“Stark, Raving Girl Friday, Interrupted”

I had the initial appointment today to resume – court-ordered – group therapy. Who says you can’t go home again? It was like chatting with an old friend – who makes you pee in a cup before you leave. Really, I had this incredible sense of déjà vu. It seemed like only a year ago (this Friday) that I was biding my time, going through group therapy and pouring out my heart, my soul, my martini shaker … reflecting on a kinder, gentler time which I was, mercifully, far too drunk to actually remember.

The kindly fellow who did my intake was not unlike loving Uncle So-and-So, who came over when Daddy was working and Mama put on her cha-cha heels. I never had one, of course – ‘cause my mother was a good, decent Christian woman – who never wore cha-cha heels in broad daylight, but I have heard stories about the kind of men this man seemed to be. His snow-white hair was combed into a perfect, shellacked homage to the Czarina’s ancient frenemy – the Fish-Man, whose wife owns “an entire peak in West Texas” and who has a penchant for the kinds of men who will either send you to heaven or send you to Heaven … if you know what I mean. I imagine, if I were a few years younger and a few years thinner, he might have asked me to put on a sailor suit and go fishing in his Dockers.

Other than the knowing glances and funny little, ‘just between us’ asides, it was a good reintroduction to what passes for DSM-IV these days. As if the problems of a lifetime – the myriad last straws that drove me to the bar (‘cause Lord only knows, I certainly wasn’t capable of driving myself …) – could be unbent by a few months of talking about how drugs are bad.

Drugs are terrible, but boredom, or misery, or whatever the hell else was going on in my head was far worse. They were temporary fixes, to be sure – but they were the only fixes available at the time, because I certainly couldn’t afford therapy before I was an addict, and – for that matter – what I receive these days hardly constitutes therapy. I am too poor to go crazy, and I really prefer the term ‘mad’ anyway. It’s more expressive.

So, I returned from my meeting with the Funny Uncle to find my boss back in the office and a mountain of work awaiting me. I have returned to the world of the working girl, and indeed – my office is 95% female. That probably explains why my boss – who is somewhere between hot and adorable – frequently finds himself playing the little brother with whom all of his heretofore unspecified sister’s friends flirt, or on whom they lavish smiles – in order to get free manual labor.

And it is then, somehow, fitting I am that guy’s girl Friday. He is - single-handedly - the IT department, so I should technically be classified an IT guy; however, given that I am not entirely sure what all those cables coming out of, and going into, that large metal thing in the middle of the room (I think it's called a server - just like that nice Latin boy the Czarina employed for a while) do, I am nobody's idea of IT.

I am getting accustomed to the swing of things, though. I discovered the break-room today, although I hear there is actually more than one. I passed a copier on the way to fix a computer the other day. And by fix, I mean that I installed Adobe Flash Player. I think the owner wanted to play “Angry Birds,” but I cannot be sure.

I have an office (space), but it is fairly small – a perfectly lovely side table – more commonly known as a night-stand – on which I have a laptop, a scanner, and when I sit at it, I have to put my legs in a drawer. I have moved up in the world, in that I have gone from a metal folding chair to a padded metal folding chair, which is actually very stylish. It's black. Which is beautiful, you know.

I really do enjoy what I do – mostly because it is not so unlike those halcyon days when I sat at the very feet of the Czarina Warrenina Joskes – hanging on her every bon mot and propping her up on her bar-stool. I was thinking of her today – as I was using a nail file to remove staples from some paperwork to be scanned. Adaptability, she would say, is key to success.

All I can say is that I am changin' all over the place – although I still feel like the same ol' me, most of the time.

A Magical History Tour, or The Long Road Home

Riding with my father - the original Old Black Man - requires a certain relaxation of the rules of time and space. He is, among other things, 85 ... and driving a very small car. Between the whine of a tiny four cylinder engine in its efforts to accelerate onto a highway, or out of the path of an oncoming truck, and my father's tendency to move slowly, I find myself resorting to a childhood habit - pressing my nose as closely into a book as humanly possible.

In retrospect, I was a nerd who needed his books in order to get through a given day - two or three or more at times, some read simultaneously ... others just resting in my little bag, waiting their turn. And while that was true then, books now provide a different kind of solace. They keep me from grabbing the door handle, or otherwise demanding to take the wheel.

A month ago, when I was dressed to the nines and on the verge of vomiting, my father drove me to school so that I could take the LSAT - the (five hours) exam one takes when one is foolish enough to want to go to law school. I arrived five minutes late, and thus I didn't take the test. I am not planning on repeating that mistake - so, by hook or crook, I will be on time this Saturday.

But back to the subject of the long road home with the Old Black Man, my father gave me one of his classic tours Friday - down 37 to 90, to New Braunfels Ave., past side streets where I once bought crack, and the HEB where he used to work - three decades ago. We drove by the Driver's License office where I failed my driving test three times, down Military - past the Chuck E. Cheese where I had six birthday parties, and where I once peed on a man in a giant rat suit. He asked if I remembered each place, and I said - with a mix of surly and sad - that indeed I did. We drove past Southeast Baptist Hospital, where my mother died - 20 years ago ...

But the tour did not end there; for one reason, or several perhaps, my father started talking about Shoney's. We were just back in from the magical history tour, and my father brought it up while I was making breakfast - a microwavable assemblage of left-overs and some eggs. He said, "How long it been since you been out to Shoney?" And I duly maintained the cool, calm, collected voice that said "I don't want to go there ... but ah hell, this is parental bonding, right?" And so I said, "Would you like to go tonight? It has been a while."

Shoney's is the bane of my dietary existence - worse, somehow, than the Burger King menu my father brings home every day, a restaurant that does not serve wine or beer, a restaurant with a plush bear as its mascot that specializes in seafood buffets. Everything's fried, and the place stinks of mediocrity and the old ... not unlike Luby's, but with flavor and fat the levels of which could stop a heart at twenty paces. Assuming, that is, that anyone who eats at Shoney's could actually make it twenty paces. The seating is arranged, I noticed - once again - such that one need only walk about 18 steps - at most - to get to the fried shrimp, gumbo, cornbread or heavily ham-hocked green beans.

It is comfort food, from which I take little comfort. I think it has more to do with the lack of wine, or maybe just the lack of conversation. My father and I do not speak, except to note that the fried fish is good or bad, that the shrimp is plentiful, and to inquire if one of us is going to make another go 'round at the buffet.

We go to Shoney's once or twice every few months. It was much more often a few years ago - when we didn't get along nearly as well, but there was a lot more money to go around.

Things changed after my mother died - a thing I find myself coming back to tonight, again and again. Maybe it's that I just lost the Czarina, but then that doesn't really seem to cover it. We drove past Southeast Baptist, where my mother had the final stroke - the last of four. And then we sat at Shoney's, in a small two-seater booth, and I could not help recall that meal 20+ years ago.

My parents celebrated their 42nd wedding anniversary at Shoney's, in 1988 - on New Year's Eve. And then, three hours later, my mother was gone. She didn't die, mind you, but instead had a stroke - the first of the aforementioned four. But she was gone that night - screaming and pissing herself and lost and gone.

But I don't think about that every time we dine there. Instead, I focus on the fact that I am with the Old Black Man, and that it's a nice thing we do together - part of a complex and sometimes ugly family history.

But then, aren't all family histories complex and sometimes ugly? Couldn't we just go to IHOP once in a while?

Mark

Midnight in the Garden of the Great Prince

I had the strangest dream last night. I was at SATF - the site of my photo shoot with Lindsay Lohan - although it was much nicer than I remember it. It was still institutional. There were still fifty bunk beds, cold steel affairs, but the bedding was 1,000 thread count, and there were leather couches in the common room. And the men were naked. Beautiful and fresh and naked, give or take the occasional towel. It was rehab in a bath-house ... and I was enjoying the view.

Pocahontas was there, as were Ova the Top and Daddy, and Mount Gay. We had this great conversation going ... about the nature of addiction and the pleasure of being naked - getting to the root of our problems, something along the lines of a Greek symposium (without togas). I was about to say something when a very pretty man with delicate features and very long blond hair walked up. He hovered near Pocahontas, and I wondered only if they were going to have sex - which seemed to be moments, seconds away from happening ... and then I saw his tail.

I was not quite vestigial - more like a pronounced, and rather active, bouncy to-do, slightly left of his coccyx. Pocahontas was visibly disturbed, and I was just a little bit less disgusted ... but, of course, he wasn't standing naked in front of me. He turned toward me, and I saw both a very pronounced and pretty member ... and another tail, this one vestigial, on his chest, just south of his left nipple. It was a very odd deformity on an otherwise angelic, lovely man.

And then I woke up.

