I’ve been on a spirituality book kick for a while, and I just finished Why Is God Laughing? The Path to Joy and Spiritual Optimism by Deepak Chopra. I was getting a little tired of the dry, non-fiction format that so many self-help books employ, so I thought I’d like Deepak’s use of a fictitious narrative to reveal the secrets of the universe. The plot revolves around a famous comedian named Mickey who questions the meaning of life after his father dies. The comedian meets a mysterious, tan stranger named Francisco who serves as his spiritual guide and stalker. He teaches Mickey a variety of lessons by encouraging him to step into moving traffic on a highway, eating a fancy dinner while wearing high heels, and deciphering a lot of riddles that come in the form of really awful poetry.

The book contains a forward by Mike Meyers, and I suspect that he and Deepak had some kind of agreement that Mike would endorse his book if Deepak endorsed The Love Guru. Now, I’m all for a creative mixing of eastern and western culture. Lord knows I always wanted to be one of those twitching Japanese extras in the “Nothing Really Matters” video. I’m also one of the few people who believes every Mariah Carey video should include Godzilla, a personal dressing robot, and a room full of Japanese computer programmers who work in Mariah’s penthouse, as demonstrated in “Boy (I Need You).” However, I have to draw the line somewhere, and it might as well be here.

Instead of a sophisticated allegory full of quote-worthy pearls of wisdom and epiphany-inducing insights, Deepak offers up a trite collection of clichés that support the underlying thesis that we all worry too much. The entire book reads like a bedtime story designed to explain the secret of happiness to a fifth grader. (It turns out the secret is—and I hope you’re sitting down—not caring what happens.)

I was finishing the book on a flight home to Chicago, and when I got off the plane, I noticed a pre-teen girl sobbing and whining about something completely inconsequential. It was one of those classic 9-year-old crises that hardly merited discussion, let alone gasping for breath while sobbing and wailing. I don’t remember the exact problem. I think her sister wouldn’t share her hairbrush or stole her last chicken mcnugget or just left the terminal with a strange man. You know, the usual, ridiculous drama every parent learns to tune out. As I walked by, I sighed in disgust and thought, “Why can’t kids learn to properly evaluate the seriousness of a problem and respond calmly and rationally? All that overreacting is so annoying.”

Then I thought, “What if God sees me the same way I see this girl? What if every time I freak out about something, God thinks, ‘Sweet Jesus! Is this really necessary? Sometimes I just want to slap humanity right in the mouth and send them all to hell. That’ll give ‘em something to cry about!’” Then I thought it was unlikely that God would ever say, “Sweet Jesus!” Then I wondered what a slap from God would feel like. I imagine it would be a lot like that scene in Blankman when Damon Wayans says, “Well, slap me around and call me Susan,” then squeals like a woman when he gets slapped. But I digress. The point is, although Why Is God Laughing was about as intellectually stimulating as The Very Hungry Caterpillar, it put me in the right mindset to realize that if we’re all children of God, I really don’t want to be the kind of kid who cries over spilled milk.

I’ve been a lazy blogger lately, and I wish I could blame it on all-consuming grief over the passing of Estelle Getty. However, the truth is I’ve been busy preparing for my high school reunion. It has been a long, grueling road that has been filled with hours and hours of meticulous sunless tanner application.

On the plus side, my trip back to my old stomping grounds has been fruitful. I was just introduced to the wonders of Alexyss Tylor, a self-proclaimed relationship expert who has her own TV show on Atlanta public access called Vagina Power. It really has to be seen to be believed. I found the segment that begins around 3:20 particularly insightful. We should all be lucky enough to find a man who is willing to be there for us in sickness and in health, or at least buy us a shrimp plate from Long John Silvers.

While I’m on the subject of strong black southern women, I have to include this amazing prank phone call that was broadcast a few years ago on 95.7 Jamz, the hip-hop station in my adopted hometown of Birmingham, Alabama.

I keep hoping to bump in to Barbara whenever I go back to visit. She and Alexyss should combine forces. These women need their own basic-cable reality and/or talkshow immediately.

I’ve struggled with serious acne problems since I was 13. I’ve been on Accutane three times, used prescription creams and gels like Retin-A and Brevoxyl, taken antibiotics like tetracycline and doxycycline, tried nearly every over-the-counter treatment available, and tested infomercial skin-care systems like Proactiv. I credit Accutane for saving me from a lot of nasty scarring and making high school relatively bearable. Unfortunately, it’s a fairly drastic treatment with a lot of potential side effects. Even though I made it through several rounds with little more than chapped lips, I’m reluctant to go back on it just to control what is now a relatively mild acne problem. Plus, now that I’m nearly 28 and fighting a receding hairline, I’d rather not take anything that lists hair loss as a potential side effect. (I know I’m not painting a very flattering mental picture of myself for those of you who have never met me. I assure you I’m quite sexy in person as long as I have my drugs and creams and a wind machine.)

As a guy with problem skin AND the cheapest gay man alive, I’m always on the hunt for cheap, effective skin-care products. That’s why I was thrilled to discover acne.org. In the “store” section of the site, you can purchase an 8 oz. bottle of 2.5% benzoyl peroxide cream for around $16. (No, I’m not getting a commission for this, although I really should be. If you know the guy who runs acne.org, hook a brotha up. I’d gladly accept cash compensation or free pimple cream.) Acne.org also offers cleanser and moisturizer, but I haven’t tried them. The moisturizer doesn’t make Frugal’s “Favorite Things” because it doesn’t have any SPF. Why does this matter? Because mamma is pasty, honey-child, and she hisses like a vampire at those deadly UVA/UVB rays. (I swore when I started this blog that I’d never queen out and refer to myself in the female third-person. I am deeply sorry. I know I have let many of you down.)

