Yesterday was the first day of Spring, and I spent most of it in a hot tub. the Czarina and her darling Andrew and I sat about, exchanging kind words, barbs, and knowing glances - good friends or long-time lovers simply know.
It was a working holiday; Andrew - a Jack-of-all-Trades (Master of Many) - repaired a car, built a wall, installed a sink, and did something involving the (front) bumper of a Lincoln Town Car - not mine. the Czarina - did I mention she was once a CFO? - and I did taxes, discussed the economy, and opined about Barack Obama's "Rainbow Tour."
We are both of the opinion that Tim Geitner will likely pull a Joceleyn Elders soon enough.
Mais, n'importe quoi ...
Last night, it was "A Streetcar Named Desire," and I could not resist either of the twin urges to ogle Marlon Brando (it should really have been in his contract that he appear naked at all times) ... and/or to affect an over-the-top Southern accent.
Despite the near constant mention of Blanche's and Stella's ancestral home, it was all too clearly an Antebellum beauty - something divine that ceased to exist once the South fell, something borrowed against for which nothing could be forgiven; Belle-Reve indeed, a ... beautiful dream.
As I lay in the Czarina's bed - betwixt she herself and the Great Prince Andrew - sultry horns beat out the soundtrack, Stanley Kowalski sweat and bulged through his shirt-sleeves, and I marveled at the terrific prominence in the night of Jasmine. There is Star Jasmine in the garden, and it emits - offers forth, really - a fragrance second only to Magnolia blossoms in Summer (heat). If there were ever a competition for the scent of the Divine (ambrosia), the two would battle to the very death.
It was as I lay (living) that I determined to revisit New Orleans, or Savannah, or maybe that hellacious heaven from which Ole Miss comes - a land that indeed spawned Blanche DuBois and Stella Kowalski.
The Old South, notable for its fallen aristocracy, is known for two very important things: lynchings and (amazing) characters.
In what I consider a great and kind, long-standing tradition of this Old South, passive aggression is at its best enacted. The Frenemy - a hateful, often soul-less, wanton thing - is never averse to taking advantage of the misfortune(s) of others. Amanda is an old frenemy and neighbor of the Czarina and Great Prince; she purchased a car from them, and lives in one of their homes. Kindness can only lend itself out so far, so, when Amanda failed to pay her way (again), the Czarina took back the car. While this process could certainly have flowed smoothly, it proved neither likely nor true. Amanda took up expletives, and a baseball bat.
In the end, petty threats and pointless offers notwithstanding, the vehicle in question was back in the Czarina's palace driveway - where it languished for only a day. The Frenemy, upon hearing of this great and varied mayhem leaped upon the opportunity. In his defense, the 1987 (Indy Pace Vehicle) Dodge Dakota - with racing stripes (and cum stains - his doing, mind you), was not QUITE his style. He actually desperately wants my 1979 Lincoln Town Coupe, but that's neither here nor there; I am not giving up the lovely beast.
Given the option(s) of dual power seats, digital displays, leather interior, and a very cold A/C, the Frenemy is in whore heaven (and once again, my mind wanders to New Orleans). Before my night of Jasmine and the Quarter began, the Frenemy pulled away (in his big, green Town Car) beaming and, in theory, ready for a "busy" night.
As to the heretofore alluded passive aggression let me say simply that the Great Prince commented that he'd rather have my car - a solid steel concoction with mechanical rather than digital parts. Computerized engines and internal details are trouble - mechanically and otherwise. Amusingly, my 1979 Lincoln has 150,465 miles. The Frenemy's 1994 Lincoln has 230,000 miles! I drove the '94 Lincoln yesterday; somewhere around 92 miles per hour (digital read-out) I thought it was perhaps a car worth having. If the car lasts more than a year, I'll be amused.
He's happy now; that's enough, no?
And on the implied subject(s) of naivete (and/or idiocy), I was at my usual haunt - Web House - when I encountered a beautiful man, He was 6'5" or so, broad-shouldered and narrow-hipped (with one hell of an ass); he sat alone and looked a tad forlorn. I talked to him, as I have done many a man and woman over the years. I asked, among other things, his age - at some point in our dialogue - "22 and a half," he replied. It was so innocently and simply offered I almost laughed/cried. Later, in the course of advising him on a girlfriend (and flirting), he made mention that he (thought he) should be settling down, thinking of kids.
I have had few occasions in life to guffaw. Out of politesse, I refrained this time.
The beautiful boy received flirtation well, reminding me of the blond beau in "Carrington" - with whom Lytton Strachey was in love, who was in love with the ambiguously sexual Carrington. He, too, was pretty and simple. I expressed my interest, to which he replied that he realized he could truly (innocently?) love a man. We parted ways that evening - his debit card was declined and he promised to return to pay his tab. I may (or may not) encounter him again.
And on the subject of the guy I'm seeing - it is unfortunately true that I also may never see him again. the Czarina and I exchanged a knowing glance during the infamous scene in which Stanley - having, in a drunken state - beat his pregnant wife - shouts / begs, "STELLA ... Stella ..."
While Mark will never beat me, the depths of his devotion are very much in question. He apologized for a faux pas that happened the other night - a general lack of attentiveness; and yet, I have not seen or spoken to him in over a week (this after the previous occasion when I had seen or spoken to him in over a week, which was what led to the apology in the first place).
If nothing else, in the aftermath of that incredibly potent scene between Stella and Stanley, it was clear that what they shared was a tremendous bond of love ... and the sort of hunger and passion for each other akin to addiction. It was fire and heat, horns blowing sultry rhythm into the balmy Louisiana night; it was clumsy fumbling and rough humping. It was all kinds of Southern (and down below). Beneath. Right up in there ... as they say, and I am not just talkin' 'bout the sex.
What was on that screen is not in the room when the guy I'm seeing and I are there; it seems to be, it felt like it was (and surely was) on Valentine's Day ... and yet, things change - if only in the course of a fortnight.
It is now a lazy Sunday afternoon, and I am sorely in need of getting out of my clothes and mind. The familiar strains (and shouts) of Gospel music penetrate the wall between the kitchen and where I lay; I would give anything to be somewhere else - preferably in a shabby New Orleans apartment, languishing under hot and humid air, barely clad in wife-beater and cotton pants, barefoot, bawdy, and drunk.