I have no idea from whence that dream came. I'd like to say it was some sort of manifestation resulting from having just memorialized my gay Dad ... but it probably had more to do with the large amount of vodka I drank the night.

the Czarina is gone; though he died on the 23rd of December - a full month ago - we were not able to have the memorial service until this past Saturday. All the best people were there ... and the Frenemy came, too. I sobbed openly as Warren's niece sang "Wayfaring Stranger" - a song about going home. Pastor Chuck voiced a meditation about going to be with the Lord, and I sobbed, the large lesbian beside me offered me her hand, and her ample bosom, as she held me like a child, and I cried and cried and cried.

The Winter Palace buzzed with decades of friends and stories, and the old stone house was resplendent. Thanks, almost entirely, to Pocahontas - so named because of a self-proclaimed Native American heritage, and his thick, waist-length, black hair. At nearly fifty, he still has the body of a 19 year old boy - which is perhaps part of the lure . the Great Prince has a new lady of the house. Pocahontas was there when a lot of vodka and a little Viagra inspired a night of freakin' and folly. The next day, he moved in - with two duffel bags and two dogs, both Chihuahuas.

My thoughts on the subject are somewhere between upset and indifference. Enmity may be in there somewhere, too; however, it is not my place to judge. As I observed some time ago - my tenure at the Palace is done. It's not the place it used to be, and I doubt it will ever be that place again. As I noted in the eulogy I wrote last week - the Czarina's death leaves a loud, large, loving (drunk) hole in all our lives. So, who am I to raise an eyebrow if the Great Prince needs a little comfort and someone to spoon.

Mark

Merry Christmas, Baby ...

the Czarina Warrenina Joskes - Empress of All the Russias, Queen of the Steppes, Keeper of the Faith, a Living and Breathing Deity Who Has Deigned to Walk Among Us ... to Bring Us Grace and Beauty the Czarina - sat up in bed, topless and flustered.  His hair was mussed, and his eyes only half open.  It would be said that the Czarina looked a hot mess ... but such is often the result of a massive heart attack.  His kidneys failed.  His heart seized.  And when Ova the Top, the Frenemy, and I went to see the Czarina, he was too weak to even turn his head.  His wit was, however, still intact. 

Of a screaming woman in the next bed, observed, "That is the Wailing Wall ..."

He was more critical but equally tired when I saw him the next time - commenting on the lemon yellow of my sweater, and the state of the turkey with gravy half-eaten on the plate before him.  His hospital room - small, private - while nothing compared to the comforts of the Winter Palace had a certain vitality about it, which is perhaps the only reason I did not burst into tears.

I could not avoid them yesterday, though.  I was having gay laundry day (wherein you put clothes on to wash, go have a drink ... return to switch the clothes from washer to dryer, and then go have another drink; ideally, you'll have a buzz as you fold and hang things, and after you put the clothes away, you can go have another ...); so, the Frenemy and I were doing laundry at one of the local gay bars, when a mutual friend of mine and the Czarina's returned from the hospital to say the he'd taken a turn for the worse.  He aspirated in his oxygen mask, and there breathing trouble ... there is still breathing trouble.

And it set in suddenly that he might die.  I mean I knew this, of course, but there is something so very awful and poetic about dying on Christmas Day.  the Czarina expressed both a desire to stop living, several times before this most recent health crisis, and also a fear about dying on Christmas Day.  It always struck me an odd fear, and now ... now, with Christmas right around the corner, and the Czarina back in the ICU ... it may be a very sad and lonely Yuletide.

I didn't put up a tree this year.  Last year, I had four ... so maybe I get a pass this year.  No lights.  No tree.  And the only gift I am buying is a scarf for my father's Secret Santa. 

And the only gift I want is my friend, my dear friend, my gay dad, not to go away. 

Mark

The Problem of Polyester ...

Thanksgiving has never been my favorite holiday. The tendency to eat too much, the propensity toward football, and the provenance of sweet potatoes do not strike me as ideal ways in which to spend an afternoon. I suppose it is a lush's prerogative to prefer the drinking holidays - i.e. St. Patrick's Day, Christmas, New Year's Eve, both of my birthdays (long story), and two to three days per week of my choosing.

Nonetheless, I have much for which to be grateful this year, and I flung myself freely and wholeheartedly into this day - with all the aplomb, grace, and culinary skill I could muster.

I am grateful for my friends -

Ova the Top and Daddy are preparing for a big move; their lease is up, the house is built, and most of what can be packed - not the Coyote, the Caddy, the big-dicked, baby-faced queen (tenant) nor the two cats - is packed. I have been part of the process all along, and it is only by the grace of my severe allergy to their current house that I am not lifting, toting, or otherwise helping out.

the Czarina, whom I have not seen much of of late, is one moment closer to being an empress of a certain age. His birthday was last week, and I hear tell that he celebrated at La Scala - dripping diamonds and decked in fur. And because one should never dine alone - or have to pick up a check on one's own birthday, the Czarina dined with the Duchess, a diva who also wore furs and a few tastefully overdone gems. It doesn't count as a ring if at least two waiters aren't blinded by it when it catches the light from the crystal chandelier.

the Frenemy is still fumbling toward ... uh, romance. I think it's something in the air these days that everyone starts coupling, or trying to, when the holidays strike. the Frenemy's latest infatuation - someone who actually thinks that he's "a treat" is a part-time drag queen who copy-edits porn. That he lives with his ex-boyfriend, with whom he still has sex - and with whom the Frenemy intends to have sex - seems to pose little trouble for anyone involved.

Of course, my photo shoot frenemy, Joan, is still around. Though we've been (casually) acquainted for years now, and have some friends in common, talk mostly turns to the photo shoot - the people we met there, and the men about whom Joan still has moist dreams.

Maybe it's just the 4 months of captivity talking - or that I have had very little sex this year, but some of those men hold a special place in my crotch as well.
I just speak of it less often.

I am grateful for my family -

I made my first turkey today - a slow-roasted thing, fall-off-the-bone tender, and rather spicy - as I tend to prefer things to be. As I was pulling peanut butter cookies out of the oven, and sliding in sugar cookies, my cousin called. This is the same cousin - now 70 - who wrote me while at the photo shoot, the same cousin who used to say - often - 'love the sinner, hate the sin ...' and who told me, seemingly a thousand years ago, to go away and never come back ... that I had shamed the family being gay.

She told me she was proud of me today - that my cooking, hosting a gathering, taking care of a friend, was proof that I had come a long way from my selfish hedonism, and that the (family) traditions of gathering together and eating too much would not die with her. I know - my father in his middle 80s, and my cousin just turned 70 - that in less time than I expect or desire, things are going to change 'round here. And suddenly, I am part of - or leader of - that next generation of people who take care of other people, who love and provide.

A year ago, that didn't matter to me at all; this year, post-photo shoot and hell, introspection and bull-shit, it means a lot.

The turkey came out fabulously, as did the rest of the meal proper. The cookies came out great, too ... although there was an incident.

In the midst of bending over for brown sugar - which I am sure is a porn title somewhere ... in the midst of bending over for brown sugar, I suffered a blow-out. My abundant thighs overpowered my tight, vintage polyester pants.

I knew they were tight, of course, too tight, really ... but, given that I got them on and was able to both breathe and walk, I did not anticipate that my pants - from crotch to knee - would simply give in (and up). That the suit - a 3-piece suit, with reversible vest, pants, and jacket - with blue and beige plaid print on all three was a bit much (I was one feather-topped hat away from being 'Huggy Bear' - the pimp) means that the blow-out perhaps saved me from myself.

Sometimes, the mirror is your friend; sometimes, it's your enemy ... and sometimes, the mirror says, "C'mon ... I double dog dare you ..."

And speaking of clothes, I am going back to Macy's tomorrow. It's just another day at the races, and it starts at 5AM. I am grateful for my job - short-lived though it may be, and as tomorrow fast approaches, I am counting the rest of my blessings under the sheets.

Mark

Throw a big stick ...

Cable toss is a rather extraordinary event. Large, often hairy, men in kilts vie to see who can toss their big stick - the cable - the farthest. So, when I dreamed that I was attending a cable toss event, it occurred to me there were sexual overtones. The heavily-bearded men with bulging muscles (and bellies), woolly kilts, and a very casual relationship with deodorant are not my usual type, but my subconscious is always game for a challenge.

The dream ended with a bang, not a whimper ... as one of the hairy, kilted men lost control of his cable - crushing me beneath its massive weight.

In another dream, I was asleep on the Councilman's couch - minding my own, sleepy business, drunk as a frat boy (before his first gay experience), when I was awakened by a ruckus. The Chihuahua, the Beagle, and a strange assemblage of animals - a 'coon, a bunny, two beavers, and some chickens had somehow gotten into the house. There was a multi-species cat-fight going on just beyond the couch. I was confused. I was frightened. I had to fight my way out - the best way I knew how ... running from the beavers, using the bunny to beat down the 'coon, and choking the chicken(s).

Freudian(?) ... no, never, not me.

