Gaybrat intern to electrify brokeback Terminal

Yes. Mark Gunnells has agreed to give the Terminal the old college try, for at least one quarter. You see, staffing has been something of a slippery proposition as of late, and I didn't want to back anyone into a commitment corner they couldn't keep, so, voila!, I came up with this internship idea in order that the intern and the internee (that would be me) can both experience each other's handiwork and decide if keeping on keeping on with the firm is in the best interests of everyone involved. So, Gunnells it is with his highly dubious username 'gaybrat'. If he needs to advertise his sexuality, why not 'gayboy' or 'pinklady' or something? Brats are hard to work with, so here's to hoping it's just a feint, a shuck and jive to give his online persona a little extra panache, some zest and timbre. Or, whatever the hell else there is. Regardless of any username misgivings, I am thankful for Mr. Gunnells and his Terminal acceptance. Now it is up to H3K to turn this brat into a man! What happens in the Terminal, stays in the Terminal.

My baggage in the arms of the King

As proof of my sad destiny with new wife Lulu Rorschalk y Fleiss, here is the young king holding the bag, so to speak. Her son Samuel Aaron Fleiss and Elvis were not wed long ere I was gone jetting back to Albuquerque with new family and a brain-thrashing migraine in tow. Mind you, I needed immediate attention of the shamanistic kind that could only be found where two Pinon trees came together in the sign of the cross just east of the Taos Pueblo. Do not believe for a minute that dunderheaded notion put forth by Boligard Doomey that New Mexicans are white slavers. But that is another story for another time. Once debarked from the ABQ Sunport, we caught a limo north. God speed to my wayward heshemite accomplice Doomey! Long may he ride. And -- you will be ecstatic to know I know -- the witch doctor at the crossed pinons made short work of my insidious and damnable mal a la tete. The large infant pictured above, no doubt, shall be the source of myriad headaches to come (not to even have to utter a mention of his profligate mother!), but the lad is rather fetching and did not fuss too badly much on our limo ride into the mysteries of the high desert and beyond, leading me to come to the idiosyncratic and bipartisan conclusion that there may be hope yet indeed, where heretofore it was least expected.