first impression of Sergeant Jim Wayland was a good one. He was outgoing, cheerful and imposingly big. He towered over her by a good ten centimeters. He shook hands and greeted everyone while cracking jokes. He was brawny, with a craggy face and a goofy grin." So far, an uncanny resemblance.


Then, over the course of the chapter, the resemblance to me ends, for the most part, when Sergeant Wayland turns out to be lazy, antagonistic, manipulative, and prone to sexually harassing both the female and male workers under his supervision. Hey, I said "for the most part"!

A few quotes from the charming and gregarious sergeant:

"You'll bark like a dog if I tell you to."

"It's all in who you blow. If they want someone, the rank doesn't matter."

"You look better in blue, Kendra. Maybe something lacy and tight?"

"You get me hotter than a two-peckered billy goat!"

He's eventually reported and transferred out, but not before a young man he's been hitting on (a very young man, I have to say) posts this about him on the company bulletin board:


Why Jim Wayland is like a fart:
He’s loud
He stinks
He rose above his point of origin
No one knows where he came from
He won’t go back there
We never wanted him in the first place
Any asshole could produce another one.

I hate to admit it, but that's probably the best bit of writing in the entire novel. *sigh*

OK, you need to stop laughing now. Stop it, you hear me?!?

Aw, why don't you go Google yourself!! 

For God's Sake! ( A Cautionary Tale of Facebook )

As much as I loveLoveLOVE Facebook, I'm nevertheless pretty bad about immediately accepting Friend Requests. I prefer to give them some thought, especially since I often don't have any idea who that person is who's sent me one. That's why I appreciate the fact that Facebook shows me when a "Requester" and I have mutual Friends. I piece together the connection, wonder if I've met them at some social event, try to remember if I said or did anything humiliating to them and whether they swore revenge at the time. It's a clue and, quite possibly, a warning.


There are also times when I know the person-- or once knew the person long ago. As for myself, I don't go looking for old friends and acquaintances on social networks. I'm not an overly sentimental guy, and I know better than to believe there was ever such a thing as The Good Old Days. Over the years, I've pretty much kept in contact with everyone I wanted to keep in contact with from my youth and early adulthood. And so when someone seeks me out, I have to wonder why they want to be my Friend again after all this time. I'm not being disingenuous about this. Maybe a little cautious. OK, yes, I'm paranoid. It comes with age.


This is especially true when you're old enough for someone you haven't seen in 41 years to send you a Friend Request on Facebook. Forty-one fucking years! A lifetime ago, even two lifetimes ago for some of my current Facebook friends. But I digress . . . .


A woman I'll call Lucy recently sent me a Friend Request out of the blue. I had not seen Lucy nor even heard from her since we graduated 8th grade in 1970. She and I went to different high schools, never met up again in college or ran into each other out in the world. Just took totally different paths, it would seem. I didn't even know if she still lived in Knoxville, or in Tennessee, for that matter. I didn't even know if she was alive! And then along with the Request, this:


"I have wondered a million times what ever happened to you, and here you show up on Facebook. How has life been for you?"


Now, how the hell do you answer a question like that? In a series of messages, like TV episodes? "Tonight on Biography-- Jim Wayland: The Pre-Baldness Years."  Do you break it down into decades? "High school sucked, but college was better, especially when I started being able to have sex indoors. I loved the 80s, except I don't remember them very well; people tell me I was a hoot. Worked really hard during the 90s and the 00s, and lost a lot of older relatives . . . all of them, actually. Traveled a little, but mostly stayed home. Had some great barbeque." Or do you merely sum it up in a couple of well-meaning phrases? "Oh, things have been just great every single day for the past 41 years, how about you?"


As it so happened, I was scheduled to have surgery for skin cancer not too long after Lucy contacted me. A large tumor on my abdomen, which had been extremely painful and had me very worried, was to be removed and sent off for a biopsy. I was profoundly depressed. I felt like my life was at a crossroads, and it was a difficult time for me to keep up with even my most basic routines. Knowing that any response I made to the question "How has life been for you?" would likely be a tad . . . how should I say this . . . dark, I opted not to reply to Lucy's message right then and promised myself I'd get back to her, write her a few nice sentences about back in the day, once I knew something definite about my prognosis.


Within 24 hours, I received another message from Lucy:


"I don't understand why you won't accept me as a Friend! For God's sake, I know you have to know me! You were a huge part of my childhood."


Whoa. I mean . . . just . . . Whoa.