Frankly, though one has little control over the course, or the particulars, of one's dreams, I usually benefit from the sort of obtuse, impenetrable fantasies explored in numerous Kurosawa or Bergman films. They are occasionally in black-and-white. I think there was once a ninja, but that could merely have been an hallucination as that particular dream did involve the French Foreign Legion, the Sahara, and at least one camel in heat.

There may have been a mime ... but far be it from me to appear pretentious.

I have been remiss in my film class this semester. It's summer, and I am facing jail-time, so my focus is off - needless to say; nonetheless, I have seen every film we are discussing - among them: "Casablanca," "Spaceballs," "The Thing," "Spartacus," "Citizen Kane," etc. The picture is a standard one - the American canon, expanded somewhat to include Mel Brooks, a little SciFi, and horror. I think "Friday, the 13th" is part of the 10 weeks course. In any event, my paper on "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?," entitled: "My Favorite Bog: the Consequences of Knowing Each Other" was a hit, and the piece on "Casablanca" - "This is the Beginning of a Beautiful [Mess]" promises to raise eyebrows, if only for the suggestion that Peter Lorre is a desperate homosexual (another dream ... don't ask).

My own precarious legal predicament is such that I, perhaps, have desperation on the brain. It is not often, after all, that one actually finds oneself called to surrender one's own freedom - rather, it is often simply taken away - swiftly, cruelly, and without much warning (although often with much ado). That said, I find myself anxious but not desperate. I am eerily calm - convinced, if you will, that the God who protects fools, babies, ships named Enterprise (and bloggers) will somehow provide a little deus ex machina.

My awareness of the desperate - for now - is tuned upon those around me, although degrees of desperation vary from one to the next.

Ova the Top - for example - is intent on buying a house. He is intent on owning a home, and being able to move into it when his fiance, Daddy, arrives in town in a few weeks. Any number of people, including the Czarina, the Great Prince, the Frenemy, and myself think he could do better, could otherwise find a better deal than the one into which he has now entered; nonetheless, what Ova's doing is far from desperate. If anything, it fits him - practical, reasoned, and while there is compromise, it's not in the way of sacrifice. He is getting a house - which will eventually, quickly - I'd say, become a home. He will live in a subdivision, and there will be children (evil things, really ...) at play nearby, but short of living in a bath-house (to which he and Daddy might not be completely opposed) there are not a great many alternatives.

On the other hand, the Frenemy - who recently decided to rebirth his alter-ego, Tori - is not only desperate but also horny. It is said that one should never shop for groceries when hungry. If men are groceries, the Frenemy is always hungry ... and thus should perhaps never shop. Nonetheless, despite drives to Floresville for 3AM hook-ups, the acquisition of an entire S&M wardrobe for the sake of an (expensive) encounter with an escort, and countless hours spent sleeping off a buzz in a dive bar parking lot, the Frenemy maintains a near-constant supply of "trade." Moving, as he does, from one hook-up to the next (many times in succession), through a seemingly endless string of sex play(s), his modus operandi smacks not only of desperation but also of a religious devotion - likenable, it seems, to a sexual jihad.

Being the all or nothing queen that he is, the Frenemy decided to relinquish his gay self; six months, it seems, of general success with gay men who do not return phone calls, or require him to pay for a date, or who stay the night (talking) and don't put out, pales in comparison to the quantity success of blowing drunken day laborers behind dumpsters, or in the backseat.

Viva puta!

Others in my life, far less absolute individuals - with jobs, goals, and the expectation of waking up free tomorrow live lives of far less quiet (or noisy) desperation. For this, my first writing in a week or more, I find myself melancholic but hopeful.

Is it blind ambition, delusion, or hysterics that keep me going today? I wish I knew ... but I am enjoying a glass of wine for lunch, tapping away on a netbook at a heretofore undisclosed location - hoping, if I may, that you picture something more romantic than a pilfered Starbuck's WiFi connection, and the red flip-flops I am actually wearing. Picture me romantically, if you will, sitting beside a lazy river - in Gruene, or Boerne, or one of those local places I hope to frequent again soon - once the period of my unfortunate incarceration passes. Think that I am writing to you while gazing wistfully upon a deer, and sipping a Riesling at some place where it would not be unexpected to find a celebrity, but not Paris Hilton or anyone from "The Hills."

Suffice it to say, that today will be a good day.

Mark

"You're a bog, George ... a BOG ?!?!?!?!? Fix me another drink?"

The rumors of my arrest have been deftly avoided. Actually, the rumors stand as they may ... it is the reality of arrest which I avoid. The whole thing is generally legal - as the advice that staying out of jail is preferable to being in it came from an attorney, a bail bonds person, and at least one talking cat who appeared to me in a vision.

I should say that I was drowning my sorrows in a vat of vodka when the cat appeared to me, so perhaps he / she has somehow less authority than the other two, but who am I to judge?

In the time that I've been a fugitive from justice, I have developed a greater appreciation for freedom and the great many things the wide world has to offer. I avoid clubs, bars, and my favorite hipster haven like the plague itself, and I have suddenly become very fond of my womb-like bedroom - situated as it is away from windows, located in the very center of the house; my presence or absence at my father's house is impossible to discern, and that comes in handy when you are possessed of the very real possibility that the cops may come a-knockin'.

As it happens, my greatest aids and comfort in this complex little pas de deux with the system, other than the Czarina and the Great Prince - about whom I will explicate momentarily, has been the staffing service with which I've been registered for 4 years. A leader in the job placement world, and internationally known, I was eager to sign up with The Office years ago - fresh from college, newly degreed and ready to burst forth into the world. And like so many things in life to which I look forward and about which I am so optimistic, so innocently hopeful, they didn't do shit for me.

It was 2 years before I got anyone in the Office to return my phone calls, a full four years before they actually gave me an assignment. Even the charming, squeaky-voiced redhead office manager, Ryan, for whom my heart skips a beat and pants grow tight, has spurned my offers for coffee or a movie date. I think he once said, rather hesitantly - the second or third time I asked if he wanted to grab Starbuck's after work, "Well, I'm out of town this weekend ... but, you know where to find me. I'm always around ..." The words said 'maybe,' but the pinched smile and darting eyes said, 'I'm too polite to flatly turn you down.'

Ryan notwithstanding, over the past month or so, the Office has come through for me. I do have myriad skills, a few degrees under my belt, and at least a marginal knowledge of accounting principles (thank you, Czarina), so it was realistically only a matter of time before my assets started getting a little appreciation. The assignment that paid $15/hr., wherein I spent at least half my day catching up on celebrity gossip and the virtues of Go Fug Yourself, is over. The woman whose position I filled during her maternity leave returned last Monday. I spent the week there - working less and less each day - and was informed that my job was done at mid-day Friday.

I spent a lazy weekend avoiding the police that, thankfully, never came. I bided my time between barbecuing a 2" thick T-Bone steak (ribs, burgers, etc.) on an antique grill, luxuriated in the 10-person hot tub, and at some point, there was fishing.

As I mentioned once or twice before, the Czarina, the Great Prince (and their Stable Boy) have a landscaping business; actually, they have five or six businesses of various types that alternately provide a very comfortable income, which sustains the Winter Palace and our mutual bad habit(s) of being lush. It was for one of those jobs that we - like the odd family we form - piled into the royal work truck and road tripped our way to Marion, TX. I know nothing of Marion - except that, like most small towns in Texas, it is quaint ... and makes me vaguely nervous.

Oh, and the other thing I know is that there is a lovely home there, belonging to one of their clients. The place itself is impeccable - a contemporary ranch house with Matisse murals on upper walls, a sprawling pool, landscaping reminiscent of Babylon (a la the Czarina, most recently), and 20 acres of spare land, on which the man-made, professionally stocked lake sits. After the Great Prince made a minor repair of the pool, he and the Stable Boy went a-wadin', casting their lines to catch one of the large-mouth(ed) Bass that flitted occasionally just below the surface. It occurred to me - in the first hour of the fishing expedition - that the boys might have more luck just dipping a bucket into the water and waiting five minutes.

Moments later, the Great Prince landed a Bass.

the Czarina - being no great fan of fish - and the rest of us not big fans of cleaning fish, the rather large, wriggling thing was destined not for a plate but the royal Koi pond. A few months ago, in an effort to clean the pond, the Great Prince poured in a capful of bleach. The next morning, the four or five Koi that survived an assault by a very large 'coon - possibly the same one the Great Prince shot a few weeks ago - were belly up. So, it suddenly seemed apt, when heading to Marion, to restock the small, residential pond one 10 lbs. fish at a time.

Note: Slappy, as I dubbed him, has not been seen since. Whether it is that he is adapting to his new environment, or that Bass - being bottom dwellers are naturally shy - Slappy seems to prefer hiding beneath the fountain in the center of the pond, only emerging to enjoy a few bread-crumbs ... then retreating out of sight. Incidentally, Slappy is his stage name; I originally thought Bass-hole a more appropriate moniker.

