There was an episode of The Mind of the Married Man on HBO that I found particularly funny. Until now, that is.

In this particular episode, Mike the journalist for a Chicago newspaper (are you beginning to see the attraction), has to go through and delete programs off his TiVo (I'm assuming that's what he was doing, since I don't have one – hell, I'm just happy to keep my VCR from flashing 12:00 constantly). Seems he'd recorded a couple episodes of Will & Grace and the TiVo figured that, since he liked that show, he'd probably like Queer as Folk and every other gay-oriented program on television.

I think we all feel that kind of threat to who we are from time to time.

And I'm feeling that now. I'm laughing about it, but there's a nervous tinge to the laughter.

It all started early this morning. I caught a brilliantly done documentary on Ovation about Dusty Springfield – one of my all-time favorite singers. To be honest, I really didn't know a whole lot about the woman behind the music, but the music resonated with me so strongly. She was the quintessential blue-eyed soul singer, and I loved that layering of vocal talent with emotion and life that comes out in her recordings. Damn, that woman could sing.

Now I find out that, in Great Britain, Dusty Springfield was a gay icon. She's still a favorite model for drag queens – the way Dolly Parton is idolized in the States.

Now I'm thinking I should go through my CD collection and make some edits. You see, there are Show Tunes in there – the original cast recording from The Man of La Mancha, the Leonard Bernstein re-recording of West Side Story with Kiri Te Kanawa singing the lead, the original Broadway recording of Phantom of the Opera, Guys and Dolls, Camelot – some great Broadway music.

And there's Elton John in there somewhere, and I'm now afraid that someone will find that old, old cassette of Culture Club that I have stashed in a box somewhere. And, and, and. . . Well, I have Neil Diamond recordings. And, truth be told, if you look through my old LPs, you'll find Barbra Steisand and Bette Midler and Barry Manilow.

And I've directed friends -- particularly my friend, Joy, -- to watch So Graham Norton on BBC America.

Ah, to hell with it.

As my tastes have evolved, I listen to great vocalists, great musicians. If someone wants to draw a conclusion from that, let 'em. In the immortal words of Popeye the Sailor Man, `I yam what I yam.'

In fact, I'm going to dig out that CD of Dusty in Memphis – which is and will remain an absolute classic – and plop it in the stereo.

My life is an open blog.

More soon.

It seems that, as I get older, it takes longer and longer for me to get into the Christmas Spirit. No matter how many times I see old Building & Loan in glorious black and white, it still seems I have more Mr. Potter in me than George Bailey.

Not that this situation is necessarily a bad thing.

Something occured to me last night. Advertisers go a long, long way toward making the general public think upscale when they go Christmas Shopping. You know -- tie a big red bow on a Jaguar for your beloved for Christmas. Or, if she gets embarrassed when you shout your love through the piazza, give her a whopping big diamond ring. Conspire with that new baby on what diamond-studded whatever to give the new mother.

So, how come so many people get those stupid, vapid singing fish for Christmas?

Does this mean that the advertising dollars spent to sell us all the latest Chia Pet is better spent than Jaguar's?

Oh, I know, the closest I'll come to getting a Jaguar would be if somehow, someone gives me a Barbi's Dream House with the optional sports car. And that thought isn't about to cross the mind of anyone in my family. And, after looking at my bank account -- using the term generously -- I know for certain that I'm not tying a big red bow on anything with four wheels.

But I'll be damned before I get anyone a singing trout.

More soon