Yes, Lucy and I had spent a great deal of time together for a few years in grade school. We shared a lot of the same friends, but mostly we were grouped together in classes and activities. I probably had a crush on her; I know for certain she did not have such an interest in me. Looking back, now realizing about myself what I didn't quite realize then, I very likely wanted to be Lucy's best friend, or to even be Lucy rather than to be her boyfriend. She was the smart, pretty, popular, cool girl in our class. I felt lucky she would even talk to me.


So, Yes, I do "have to" know Lucy. Never forgot her, but don't recall missing her all that much after Junior High, especially once I'd made new friends and, well, lived 41 more years. The four years Lucy and I were in school together make up about 7 per cent of my whole life thus far. I'll admit to dwelling on certain periods of time in my personal history, but that's not one of them.


I wondered, after my surgery and upon learning that the tumor was completely removed and posed no future threat to my health, if I should still reply to Lucy, explain why I hadn't done so up until then, apologize, even. My friend Kristi Carringer Weaver noted a favorite motto of her brother's, one that I took to heart: "He who cares the least wins." I appreciate that I might have been a huge part of Lucy's childhood, but that was an awfully long time ago. I had to decide if the person who sent me those messages-- especially that second one-- is someone I want to know in the here and now. The most profound observation came from my lifelong friend Bettye Bean (who also happened to go to school with Lucy): "Oooh, that sounds an awfully lot like I will NOT be IGNORED, Jimmy!"


I don't really think Lucy wants to boil my bunny. I have a feeling she's quite the animal lover, actually, the kind with 27 cats, and that's only counting the ones that live inside. But now I'm being mean, and that's just not like me, is it?


I waited to see if Lucy would send another message, and when she didn't, I turned down her Friend Request and blocked her from seeing my profile. (That's another thing I appreciate about Facebook. I appreciate that a lot.)


Well, for God's sake, what else was I supposed to do?

CHECKLIST

(homage to D.P.)


Whips leave bruises;
handcuffs are freezing.
Porno's abusive.
Poppers cause sneezing.


Slaves are too passive;
masters so bossy.
Dildos feel massive.
Hustlers get costly.


Bears are all scratchy
and Twinks very delicate.
Diseases are catching.
I think I'll stay celibate.




               












        -  Jim Wayland

Women Artists ( a/k/a "Artists" )

A while back I read about an art museum tour guide who asked a group of visitors to name a female American artist other than Georgia O'Keeffe. After a pause, someone finally replied, "Frida Kahlo?"

ELIZABETH MURRAY

I found this shameful, but realized I couldn't do much better. Most anyone can rattle off the names of a few male artists like Norman Rockwell, Andrew Wyeth, or Andy Warhol without the benefit of an art history course. But female artists, well . . . why don't we know more about them? Is it only due to a lack of publicity? Or are we still such a male-centric society that successful women in the Arts continue to suffer the same biases that women in so many other fields have, arguably, overcome?

So since then I have memorized the names and familiarized myself with the works of 38 American painters, sculptors, and photographers who happen to be women. It was easy, starting with a couple of books of prints I happened to have at home and soon moving on to whatever was available at the library. Quite helpful, of course, was the Internet. Many female artists whose work has apparently never been collected in book form nevertheless have web pages, and magazine or journal reviews of exhibits and museum acquisitions were in abundance. Wikipedia helped cut down on the biographical reading time and even provided links to other female artists I'd never heard of. And of course Google can't be surpassed for viewing a wide array of images that might have been otherwise hard to locate. In general, though, these women artists weren't all that difficult to find.

LORNA SIMPSON

The list grew quickly at first, then slowed some after I'd covered the more well-known artists-- usually those who'd lived and worked many years ago-- and had then begun looking for more contemporary women, those still creating in their respective mediums. I'm sure it's not going to stop at 38, but here's the list so far. See if any of these names are familiar to you.

JULIE MEHRETU

Diane Arbus
Alice Aycock

Peggy Bacon

Jennifer Bartlett
Chakaia Booker

Margaret Bourke-White

Louise Bourgeois

Mary Cassatt

Elsie Driggs

Helen Frankenthaler

Nan Goldin

Nancy Graves

Grace Hartigan

Eva Hesse

Jenny Holzer

NAN GOLDIN

Lee Krasner

Barbara Kruger
Louise Lawler

Sherrie Levine

Helen Levitt

Agnes Martin

Julie Mehretu

Marilyn Minter

Joan Mitchell

Grandma Moses

Elizabeth Murray

JOAN MITCHELL

Alice Neel
Louise Nevelson

Susan Rothenberg

Alison Saar

Cindy Sherman

Laurie Simmons

Lorna Simpson

Sandy Skoglund

Kiki Smith

Joan Snyder

Pat Steir

Sarah Sze

When I told friends what I was doing, the big question posed to me was, rather predictably, "But what can you do with all that useless information?"