I digress; back to the subject of working, and the Office, I am enjoying a temp. employee cliche, or several thereof. There was the three weeks long assignment that paid well and required little effort, of course - the start of all this. And then there was another recent job offer - $9.25/hr. that required a 128 mile daily commute and would only last 2 weeks. It entailed answering phones, and doing some basic records maintenance, at a small-town hospital I was not aware existed. I turned down the offer, which seemed to greatly dismay the young woman who called to offer it.

It occurs to me now, when did I become old enough to be indignant that the person calling with a horrible job offer is young enough to be my child?

Again, I digress, the very next morning, I received a call from the Office. Someone backed out of something, and I - having neither a life or any other prospects - am the go-to guy when such things occur. It was one of those classic ironies that seem largely to occur only to me. The offer this time was working the door at a job fair - the Diversity Job Fair. Diversity, in this instance, actually meant that the job fair was geared toward women. But, initially, I found myself amused that my black, gay, poor, over-educated and unemployed self was called upon to work the door at a diversity event.

The next event, tomorrow's, requires me to go a Home Depot warehouse to do inventory. I am counting lumber - siding, to be precise. Because the Office has a minimum hours clause in their contracts, I am getting paid for four hours of work, despite the fact that I am only allowed to be in the warehouse (and thus working) for one hour. I spoke to the company representative this morning, who observed, "Even if you do the most thorough count imaginable, you will likely be out of there in less than 30 minutes."

So, it seems the hallmark of my jobs is being well-dressed, smart enough to show up on time, and also to keep my mouth shut about the work I'm not required to do. There are perks to being over-educated, although job security is by no means one of them.

Thankfully, I at least get a few laughs here and there. When I arrived on the scene at the Diversity Job Fair, I found my co-worker quite easily. He was, of course, seated behind a table - collecting resumes, passing out the appropriate forms, and otherwise looking officious; and then there was the other thing. Although somewhere around his mid-40s, David V. - as he called himself - wore a suit (black pinstripe) that resembled something a black, Southern Baptist might wear to formal funeral - a jacket that fell to the knees, sequin trim on the lapels and pockets, wide-leg pants and square-toed shoes. I was vaguely reminded of both Elton John and Dorothy Zbornak, although the picture being completed by some very big hair, neither image quite fit.

David V.'s hair was Flock of Seagulls after male pattern baldness; he managed to avoid the dreaded comb-over, opting instead for the sort of teased-out height and flair that several drag queens I know would dub undignified. The streaks of gray were a touch of class, but it seemed more the result of not being able to afford a trip to the salon than it was a style choice. He was gay in that way that older men, raised by women, and who never had much luck (with anyone) are gay, i.e. he was nelly as the day is long but may well have been clinging to a closet door. His stories, and he told many, all began with, "Weeeeelllllllll .... to make a long story shhhhhhhoooooorrrrrrtttttt ..." insert impending irony and deep, Southern drawl.

I tuned the stories out, frankly, because I was too busy staring at the absurdly attractive men - many of them MBAs and CPAs who filtered into the crowd, clearly expecting more than they got. You know it's a sign of hard times when men who are presidents of their own companies show up at mid-day to make the rounds at a job fair, particularly one peopled by only eight companies - three of whom were the U.S. Coast Guard, the U.S. Navy, and the U.S. Army.

Other than the impure thoughts I entertained about the adorable Coast Guard recruiter - who never stopped smiling and seemed two bricks shy of a shit-house, it was a lackluster event. He, the Coast Guard recruiter, possessed the lovable idiot quality we all find so endearing, and a body ... well, let's just say that navy blue never looked so naughty.

It could just be the months without sex talking, and I am sure it is, but my hormones have been out of whack of late. Other than the sex dream where Sean suddenly appeared, I can say that I've lost both my train of thought and track of time thinking happy thoughts about every man I see.

My recent return to Incarnate Word does me no small favors. The eye candy there abounds, and it is with a seemingly obscene unconscious abandon that all those 20-somethings run around in basketball shorts and no shirts. Cruel and unusual temptation ...

My lawyer, or was it the cat(?), recommended that I secure a job and return to school - that the likelihood of my being arrested and held is slightly lessened by having something more to lose than simple freedom. It is however true that I planned to enroll in summer classes anyway, but the additional incentive didn't hurt.

I am taking a course aimlessly named, "Media Convergence," taught - as the program director commented, "by a man who apparently wrote an article in the paper, and is now somehow an expert ..." It could be 10 weeks of low academic standards and weak support, but it may offer - if nothing else - a diversion from reading, masturbation, and "Murder, She Wrote" reruns. The other course, taught by said program director, is "American Cinema." Our first assignment, a 2 page paper, is on the subject of your favorite movie.

I spend whole weekends lying between the Czarina and the Great Prince in their big, comfy bed - two dogs, a cat, and the occasional spilled cocktail in the midst - watching the very best movies. I immediately thought of the Czarina when I got the assignment, and I thought of my favorite writer. I think - inevitably - despite the Bette Davis films, the Joan Crawford dramas, despite Cukor's "The Women" and myriad musicals I've seen one time too many, that it all comes back to Tennessee Williams - "Cat on a Hot, Tin Roof" or "A Streetcar Named Desire," or maybe it's just Elizabeth Taylor films ... "Cleopatra," "A Place in the Sun," "Taming of the Shrew," "Butterfield 8," or the film about which I think I'll write my paper, "Whose Afraid of Virgina Woolf?"

When it comes right down to it, you cannot beat a simple story - unbridled animosity co-mingled with deep and unabiding affection(s), booze, adultery, more booze, and marauding off into the dark New England night. It's everything I've ever wanted ...

Mark

... pay phones are hard(er) to find ...

In the absence of my darling, much-beloved, and oft-used cell phone, I am approaching life from a different perspective – one that requires carrying quarters and being well aware of my surroundings. It is only in certain parts of town – my father’s area among them – that one even finds pay phones these days, and only occasionally does one find those that are actually working.

My cell phone is, amusingly, still working; however, where it is working in not entirely clear. It was a dark, clear night – a young man in a tuxedo, a very cold room, and absolutely no good can come from the rest of the story, save that I am now convinced it is a mad, MADD, mad, mad world …

the Czarina and the Great Prince came to my rescue; humiliation is so often its own best lesson.

Ova the Top and Daddy are adorable – precisely what I expected, if less horny (at least in public) than anticipated. We all rendezvoused at the winter palace, ostensibly for a haircut (Ova was having a big hair month) and a meet-and-greet. I met Daddy – appropriately – bent over; he was taking a picture of a rare flower in the garden, but the jokes were readily apparent. And the view was lovely.

Ellen was ready to provide aid and comfort last night, the extent of which was friendly advice, legal tips, and a browse through the weird, wide web. We lighted on seekingdesperately.blogspot.com – a blog devoted entirely to mocking / analyzing the pictures (naked and otherwise, sometimes taken with dogs, cats, pet lizards, lawn furniture in creative uses, and even dead pheasants) men post on Craig’s List in effort of, well, anything and everything – from true love to kick-stand operator. It is amazing, speaking of how far men go to score, how distracting the background of a photo can turn out to be – even with an engorged dick in the foreground. One such blog entry featured a happy, naked frat boy tapping a keg, and himself … but both Ellen and I focused not on the hot, naked drunk guy but on the toaster oven (top-of-the-line … 30 years ago) in the background. It was such a fire hazard that both of us found ourselves staring at it in mild awe. In another picture, the satin sheets and waterbed prompted not only a discussion of how the guy obviously hadn’t changed his routine since the ‘80s, but also a whole conversation about how some senior groups advocate satin sheets and satin pajamas for senior with difficulty getting into and out of bed.

Evidently, the smoothness of satin – which makes sex so amusing (not to mention, risky) – also acts as an aid for those with rheumatoid arthritis. Aside from making satin PJs very unsexy, it also seems wrong-headed – as anyone who ever wore satin boxers and hopped into bed, only to go flying off the other side, would know.

The thought of Grandma breaking a hip while wearing satin pajama pants does tend to be creepy, no?

In any event, the idle nature of the activity … and the blog site … relaxed at least a bit of the tremendous tension I’ve felt since this weekend.

Also on hand – and scene was my darling high school senior and would-be something, Kenny. Give or take his age – graduating from high school this weekend – and that he is actually queenier than me, he seems a rather good fit.

Oh well, everything’s up in the air at the moment, so let’s just play the wait and see, shall we?

Mark

"Don't forget the change ..."

the Frenemy is up to his old tricks – literally. While he is no longer buying things without telling me by way of my eBay account, a package came to my father’s house just the other day. Without telling me, and even though he has a post office box, Steven shipped his most recent eBay find to my front porch. And what was it? A very large, very short, black leather mini-skirt – from Old Navy. Clearly, the self-proclaimed “transexite” is ready to ride again.

