STIGMATA ARE EASY by Phil “Bud” Comer

Not that long ago "being committed" here in Jawja meant involuntary incarceration in the insane asylum at Milledgeville. Or it implied you’d digested the complete works of Flannery O’Conner.



Duck & Bud Invoke Ancient Rite of Same-Sex Union



My commitment to Duck was a different matter.

Duck & I became a couple eleven years ago, but we’d fallen in love before that.

In 1999, on the eve of Y2K, we marked new beginnings with formal commitment, not a marriage recognized by the United States government, or the state of Jawja, but for us, a passage uniting friends, families and our futures here in Sandtrap, in the home place of my ancestors.

Our minister told us some of the oldest Christian liturgies were for same-sex unions.

Ancient same-sex unions were news to us.

Duck was raised Methodist, I, Southern Baptist. We only got the church history they wanted us to hear.

KAREN BLACK ENCOUNTER by Phil "Bud" Comer (April 25, 2009)

Sometimes, I doubt Duck, my better half, comprehends the rigors involved in being a full-time writer, house-husband and critter-sitter.

He accuses me of fabricating material. This afternoon's encounter was no exception.

I ran into the big city (Macon) for errands and a few super-sized items from the Mega-Mart. I stopped in the Nu-Way wiener stand for a late afternoon pick-me-up, a couple of all-the-way dogs. The Nu-Way is a landmark, on Cotton Avenue since the nineteen-teens. Even Oprah ate there when she was in town.

The place was crowded, but a counter stool was open next to a bag lady. Bag ladies portend interesting, if incoherent, conversation.

This one looked as though she'd persevered the apocalypse. Vexing an unlit cigarette, earthly possessions spilling from an enormous gold lamé tote between her feet, the nubs of a couple of gnawed dogs on her plate, decked out in a blond fright wig, though it wasn't Halloween.

Not actually that shabby, she looked as though she'd hit Goodwill and made a decent haul.

"There but for the grace of God," thought I. It seemed she was close to leaving and might need help with the bill. I slipped onto the stool alongside. 

BOOR WARS by Phil "Bud" Comer (March 27, 2010)

Duck's & my closest gay pals are Cindy & Diana. They're women. In Sandtrap you can't be picky.

For the record, Cindy's the butch, Diana's the fem. Never understood why, but female couples end up roll-playing. And, there goes the air in my tires.

Cindy operates the Tire and Tube; it was her Dad's business. Haven't seen a "tube" in years, except those Cindy recycles for kids' at the lake. She always has specials, merchandise that "fell off the truck." She picks tires up off the side of the road.

Cindy's a decent mechanic, but I wonder. I took in the pickup for a worrisome knock.

When I picked it up, Cindy strutted proud as a peacock, "Couldn't find the 'ping,' so I installed subwoofers under the dash. Check it out!" 

She hot-wired those monsters. Nothing short of a ball-peen gonna shut them off. And it wasn't a "ping." It's a knock, and remains.

Cindy's partner Diana is Sandtrap's "Petticoat Carpenter," a miracle worker with power tools.

Story out of school: Cindy had the temerity once to step out on Diana. Diana surgically removed the interloper's deck with a chainsaw. That first step out the double-wide was killer.

FOR GOODNESS SNAKES! by Phil "Bud" Comer (June 9, 2010)

The other day Pookie brought a baby rattler up to the house, mer-owwing, all puffed up and proud of herself. The snake seemed more enraptured than traumatized by the experience.

Pookie, the Pentecostal Snake Handler. I took it away and let it slither home. Poisonous or not, things usually don't end well for Pookie's little playmates.

And a week or so back, a rat snake was after Peepers, our porch dove. Of course, Pookie would love to get at Peepers, but she must be content to taunt the bird through the screen.

Peepers is a bossy critter, thinks she's as big as Duck & me. The most dismissive thing she does is flip you off with her wing.

It doesn't hurt, but you've been told.

If Pookie Cat ever got inside the porch, Peepers would likely march right up and flap the cat with her wing. Terminally bad move.