BARBARA KRUGER

I'd like to think I don't have to "do" anything with it. It's at the very least a good exercise for improving my memory; I write out the list a minimum of once a week, sometimes grouping the artists by medium or artistic movement, more often just by the order that their names pop into my head. (I once tried writing the list alphabetically from memory, but all that did was make me crave peanut M&M's.) And let's not forget that I came up in the era of Knowledge For the Sake of Knowledge (pre-Reagan Administration, in other words) and firmly believe that it's just fine to pursue a degree in Liberal Arts, even if you're doomed to spend a few post-graduation years in the Peace Corps.

HELEN LEVITT

Via Facebook, I turned the question around and asked others for suggestions on making my "useless information" useful. Rather more sarcastically than predictably this time, my friend Dane said, "You could use it to pick up women," inadvertently reinforcing the choice of the word useless. My friend Bobby thought I'd probably be able to impress Lesbians, but in my experience Lesbians aren't much impressed by anything less than the ability to pull a car engine. (Kidding!)

LOUISE NEVELSON

But, for the sake of argument, let's say Dane and Bobby are onto something, that utilitarianism is the goal and there will someday be a real-world opportunity to use what I've learned. I'd like to think the scenario would go something like this:

I'm at a party, or maybe having dinner with a group of friends in a restaurant. The conversation turns to Art. (Shut up. I have sophisticated friends. It could happen.) At one point, a strikingly handsome and well-built young man is overheard to say, "People just aren't at all familiar enough with the work of American women artists. I mean, how many female artists can any of you name?"

Heh heh heh.

Hoping not to sound arrogant (or overly prepared), I would first ask the young man if he was referring to women painters, or sculptors, or photographers. But no matter which category he specifies, by God, I'm ready for him.

PAT STEIR

Abstract Expressionists of the 40s and 50s? Sure . . . how about Grace Hartigan, Helen Frankenthaler, Joan Mitchell. Eighties-era photographic artists? I like Cindy Sherman, Nan Goldin, and Sandy Skoglund. A sculptor or two? I'd drop the names of Louise Bourgeois and Kiki Smith.

Just in case the young man should think I'm merely throwing out names by rote, I can bring up a few interesting facts about any of these women. What was the impact on Lee Krasner's career of being married to the most famous artist of the time? "Unfortunately, it was most fortunate to know Jackson Pollock," she stated. Or why did graffiti artists Kenny Scharf and Keith Haring get so much attention in the 1980s, I can ponder aloud, when Elizabeth Murray was turning out cartoon-based Neo-Expressionist work every bit as interesting and skillful? And if you think Walker Evans was good (I'd continue), take a look at the photography of Helen Levitt. No contest!

ALICE NEEL

A portraitist? Can't beat Alice Neel. A Minimalist? Agnes Martin's color-field canvases rule! How about a photographic artist who's female, still living, and black? Why, Lorna Simpson comes to mind.

EVA HESSE

In no time at all, the bemused look on the gorgeous and hunky young man's face turns to one of admiration, perhaps even awe. And before the evening is over, he approaches me-- shyly, charmingly-- and says, "I'd love to talk more about this. Can I come home with you?"

Useless, my ass.

I Am What I'm Not

Too often to suit me, I've been referred to as a negative person. "Sarcastic" and even "cynical" have been used to describe me with pretty much the same frequency that other folks are called "nice" or "sweet."


I really don't get that. I don't see myself as negative. I do see myself as a staunch realist. I am stubbornly unwilling to stick a big shiny bow on a rather obvious disaster and go "There! All better!"


Am I cantankerous? If you insist. Curmudgeonly? I'm honored. But does that make me a negative person, or just a healthily skeptical, astutely critical one? It's not as if I'm fervently campaigning on Facebook for a DISLIKE button. (You know who you are . . . ) And how does one argue with such an untenable accusation? I mean, if you call me a negative person and I reply, "No, I'm not!" aren't you then going to say that since I'm not agreeing with you, it just goes to show how negative I am?


I'll admit to being a born contrarian, but most often of the John Locke "Don't tell me what I can't do!" school (for all the "Lost" fans, of which I am one). I especially don't like to be told to feel something I genuinely don't feel. When aimed at me abruptly and without solicitation, the words "Cheer up!" and "Smile!" rarely evoke the desired result. I recall reading the quote-- admonition, really-- "Be nice" on the Facebook profile of a well-known Knoxville blogger. I don't know why it is, but shit like that always makes me not want to be nice. Rather, I want to reply, "Who the hell are you, my Sunday School teacher? Fuck you!"