Given that months ago, in an attempt to bury his slutty female alter-ego, he deposited the wig, the dresses, the size 12 heels and innumerable giant pairs of panties in my antique armoire, it somehow only seems fitting that additional accoutrement wind up at my house as well.

As usual, the Frenemy, proved to be the very picture of social (dis)grace. It started – as things so often do among the people I know – with drinks at a bar, Pegasus, I believe. Steven met up with an old friend, we shall call him “Piggy,” Piggy’s boyfriend, and new friends of theirs for a social evening. Apparently, the new couple were not exactly evenly matched – one being a 10 and the other somewhere around 6 ½ - and this fact prompted the Frenemy to comment, rather jealously – to the 6 ½, of course, “Wow … you’re really lucky to have him.” The offended 6 ½ asked him to repeat what he said, to clarify. Surely, no one would be so rude as to voice such a thing – although, in truth, the 6 ½ probably thinks this very thing himself on a regular basis. Steven repeated it, and the guy got upset. He went to Piggy, the Frenemy’s oldest (and dearest) friend, and Piggy then confronted the Frenemy on the subject of his frequent and recurring rudeness.

When the Frenemy called me to seek my opinion, I reminded him that some things are better left unsaid. I would have gone on to make a much bigger stink of it, but frankly – who cares? Steven was – at one point, for quite some time – my everyday. We spoke 10 or more times a day. We ran errands together groceries, laundry, the whole bit. I was thinking to myself that I did not recall when the shift occurred, when it was I reached the point where his very manner of speaking started leaving me cold, but that’s not true at all. I recall exactly.

It was some years ago, when the Frenemy wound up dating and (within 2 weeks) moving in with, the guy I was dating - Daniel. I am to this day sickened by the phrase both he and Daniel threw my way as some form of justification, “The heart knows no reason.” We started speaking again – after a year or two of comfortable silence – and I still hear the echo of that betrayal – and that wretched aphorism – in his voice in every call.

It is comforting – if you find comfort in such things – that some things never really change. And then, of course, some things do. the guy I’m seeing and I are no longer seeing each other … in any sense of the word. I ran into him yesterday when he stopped by Web House, which has for some time been the only way I ever saw him. That I had not been to Web in weeks accounted for the distance – at least the physical distance. He greeted me easily; we shared a tacit kiss, and there was a brief semblance of the old ‘us.’ It was short-lived. At some point in the course of the three or four drinks I served him while I was briefly tending bar, he opened up about his new ‘us.’

I should preface what I am about to say by noting that among the things not changed or changing is my uncanny ability to not only choose guys who have no interest in me, but who also unfortunately often become quite fond of each other. Thus, I have been damned on many, many, many occasions to standing on the side of the dance floor (or bath-house bunk bed, or my own bedroom – in one particularly unpleasant instance) watching while two (or more) of the men I’ve wanted suddenly very much want each other. It was one thing when Sean and Ova the Top threw me out of my own bed so that they could continue, uninterrupted, a marathon oral sex weekend. It was something else entirely when I learned yesterday that the guy I’m seeing is now involved with the guy I intended to go for next.

That the guy is openly crazy, a brilliant artist, well-endowed to apparently legendary proportions, and resembles Vincent Perez makes him endlessly desirable, at least in the sense that we all want the mysterious, artsy guy at one point or another. And he wants us all – the artsy guy in this case is bisexual, and the guy I’m seeing lamented that as he freely discussed his new love, and I poured another cocktail.

And sometimes things change and then go back from whence they came. the Straight Boyfriend returned to Web. He stormed out – dramatically – pulling his paintings off the wall and, defeated, spoke of absconding to Europe, away from the drama and trouble, the stress and difficulty. He may still go to Europe, but for now he is tending bar at my once and future favorite hipster haven.

the Crazy Russian is back as well. When last I heard, he was barred from entering his own bar, but he was there in all of his glory, still beleaguered – plagued by the dual dramas of his lover and his bad habit(s). He seems to have both in some sort of balance these days. the Mad Man kvetches but also manages to look the other way at all the right times.

It so often seems that the lies we tell ourselves are the only thing keeping so many of us at all sane.

The lies … and the laughter.

The other day, when the Czarina began a phone call by saying, “I was in the bedroom, and I heard my husband say ‘I need you downstairs … and bring the gun …’ ” I was halfway out the door before the next word.

the Czarina and the Great Prince, while not especially dramatic themselves, do tend to have occasional drama. And when a good Texas man calls for his gun, somethin’ is up. Or rather down. the Czarina Warrenina grabbed the .22 by the bedside table and descended the formal staircase loading a rifle. She met her husband on the back patio where he, a cigarette held in his lips and smoke curling near his eyes, put down his cocktail, picked up the gun, took aim, and fired. He fired again. And then again.

A ‘coon fell gracelessly (and dead) from a mile high Oak – landing not with a thud but a smash – annihilating a heavy, clay pot. Many amusing (and horrid) jokes were made about shooting a ‘coon – including having to clarify, in the second or third retelling of the tall tale, that the Great Prince shot a ‘coon, and no it was not the black guy next door.

The royals – the Czarina Warrenina Joskes (Empress of all the Russias, Queen of the Steppes, Keeper of the Faith, a Living and Breathing Deity who Has Deigned to Walk Among Us to Bring Us Grace and Beauty), the Great Prince, their tenant – the Viscount of the Car-port, and the Stable Boy – have been busy. Never afraid to get her hands dirty, the Czarina and her husband operate a landscaping company, a home repairs company, auto sales, auto repair, a garden planning and maintenance business, a tax prep business, bookkeeping, and they provide maintenance and management service to a number of duplexes and quad-plexes in and around the gayborhood. She and I also have a few money-making schemes in mind – schemes designed to extricate me from the cruel world of temp work, cubicles, and fluorescent lights.

While my weekends are oft spent relaxing at the Winter Palace, luxuriating in the hot tub and smoking meat on the bathtub sized pit in the backyard, I did not visit the palace this weekend.

Always on the cutting edge of fashion and disease trends, I operated under the impression this weekend that I contracted Swine Flu. It may have been the fever. Or the sweating. The cold sweats. The stomach aches. The shaking. And let’s not even get into how I finished a book – the last 50 pages of a book, mind you – while perched on the toilet. I am still having trouble speaking – my throat sufficiently sore that my already quiet voice has just today reached a level above whisper. I have consumed no solid food in three days, and only today actually feel what resembles hunger. I used the box of Kleenex in my cubicle and the boxes in three cubicles nearby.

In short, I am illin’. Blinding poverty prevents me from staying home to sleep this away, and while I am not exactly looking for a disease, it is occasionally nice to be in exclusive clubs … and a little pampering wouldn’t be so bad either.

It occurs to me that for better or worse, the light in my romantic darkness lies within the bird-like chest of an 18 year old high school senior, a mega-twink, who adores me … but is taken … and who lives in Massachusetts. The fabulous fairy is 6’4,” has a throaty voice not unlike Lauren Bacall’s and though he refuses to smell like patchouli, skips home-room and stays up past his bed-time to call me and smoke a blunt. Our conversations – peppered as they tend to be with cooing and adoration – happen most often while he is holding his breath.

Some men do tend to inspire that. the Czarina once said, of the Great Prince, “when he smiles, it lights up my whole world …” I can only hope – as I have, admittedly, always hoped – that one of these odd, busy days, in the midst of all my drama and problems, that a little light will stumble into my world.

Mark

A Shit-storm (in the Making)

I was ecstatic to find reminders that the Everything's 99 cents store across the street sells a merry and motley assemblage of items at the obvious price point; to that end, today I acquired - for less than $5 - scallops, asparagus, spinach, and a small packet of very small shrimp. I was beyond enthused when I started layering pasta and asparagus, a garlic and onion sauce, shrimp and scallops into a casserole dish.

By the time I was chowing down while pouring over someone else's homework, I reflected fondly on my weekend - the weekend of my 30th birthday, mind you, spent happily drunk and in very good company with the Czarina and the Great Prince.

I reflected not-so-fondly on my father's actions while I was gone. Being the well-meaning but controlling octogenarian that he is, my father took it upon himself to redecorate the room where I've been sleeping - my childhood bedroom. The couch he moved in when I moved out, when this became his TV room, belonged to one of his cadre of girlfriends. Seeing me still as a messy teenager, he determined that I would somehow (someday) spill something on the gray, brown, and black (with green accents) Southwestern patterned Victorian couch.

While I would offer that spilling something on such a couch would only lessen the poor thing's pain, my father's concern led him to pull it into the middle of an already small bedroom, in order to drag my heavy, large, antique head-board and foot-boards, along the steel bed rails. Consequently, when I walked into my bedroom, expecting to find the room as I left it some days ago, I find instead a shooting pain in my left foot where I stubbed a toe on the offensive / offending couch. It remained in the middle of the room.