I should also note that I’m a bit of a moisturizer polygamist. My cabinet is full of half-empty bottles, and I have a hard time committing to any particular brand. Lately I’ve been using Cetaphil’s Daily Facial Moisturizer, which keeps my milky-white complexion looking supple and lovely. However, I reserve the right to rekindle my love affair with Aveeno at any time. As for the acne.org cleanser, it’s not a bad deal at seven bucks. However, I’ve been using the AcneFree cleanser for a while now. I think it’s pretty similar, the cost is comparable, and it’s available at my local Target.

Remember back in June of 2007 when I was trying to find affordable, cool paintings? Well, it seems being featured on my site did wonders for the career of artist Matte Stephens. His work is now available at an Urban Outfitters near you. I checked Matte’s shop on Etsy a few days ago and was dismayed to find he didn’t have any original paintings for sale. However, it seems he now has a few available and I’m very happy to report that his prices don’t seem to have changed much. Unfortunately, however, he’s no longer living in my adopted hometown of Birmingham. According to his blog, he’s now based out of Portland, Oregon. I wonder if he was scared off by Birmingham’s exceptionally high murder rate. I hear Portlanders are a peaceful people, but who cares about a low crime rate when you can’t find a good pulled-pork sandwich within 1500 miles?

My boyfriend and I have been together for four years as of today. A friend of mine recently pointed out that this is the longest I’ve ever remained committed to anything. It was a fascinating revelation, although not entirely true. I did keep my first car for about five years, and I still have the same toaster I bought while I was in college. (In fairness to my boyfriend, I should mention that my toaster and I hardly have what I would call a close and meaningful relationship.)

Despite the inaccuracy of my best friend’s observation, it left me wondering how I’ve survived four years of monogamy. I’ve always relied on change—a new house, a new job, a new city, a new haircut—anything to fight the feeling that adulthood hasn’t turned out to be quite the rollercoaster of adventures and accomplishments that I had anticipated. So why not a new boyfriend every six to nine months to make life more interesting?

Like many people, I don’t like to be alone. I also spent enough time playing the field to realize it was overgrown with weeds and infested with vermin. When I consider what it took to find a decent guy, the thought of ditching him and starting the search all over again doesn’t seem like a particularly fun way to add interest to my autobiography. Of course, laziness and a fear of loneliness only do so much to quell my restlessness. Sometimes I need a reminder—a divine sign to remind me why I’ve stayed with the same guy for so long.

Yesterday, I spent nearly an hour begging my own poop to disappear. I had clogged the only toilet in my condo, and the situation was far more desperate than any I had ever encountered. (Not that I’ve encountered many, of course. I assure you it’s perfectly safe to let me use your toilet should you ever invite me over.) I plunged, I flushed, I plunged while flushing, then I flushed some more. Eventually, the evidence of my crime had managed to move out of sight, but the water still drained from the bowl at a painfully slow rate. There was no denying it. I had broken the toilet with my monster dookie and there seemed no way to resolve the problem without making someone else aware of it.

I tried one final, desperate flush and said a prayer to the plumbing gods. I kept picturing the man in the mural at Plumber’s Union Hall wagging his finger at me, scolding me for forgetting the vital role plumbers play in our society. Alas, my prayers went unanswered. I finally gave up, went into the living room and confessed that I had broken the toilet. My boyfriend just shook his head and laughed. “Is that why you were in there for so long?” he asked.

He came into the bathroom and inspected the toilet. I assured him that the situation was hopeless, performed a demonstration flush, and hung my head as the water level rose and fell in its own sweet time. I braced for the barrage of insults and rhetorical questions that I’d have to endure before I could call a plumber. Instead, he picked up the plunger and went to work, attacking the congested drain as if his life depended on it. Within 60 seconds, the full flush had returned in all its swirling glory. “You just didn’t have the right technique. It comes with the territory when you grow up in a house with three brothers who all take monster craps,” he said.

Needless to say, my adult life isn’t shaping up to be the glamorous thrill ride I had envisioned as a kid. Barbara Walters has yet to interview me, and even if she does, I doubt my tale of toilet tragedy and triumph will make it on her list of hot topics to address. Sometimes I wonder what life would be like without my boyfriend, and I can’t help but imagine it as a life filled with spontaneity—a stint in the peace corps building rural schoolhouses in Ecuador, a year in Tokyo teaching English in a Japanese middle school, and a trail of exotic lovers in my wake, all of them eager to tame my wanderlust and make me a permanent resident of their homelands. With that said, I also know that I’d be hard pressed to find a foreigner who understands me and makes me laugh the way my boyfriend does. More importantly, I’d have a very hard time finding one who is willing and/or able to unclog an American toilet.

There early ’90s will go down in music history as the golden age of R&B girl groups. Sadly, many of them are no longer with us. But their music lives on in our memories…and in this petty competition to rank their greatest hits! I proudly give you:

Frugal Fag’s Ultimate Early ’90s R&B Girl Group Megahit Face-Off

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Feel free to leave a comment with your nominations for honorable mentions or future face-offs!