But enough with the defensiveness. If you must think of me as negative, I'd prefer you do it in the photographic sense. Photo negatives aren't entirely darkened images, of course. They're merely reversed, a contrasting view.


For months now, friends have been saying "You should write a blog!" This reminds me of the time when a woman in the beauty salon chair next to my friend Anne strongly encouraged her to become a stripper, assuring Anne, "You got a real good body, honey! You oughta strip!" Can't be given a much more back-handed compliment, in my opinion. What an awful thing to say! How dare you?! Do I look like the type of person who would write a blog??


All I mean to say is, there are a lot of really lousy blogs out there, and my initial thought about writing one was that I had no business dumping one more load onto that growing pile of Internet crap. And besides, so many bloggers I've read just reek of meMeME desperation when sharing their every mundane thought and pushing their inflated opinions of themselves. On this one guy's blogger profile I read, he described himself as "a writer of Dreams, an Embroiderer of Reality." To me, that's just a fancy way of declaring "I am one of the most pretentious assholes who's ever sat down at a keyboard."


And then I happened across an essay by Frank Bruni in the online edition of The New York Times titled "Harry, We Hardly Knew Ye." Bruni expressed a sense of relief that the final Harry Potter movie had been released. Not a fan of the books or the films, he professed not to hate them but, due to a number of circumstances, he just never got into them. And this set Bruni and many others at odds with their contemporaries, "standing apart from a cultural phenomenon that so many embrace," as he put it. Bruni went on to apply this to other cultural phenomena in which some of us just don't have the slightest bit of interest. Whatever you refuse to buy into-- be it "Star Trek" or Starbucks, Jonathan Franzen or "Jersey Shore"-- Bruni opined that "all of you have been there, on the outside of some mass-market craze or niche obsession that seemingly two out of every three people you know won't shut up about, their exuberance a sort of reprimand for what you're missing." Further distilling his thesis, Bruni wrote, "The fervor with which others latch onto a new enthusiasm makes you triply conscious of your own decision not to, so that even if your choice reflects only the limits of time, budget, or energy, you treat it as a declaration of independence. You are what you're not."


Now that I totally get. I remember watching an episode of "The Dick Cavett Show" sometime in the 70s on which actress Candice Bergen stated, without a trace of arrogance and to her host's apparent astonishment, that she had never eaten a McDonald's hamburger. I admired Candice Bergen immediately, though I didn't share her specific anti-fast food stance, and have since marveled at how much an unexpected factoid like that-- expressed in the negative, if you will-- can reveal about a person. In our modern world of too many choices and apparently endless options, "Who are you?" is for some of us a more difficult question than "Who are you not?" If you consider it, this would seem to be a part of human nature. Even though young children may not yet be able to articulate all of their needs, they can usually, by God, tell you what they don't like.

And so, with Frank Bruni and Candice Bergen as my inspirations, I decided to just relax and take a decidedly negative approach to launching my new blog. What follows is not at all a Bucket List, nor is it meant to be a display of Ayn Rand-ian merit badges. Many of the items have to do with personal taste, but some of them just, well, never happened.


If you know me, or know anything about me at all, pretend for a moment that you don't. Then check out how much you can learn about somebody by looking at the negative.


* I have never had a broken bone.


* I have never watched an episode of "American Idol."


* I have never voted for a Republican candidate in any political election.


* I have never purchased a copy of the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue.


* I've been to several countries in Europe, but in the U.S. I have never traveled west of Dallas, Texas.

* I have never willingly and/or intentionally eaten a raw tomato.


* I have never sat through "Gone With the Wind" in its entirety.


* Up until about 4 months ago, I have never not owned a dog.


* I have never met my birth mother or birth father, or anyone (to my knowledge) who is my genetic relation.


* Although I'm a graduate of the University of Tennessee, I have never attended a UT football game, or UT basketball game, or any other UT sports event.


* I have never uttered the words "Oh boy, chicken wings!"


So as for this blog, I can't tell you what it's going to be. I can tell you what it's not going to be. It's not going to be a political blog, though I'm sure I'll get political on occasion. I might now and again tell you about some place I ate or a dish I fixed, but it's not going to be a foodie blog. For obvious reasons, it's not going to be a Mommy blog, or even a Daddy blog.


I merely aspire to share my enthusiasms with you, if in my own negative way. To show you who I'm not and possibly encourage you to think about who you aren't as well.

Just keep in mind that the negative image of a photograph is fundamentally necessary to produce a positive image. You can't truly appreciate the light without the darkness.