I climbed over it - in the mid-morning darkness - to reach for the lamp that sits on a low-slung, marble table. Imagine my surprise when that, too, proved elusive. The bulb in that lamp burned out Friday morning (my actual birthday), and as I was in a rush I did not replace it. Rather than buying more light bulbs, my father simply switched out the four feet tall, blown glass, amber lamp with the hand-stitched shade that gave off the most perfect, indirect light ... for a turned wood affair that would be easily at home in the back corner of Mike Brady's den / office. It is only two feet high, has an oatmeal colored shade reminiscent of a pop-corn ceiling, and I am fairly sure that in its light I not only appear to have put on 20 lbs., but somehow actually have.

An hour later, fuming but unwilling to open the doors to yet another battle in my father's and my long, ongoing war history, I moved the offending couch out of my room (and into the kitchen - specifically - on top of the couch where my father likes to take his naps in the late evening). I hung artwork that I avoided hanging - as it implied a permanence to which I am still having difficulty considering - and I laundered all the fine bedding and vintage linens I acquired in the course of the three years I lived in my much-loved, very missed little high ceilinged studio apartment.

There was a brothel next door, and a toilet on the front lawn (only for the first three months), but it was home.

At this moment, as I pounded in the last nail, hung the lovely and awkward self-portraits of the Straight Boyfriend, and as I settled in to review the Microsoft Office 2007 textbook from which I did most of my client's homework, I thanked that ever-present figure (God, or whomever ...) that sometimes life works as it needs to, even when it is not as we want it to.

And then I shit my pants.

Well, I would have had I been wearing pants. I was poring over the text one last time before getting in the shower. I had a job interview in just under an hour, an interview that involved a skills assessment on - among other things - Microsoft Access, which I have never used and - until fairly recently - which I had never had occasion to open. I was nervous about the interview, as it is a job that could change my desperate, often crazy life into something a Camry driver might envy. So, as I shed my clothes to hop in the shower, as I memorized how to create and save a data sheet, leaning back briefly to reflect on how the bad lighting was giving me a headache, I let out a good fart, a fart of contentment at a meal well-made and a decorating job well done.

What I got was a very bad reason to throw out a very good silk duvet.

It was my indomitable great fortune that had me, twenty minutes later, driving across town on almost no gas, in a non air-conditioned car with leather interior while brewing within me were the hounds of hell. I told myself that it would all be okay - that somehow, some way, I would get through the test, the awkward - "So, what are your employment goals?" small talk, and that I would get what I needed, i.e. - simply - a job.

I got through the skills assessment in record time, and my accuracy was exceptionally high. Whether this was owing to the hour I spent - with a cocktail and determination - on the Czarina's computer, the step-by-step Microsoft provided guide, or the incredible motivating factor of not wanting to crap my pants, we may never know. Suffice it to say, I was glad when the exceptionally busy staffing representative gave me her card, shook my hand, and told me to expect a call the next day.

I am at home now - doing someone else's homework, thinking about my old apartment, and hovering as close to the bathroom as my hard-wired, 10 years old Apple laptop will allow.

Mark

Hide, and Go Drink (Or, A Funny Thing Happened on the Way Up the Nile)

If the only things certain are death and taxes, it bears saying, a little death never hurt anyone. As I crawled into the Czarina's large and welcoming bed, we cued up "Death On the Nile" - an old and divine film peopled by such notables as Bette Davis, Maggie Smith (as her maid), David Niven, Peter Ustinov (as Hercule Poirot), and Mia Farrow (reprising the role of fragile waif - a la Daisy from "The Great Gatsby," or the easily undone Rosemary from "Rosemary's Baby"). "Death On the Nile" is a typical Agatha Christie work - a cozy of a sort - the whole of things taking place on a paddle boat cruising down a lazy river.

There's a shooting, or two, a piece of pyramid rains down very nearly on someone's head, and then there is - of course - the cobra.

I digress, the movie was a lovely part of happy, slow-moving, and festive Easter weekend. It was a welcome respite from the recent, sudden infusion (or is it invasion) of drama at the home of the Czarina and her Great Prince. Locking herself behind heavy doors, a rifle at the ready - warning shots only, of course - the Empress of the Russias, Queen of the Steppes, listened as a mad man yelled into the night. The offender was not one of the usual players - i.e. a mad man, not the Mad Man(ny).

Scott handles the Czarina's investments, but it seems her forte lies in stirring the proverbial pot. He holds an untellable but significant amount of the royal funds, has fired off a dozen or so biting emails, staged a one-man intervention over the Czarina's tendency to drink heavily and infrequently fall down. That Scott wants the Great Prince, called Warren's mother a whore and engaged in all manner of bad manners does not endear him to the household (and I am certain the fates are not so thrilled with him either.

Never one to be undone by idiocy of any pale, the Czarina dumped a few pounds of rock salt into the guest bed - to ensure Scott's rest and beauty, of course.

And on the subject of rest and of beauty, Warren and I luxuriated Saturday in some his finery - for him, a hand-crafted and immensely heavy red brocade kimono with silk dragonfly embroidery and several dozen tassels - each larger and more menacing than the last. I, being the more demure among us, opted for vintage - a 1934 papal robe (funny hot notwithstanding), beneath which I remained butt naked ... and drunk.

Drunk is the order of the household. I am fairly certain it is an unspoken edict, save that it is actually often spoken. Being a good Southerner, one never accepts a caller without the offer of food, a cocktail, and - in some cases - poppers, lube, and a sex toy of one's choosing.

Amusingly, the Great Prince and the Czarina engage in an odd but hilarious fickle folly. I think of it as hide, and go drink ... being lush, there is seldom - if ever - a shortage of spirits; however, Andrew tends to abscond with the vodka; ostensibly, it is to keep his lover from getting too lush ... but it's also just a handy way to save a few pennies. the Czarina, meanwhile, typically bypasses this problem by buying two bottles and hiding once before the Great Prince can get to it. Consequently, you may open a little used cabinet or reach into a closet ... or even, as was the most recent case, lift the cat and lo - there is just a little bit of Heaven (Hill - 80 proof and just $10 per bottle) to call your own.

Tom - of the lazy eye and auto-fellatio - whom we dearly adore, and our dear Ova the Top, went marauding the other day. As I may fail to mention, Ova, the Frenemy, and myself all bout our cars from the Czarina and the Great Prince, a fact that is only a note because it necessitates somewhat regular trips over to the palace, for repairs or to make payments. On a recent visit, Ova rode along with Her Highness to inspect a property. Though it seems unlikely, the regents want to down-size the palace - dumping the rather sprawling stone manse for something on one level - Russian royals in a ranch!?!?

The atomic ranch in question - although possibly the sit of a quadruple homicide - was ranch by way of 1970s bath-house, replete with wet bar, beer taps, a kidney shaped pool, and a gazebo-topped jacuzzi whom which Warren commented he could picture John Holmes emerging.

Alas, no 13" members appeared to tantalize or terrify, and Ova spent a good part of the galavant on the phone with Daddy - his lover, fiance, and soon-to-be husband (and homeowner). Together with Daddy, another Caddy, an Odie and a Yote ... an ersatz drag queen and a red-nosed pit bull, Ova the Top is movin' on up, possibly to the East side, and into what may well be a very large house.

The pit bull, by the way, followed him home - I think to make of him a light snack.

Of course, as best laid plans go, things so oft go wickedly awry. I report with only the slightest hint(s) of sadness and regret that I have abandoned my beloved hipster haven. Web House, as I noted the other day - with its smoke-filled jazz bar air - is in decline. The rumors of its death, however, are greatly exaggerated. Yes, last weekend, the TABC (Texas Alcoholic Beverage Commission) canceled the Web House liquor license. Beers were served surreptitiously in coffee cups; wine and liquor merited Dixie cups, and shots were anybody's guess. The credit card machine was down and the Crazy Russian financed our mutual distraction with checks that could have melted Pyrex. When the (ahem ...) smoke cleared, we had been up and around, drunk and debauched for three days straight (or is it crooked), and after retrieving the car I chose wisely not to attempt to drive - on a warm, clear Monday morning, the land-lord changed the locks and padlocked the front gate.

Enter the Mad Man, who - with an exhausted and put-upon tone in his lightly lisping voice - called me at 6PM, with a sense of resignation. When he called at 10PM, Web House was once again open and at play - spiders, ghosts, dealers, hipsters, et al. The TV was missing, the DJ confused ... but the bar - shaky floor and life-sized Manet mural, the Crazy Russian, the Mad Man, my boyfriend and all.

Before that shit-storm resumes, I will note for the record that I no longer see the guy I'm seeing. His return to the bar, the Russian, and whatever else he enjoys posted a departure from me. To put it simply (and with great pretentiousness) toujours l'amour ... mais, c'est la vie ... The last time we spoke it was a drunken 3AM mis-dial. Forget Paris.

