Homo Destructus:
A gay man and a fixer-upper
by Kevin Isom
Special to Q-Notes
just did the last thing I ever thought I
would do. I bought a “fixer-upper.”
No, not a mail order boyfriend. (Though I’ve
had a few fixer-uppers in that department. Heck,
I was probably once a fixer-upper myself)
Rather, I bought a house “significantly un
der market value” which was “structurally sound”
and in need of only “cosmetic improvements.”
These are catch phrases which, when strung to
gether, mean one thing: “Run! As fast and as far
as you can!”
Seriously though, I figured there was noth
ing a little fairy dust couldn’t fix. I’m gay, after
all. My people are known for their home reno
vations expertise. Far be it fromjne to let the
tribe down!
Now, I am reasonably confident that I can do
anything I set my mind to, but I’ve discovered
that my gay gene didn’t prepare me for certain
aspects of homo-ownership. Actually, several.
I’ve learned that, as in the kitchen. I’m ter
rible with sharp things. All of my fingers are cur
rently band-aided, from broken light bulbs to
broken glass to the time 1 thwacked myself with
the pruning saw (which I’ve learned, inciden
tally, should not be used as a machete in an over
grown yard).
I already knew that I was terrible with elec
trical things, ever since the incident in Paris years
ago. I hadn’t had my morning coffee yet, and I
couldn’t get my razor.plug to fit, so I pressed in
the prongs with my index fingers and pushed
the plug into the outlet. Voila! Well, let me tell
you—220 volts is enough to throw you back six
feet across a room. So for my house, I called a
hunky gay electrician. Besides, I liked his slogan
— “licensed to remove your shorts.” You can’t
beat that.
I’m totally creeped out by the basement in
my house. It has sort of a Silence of the Lambs
feel to it, and every time I’m down there, I keep
expecting to hear a voice say, “It has such pretty
skin...” So whenever I go into the basement
alone, I tuck my can of pepper spray into my
belt. I figure all I have to do is point and shoot—
since I got the kind with a 20 foot wide firing
radius. Why, I could take down a whole gang of
Hannibal Lechters. But if one more friend of
mine starts laughing when he sees me preparing
to enter the basement. I’m gonna start using that
pepper spray. Oh, and a word of warning. Do
not test your pepper spray indoors.
I’ve also learned I should never be nude ex
cept for tennis shoes in the basement. After the
aforementioned electrician had changed out my
plugs and grounded my hard wiring (it just
sounds sexual, doesn’t it?), I was so excited to
have a washing machine finally connected that I
stripped right down, despite the fact that I then
had no holster for the pepper spray.
But the electrician had disconnected the hoses
to get behind the washer, so when it reached the
rinse c)'cle, as I was puttering in the basement in
the aforementioned tennis shoes, the basement
suddenly began to flood. I butchly stopped the
washer and connected the hose, satisfied with
my fix-it prowess. Then the sump pump sud
denly became a geyser, spewing sudsy water all
over me.
I quickly figured out that sump pumps must
be plugged in if they are to work. So I did that.
And mind you, at this point, I was naked and
wet. Had I not had the tennis shoes on, the shock
-would have been much worse, I suppose.
But that was nothing compared to the wood
epoxy. I should have known that anything with
the word “pox” in it couldn’t be good. But I had
to fix a place in the kitchen door where the pre
vious owner’s dog had clawed, apparently, for
several years. The box said to mix equal parts of
this and that, so I decided to just mix it in my
hands. It felt like silly putty, and I was rather
enjoying myself, back and forth, back and forth,
like Lucy in the candy factory. This was fun! Until
I was ready to put it on the door, and it wouldn’t
come off my hands. I finally had to hurl it against
the door, peel off my latex gloves (I only do safe
epoxy), and run to get
a putty knife.
So it Carrie as some
thing ofa relief finally,
to discover that I am
very good at some
thing. Namely, 1 have
learned that I am re
ally, really good at de
stroying things. Gotta
get the tile off the wall?
Great! Give me a ham
mer and a chisel. Need
the wall taken out?
Where’s my sledge hammer? Cabinets need to
come down? No problem!
Yes, I somehow failed to get the gay remod
eling gene in its entirety. But if I were a gay su
perhero, my name would have to be Homo
Destructus, the Gay Wrecking Ball.
Hopefully, my fixer-upper will survive. T
[Kevin Isom is the author of the hook Tongue
in Cheek and Other Places. His new hook. It Only
Hurts When I Polka, will be out this summer.
Isom may be reached at isomonline@aol.com.\
May 12, 2001 ▼ PAGE 13
Kevin Isom
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