I consider Peepers my dove muse. She's sitting on my shoulder as I write, crapping down my back. She watches the letters appear on the screen. Must look like endless seeds. Sometimes she flies down and pecks the mouse.

Anyhow, the rat snake was trying to get inside the screened porch after Peepers. It freaked her out. (We didn't know Peepers was a she until the egg-laying commenced.)

I practice a form of Southern Zen Baptist Buddhism. I don't kill anything I'm not gon' eat, though I haven't killed Duck yet. So, my intentions were to dissuade the snake, not dispatch it.

DING DONG AVON CALLING by Phil "Bud" Comer (July 12, 2010)

When Duck's not kayaking, he does landscaping. Actually, landscaping is weekday business, kayaking is Sunday church.

He's accomplished at both. Yard work has broadened his horizons, and he's acquired new skills. He now curses in fluent Spanish. Half the time, I haven't the foggiest what his problem is.

This morning, it had something to do with the shampoo. I don't know why. It's Avon. It ought to be good.

Earline has dibs on the Sandtrap and Mercer County Avon market. As they say in Cosa Nostra notions, "sewed up." Competition tried to heel in, but that hapless carpetbagger was found bludgeoned by her Avon Beauty Bag, impaled upon her stilettos, case never solved.

Earline, a peppy strawberry Pop Tart of a toadstool, puts the muffin in muffin top. She drops by the home place unannounced, dismounts her filly, disturbs whatever I'm doing, and hawks her latest while the horse mutilates Duck's ginger blossoms.

She doesn't consider "writer" or "house-husband" as legitimate endeavors exempt from interruption.

At the last sales meeting in Kansas City, Earline and the associates were informed men are THE untapped cosmetic and grooming market. Good luck in Mercer County.

But Earline figured she'd start with the funny boys in her own backyard.

SQUASH CASSEROLE by Phil "Bud" Comer (September 8, 2010)

Queen Tush rolled up the driveway honking the horn of her powder blue pickup. She oozed out from behind the wheel in a black velveteen slit-up-the-side number.

My first thought was, "Where's Elvis?" Then I recognized the dress from her gothchick nuptials.

I said, "Queen, what are you doing in your wedding gown?"

She modeled almost twisting out of her red high-heeled sandals.

"Don't you love it, Bud? Isn't this the fun-est thing?" She stuffed back her right boobage as it made a run for it. "It still fits." Queen Tush batted her raccoon eyes.

"Still fits" maybe in Queen's magic mirror. Those seams better be reinforced. The red lipstick overshot her mouth; black roots teased peroxide straw. I glanced down skipping the scary bits. The terminal digit of each toe, including the nail, was painted at one with the red sandals.

I said, "Hon, you are a sight! Where you headed?"

She shrugged, "Over to Scooter's. Taking him my squash casserole. His old lady is down to the Eastern Star in Savannah. Kids are off at their Maw-maw and Paw-paw's. Thought I'd be neighborly."

Her neighborliness smelled like she'd mugged Earline, the Avon Lady. From the unidentifiable lumps, I envisioned the squash casserole stashed under her skirt.

She cooed, "Listen, Bud, I was wondering." She flirted, "You boys spare some eggs?"

Fringe benefit of two men living together. You get called "boys" into senescence.

TATER TOTS IN MOURNING by Phil "Bud" Comer (September 7, 2010)

Tater Tarver won't be exposing himself anymore. Everyone thought Tater was hoarding his urine in plastic jugs beneath his bed at the Rest Well Nursing Home in Bradley. The nurses' aids let him be so long as mothballs masked the smell.

Turns out it was highly flammable gasoline Tater had been siphoning from the grounds' crew and employee parking.

His kids, who knows how many there are, collectively are known as the Tater Tots. They're all grown, grandparents themselves, but still called after their Daddy.

As in, "Are you one of the Tater Tots?" Not to be confused with the Russet Spuds across the river.

His lovely wife Doyce met her Maker several springs back. Tater wasn't the same after, but some things never changed.

Tater had that one propensity, wagging his tallywacker. It was nothing folks around here hadn't seen, even eliciting polite applause on occasion in the cereal aisle at the U-Save.