My great fondness for Chuck Palahniuk's Fugitives & Refugees, coupled with a mild affinity for rainy summer nights and boys who smell of patchouli has me packing to move to Portland; closer inspection of my Ph.D. prospects may well land me in Davis, CA. I shall have to sell my land yacht and invest in a bio-diesel Volkswagen bus.

I think I just got ahead of myself. Two weeks ago - having recently become reacquainted with the intellectuals chat room on gay.com - I remembered that outside of San Antonio, people do actually hit on me and are actually intrigued. I was initially lamenting the lack of challenge or rigor in my graduate studies to date, and that spun into reflecting on probation, drug addiction, unemployment, a non-existent romantic (or even sex) life, and suddenly I was up all night browsing English department websites. I know my personal demons will surely have my forwarding address, a change seems not only in order but very long overdue.

Hmm ... overdue ... as evidence that there are still some great gifts left to give in this world, a dear friend and flower child with the appropriate connections made my day. By "accidentally" deleting $250 of a 12 years old library fine, this not so mysterious benefactor, has given me back books ... to say nothing of CDs, LPs, DVDs, and several other abbreviations I'm certain to have forgotten in the course of my girlish glee. My desire to race home to search the catalog is unparalleled and exceptionally nerdy.

I feel like my old self.

According to Texas, I am 30. Well, I will be Friday. Due to an odd inversion of my actual birth date - July 14th - the state of Texas, including my probation officer, the legal system, and at least one drug dealer are under the mistaken impression I'm about to be another year older. 30 is a mile-stone, to be sure - made moreso by my post-jail, job hunt(ing), horny, drunk limbo.

So, hell ... a very merry (un)birthday to ME.

Mark

Hang 'Em High, or Dem Ol' Cotton-fields Backs Home

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.

Mark

"What is Victory for a Cat on a Hot Tin Roof?"

Among the myriad advantages to living at home (e.g. a free place to live; utilities, cell phone, etc. paid for; the new flat panel TV ...), there are other odd perks. Speaking as one who is fond of both antiques and pretty things, the fact that my mother was an avid shopper and my father cheated on her for 30 or so years provides its own unique advantage. We come from the old Southern tradition - the one where wives looked the other way when husbands stepped out, and accepted - for their ambivalence - a fur coat and the occasional new Cadillac. My mother had a mink, a new Cutlass every two years, and there are seven sets of silver in four different antique cabinets - in the near vicinity of the eight sets of China.

That said, I am drowning my sorrows with vodka in a cut crystal high-ball glass, filled with 2" x 2" cubes from a vintage '50s steel ice tray. The glass weighs more than the bottle of vodka from which I'm filling it.

the Czarina, her husband and I crawled into bed again last night - it was "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof," and Maggie the Cat was my spirit animal. I had the urge for whiskey and the desire to enjoy a rainstorm on a Southern night in a deep, dark, Bible Belt evening ...

(lynching notwithstanding, of course ...)

I experienced a little Blanche DuBois-esque breakdown of my very own just the other day. It was a dark and stormy night - actually, just cold and oddly clear; I was wearing virgin wool and thinking unimaginably dirty things about the tall, thin, bespectacled guy who occasionally wanders into Web House ... and sitting with my darling lazy-eyed friend, the one with the Joan Crawford car who can suck his own dick and is celebrating turning 30 by shooting a porno (while claiming to be 29 still), when shit went down.

It was not only bad enough that the guy I'm seeing walked into the bar without saying hi or otherwise acknowledging my presence; I am not so easily undone. No, I was actually undone by a coat. It was a cheap coat, something simple of an indeterminate fabric, black and white - checked - a coat my mother wore every cool day and winter evening throughout my childhood. At first, I just thought it was familiar ... and then I saw the stain on the left pocket, and the torn lining - something my mother always intended to fix, but never did. There was a hipster where a 5'7" black woman should be - a slight woman, very pale, with that odd, bi-level cut / color thing ... with bleached blond hair on top and chocolate brown hair on the bottom, layered, blended and falling to mid-back.

I thought she seemed out-of-place, in the coat and the world at-large. I suppose I would think that of anyone in my mother's clothes. I never caught her name, nor did it matter. As an avid vintage and thrift store shopper, I cannot fault her for the coat - although I shudder at the thought that she was wearing it ironically, as hipsters tend to do.

My father came into my room earlier, as he is want to do; he made mention of several things - large and small, tedious and mind-numbing, and then he reminded me of March 13th. Not far from the Ides of March, March 13th was my mother's birthday. She'd be 92 this year, and I neither forgot nor remembered the day. It seems odd to run into such an obvious reminder of her so close to her birthday; it was just two days ago now that I saw the hipster in the black checked coat, two days after Mom's birthday.

I find myself saying / thinking, once again, how odd it is that - although in many ways I still feel like a child, or at least a petulant teen - I can say that something happened 20 years ago and know that I was alive and aware and living in it all that many years ago. 20 years ago I wrote my mother's obituary; I planned a funeral and couldn't cry because it had yet sunk in that my whole world was in that coffin. I saw only another decade of ennui before me - living with my father's cooking and my unending loneliness.

Did I mention that my probation officer is a little person? She is less than three feet tall, and rather stacked for a short woman. She rides about on a Rascal (motorized cart), her badge affixed to the basket in the front. I must say I was a bit taken aback, but I am a good Southern belle and find that one should always put a brave face (and a fifth of whiskey) to whatever challenges life might offer up. In truth, the little person I met the other day is not my probation officer; rather, she was covering for my probation officer - who, on a side note, resembles Kathleen Turner's "V. I. Warshawski" - a terrible film, but a really impressive woman.

I do have the sense that my P.O. could kick in my teeth and not muss her bangs. She has a curling iron and a can of hair spray sitting on her window ledge, a detail I find odd given how butch she appears to be ... but then the midget I met with the other day had a back-up battery, a can of soup, and a picture of the Pope (Jon Paul II) on her desk; what we do with our individual offices is not necessarily in keeping with one's level of butch ... or ability to walk.

Is it wrong that when I encountered the midget P.O. I thought not of "Little People, Big World" but rather the porn star, "Bridget the Midget"? If you have neither seen nor heard of her, you must go immediately to Wikkipedia (she does have a page, of course). It bears saying that for a little girl, she can do quite a lot - and yes, as a black man, I observe that we are indeed all that big. In any case, I somehow doubt that the Midget P.O. - papal decorations and all - is a gang-bang slut who does anal like I watch TV - without thought or much interest.

Speaking of anal cum sluts, I think I managed to oust the Frenemy (again). I have very little interest in his company, and even less in his opinions, and it seems that that point finally came through. The other day, when the Auto-Fellater and I were gassing up at a nearby station, Steven stopped by to chat at us. I was neither in the mood for or tolerant of his company, and it was short work dismissing him. I ordered him away, and his unwillingness to be embarrassed in front of someone he might try to seduce drove him away. He has not called or emailed since then, and I find it refreshing.

Given the name, the Frenemy, it should come as no surprise that Steven often endeavors to undercut or otherwise insult me, but some of his recent actions / statements proved too much. It is not enough that he stole from me the first guy I ever dated - carried on with him behind my back, and moved in after only seeing each other for 2 weeks; it is not enough that he threw me out of his house because he wanted to be alone with the diseased hooker on whom he heaped his affections; not enough that he speaks down to me and brags about his frequent and constant sexual exploits; he is also attempting to undermine my relationship(s) with several people, including Erik (an old friend and minor love interest), Tom, and the Czarina.

When I mentioned, that fateful night with the coat and the meltdown, that I had a date, the Frenemy's bemused incredulity was at-once patronizing and pissing me off. Of course, the problem with patronizing statements is that they bear a burden of truth. I say that I hate to hear, "Oh don't worry, your time will come ..." whether regarding a job or my love life, it is just the height of crap to hear that wretched bone thrown out yet again.

For better or worse (and it surely seems to be bad), Steven is dating. In addition to his sexual meandering, the Frenemy has taken to trying to find true love - by way of a 26" waist, a short, thin, mildly girly 20-something, and a lot of hickeys. While I am still struggling to find a regular friend with benefits, and the holy grail of a boyfriend who acknowledges my presence in the room (or, for that matter, existence in general), Steven had 4 dates last weekend. Insult to injury, he called me to plan the dates - endeavoring, obviously, both to rub in that I was date-less while simultaneously taking advantage of my creativity.

I am thankfully immune to his particular brand of clumsy unpleasantness, disinterested in picking up the lonely threads of his negative discourse; I am, however, lonely and in need of a hand down my pants. Something about the nature of the guy I'm seeing and myself - our relationship - leaves me cold.

What a difference a day makes ... 24 little hours ...

If I were in my own home, alone in my old apartment - my much-loved and very missed apartment - I would have that song on, playing low and quiet in the background while I type away these missives and think about how best to approach this new (old) job - scoring tests at Pearson (formerly Harcourt).

It is nearly 3AM. My father's parked his car on the front lawn again, and I am nowhere near sleepy. It is a good night for an open window and some comfortably crawling jazz ... too bad I have neither at my disposal just now.

I find myself in need of repose. I am - to put it simply - overwhelmed and undone these days, barely hanging on to what is clearly a life not-quite-ordinary. That brings me to the movie, and to the line from which I draw the title of this submission. "What is victory for a cat on a hot tin roof?


In Southern: "Just stayin' on, I guess ... for as long as I can." I - my darlin' - am just tryin' to stay on, I guess.


Mark

Moments of Greatness, or The Night The Lights Went Out at Web House

the Czarina and I had a marvelous day. I went over ostensibly to hang out, and to make a payment on my fabulous, big car. We had gumbo. We ran a few errands. And then the mayhem ensued. In her grand defense, Warren is no longer drinking. Job-hunting and a sinus infection have kept him off the bottle (and on the wagon) for just over a week now. It is a pleasure to see the Czarina I used to know - fresh, clear-headed, witty, biting (not bitter), sharp and just a bit silly. I was offered tea. We watched a 3 hour piece on the History Channel, and when I wandered off at the end of a lovely, smart, innocent evening with a dear friend, we were in the midst of "Casablanca."

Mind you, the evening was not entirely free of "event." Andrew, Warren's partner, had friends over - two people who were about three steps from a Jerry Springer episode. The 20-something "wife" attached to the 40-something trucker showed up at the house lit, loud, and demanding vodka. Warren and I retired to his bedroom and RuPaul, and Andrew entertained the motley two downstairs.

Side note: RuPaul; if you don't have LOGO - and really, who does? - you may be unaware of the most recent among the crop of reality TV competitions (a la Bravo's "Top Chef," "Project Runway," "Shear Genius," etc.). RuPaul Andre Charles - of "Supermodel" fame (in the wee small hours of 1995) - hosts a show wherein drag queens compete for the title of drag superstar, It was a whole lot of over-the-top with nods toward AIDS, charities, and cut-throat bitches (or just another night in any gay scene anywhere).

And speaking of over-the-top, at one point while the Czarina and I were watching a documentary, Andrew wandered into the bedroom pant-less and bitchy. The trucker, it seems, peed his pants. How this actually relates to Andrew being without pants we remain unsure. There was also some concern that the peeing happened inside the house where various couches and rugs could have been harmed in the making of this mockery.

Eventually, Andrew - the nicest guy in the world - got into a screaming match with the live Springer episode in his driveway; he threw them out and one of the other hangers-on - a 30-something virgin - drove the white trash home. Warren and I watched the proceedings from their upstairs balcony, before returning to our DVR and the first emperor of China.

None of it seemed the least bit out of the ordinary, really; I learned some time ago that one of the best things about having good friends, and quite a few of them, and friends who themselves tend toward the dramatic, is that you get to see the most interesting shows. You also have quite a few very odd experiences yourself.

Two weeks ago, my friendship with Warren, and the various members of the gay car club - the Classy Chassis - led to going away for the weekend. I may have mentioned this before, but it bears repeating; we enjoyed a splendid weekend of food and drinking, laughing and fishing, and all manner of old movies and bad '60s TV shows on DVD. "Lost in Space," darlings ... "Lost in Space."

Last night was also about food and drink. I suppose all the best times are. I was at Web House one more time - the straight boyfriend tends bar there now; last night was his first night. Clad in all-black, with a fedora and a goofy smile, our favorite artist and barista turned bar-wench smiled his way through a good night and learned how to pour a drink or two. the Man and the Crazy Russian were both in house, getting along strangely well and rekindling all their old positive energy. It was, dare I say, sweet ... charming even. I tried to leave a time or two, and Manny leaped upon me - actually buying my drinks. I was there until nearly 6AM - chatting, drinking wine, helping with the closing.

I am at the end of what was a very short (8 weeks) and relatively pleasant semester. Post-jail, I needed the orienting experience of being a graduate student; however, more and more I realize that if I have any chance in hell of advancing either my career or myself, I need to move. I need to leave this city - with which I have actually fallen in love, give or take being a native - and pursue something else. I need a rigorous graduate program - a doctoral program seems in order now; academics are more forgiving of legal faux pas than some other practitioners.

And - per the incredibly esoteric and obtuse conversation(s) I enjoyed last night - about anthropology; linguistics; modern art (sculpture); Russian versus French literature; even local government / politics - I know that I am destined to be the geek I was before drugs and a social addiction got in the way. Have you ever seen, "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?"?

I am thinking of George and Martha at the moment; I am thinking of that hellacious night in that cozy shack, that crowded collegiate space with books and booze. That was my apartment. That is my present TV room / bedroom. And I am both that "bog" professor and his embattled wife - Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor, which is a fitting description of the various aspects of my personality (and the war within).

I think I'll go rent that movie for this evening; after class, after the semester ends (this evening); after I attempt to see the guy I'm seeing, a movie seems in order. "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?" - I love romantic comedies.

Mark

VD - Not Just a Social Disease Anymore

For many years now, my single friends and I - and the occasional other bitter pills with which I associate, and who "fondly" recall their single days - Valentine's Day has not so affectionately been VD. A common social disease for sailors and ne'erdowells the world over a few decades ago, it seemed an apt way to summarize a made-up and very commercial holiday. Other than selling tons of flowers, chocolate, stuffed toys, etc., VD is also the day that makes single folk everywhere feel the uncomfortable pressure to partner up or face the unpleasant reality of feeling like a romantic loser.

I have long suffered as a singleton, and I am not yet a convert to the wacky world of being partnered; however I am happy to report (very happy indeed) that for the first time in my life, I had a date this year. The date was the guy I'm seeing, my on-again, off-again long time play buddy. I announced to him that we should date a week or so ago, which you would think wouldn't be a big leap as we have been making out and playing around for 3 or 4 years now, and yet it needed to be said. Note: when I proposed this idea, he actually seemed surprised - but he reacted with a friendly, smiling and lackluster, "Okay."

Romance isn't dead.

So, the day before Valentine's Day, when I said to my new "partner," that we should have a date on VD, he again responded with a rather lackluster, "Okay, but we have to do something cheap - 'cause I'm so broke right now."

I actually thought he was going to back out, which would be why I actually spent the day with an old high school friend, Ellen. We had a fabulous time of it - sitting in my room, chatting while she was knitting (such a charming and old-school habit, for which I admire her greatly). I toy with the idea of taking up knitting, but really - do I need to be any gayer? Anyway, so we hit up Wal-Mart and engaged in what is either the worse kind of excess, or just a good ol' time - depending on how you spin it. We went to Wal-Mart to acquire steak and lobster tails - partially paid for by her LoneStar card.

I know, I know. The obvious objections to someone on welfare buying steak and lobster leap to mind, but this would be the friend whose husband left her for her cousin; the LoneStar card thing is a by-product of a bad situation and she is using it exactly as it is meant to be used - as a supplement. She is working and in school, and the kids are well-fed ... and, after that meal, so too is her poor but sophisticated gay best friend.

That said, we had a lovely VD with lovely food ... and it was so much fun just cooking with a friend, something we should all do a lot more often, don't you think? There was wine and feta stuffed olives, peach cobbler and all.

I followed this up with drinks and ribaldry with my darling friend, Loaded - who I need to start seeing more often. The spot was Sparks, a gay bar on Walzem Rd., well off the beaten path. Sparks has two things going for it, a devoted neighborhood crowd and the presence of apparently every black gay in San Antonio. I saw more black ass that night than I've seen in years ... and that was just when one particularly large man decided to drop trou.

Loaded and I wound up heading back to the gayborhood; it was near midnight, and I actually got a message or two from the guy I'm seeing asking where I was. I went shopping earlier in the day, picking up some lovely items -including a vintage suit. Whether me or the suit, Mark was happy to see me. And I don't even mean that in the usual dirty ways. I mean that as I was standing at the bar, as he walked through the doors from the kitchen, his face lit up.

A week or so ago, the Czarina and I were in my car and headed over to meet his partner at one of their properties. Andrew smiled as we pulled up, and Warren commented, "You know, seeing his smile makes my whole day." It was a rare and lovely moment, simply honest and purely loving. Life requires as many of those as possible, and for once what Mark and I shared was not lackluster; it was magic. His face lit up upon seeing me, and it was all I could do to take him in my arms and feel his arms around me - to fall into him and kiss with an innocent, deep passion ... the very thing that comes from knowing someone a long time, and feeling each other - for better and for worse.

A few minutes later, when I commented that he was my first Valentine (ever), that it was nice to have someone, Mark uttered the two words I didn't realize I longed to hear until I heard them, "I'm yours."

Romance really isn't dead.

The rest of the weekend was lovely ; I spent it with Mark, and something about waking up (late) with him, Monday morning, just felt about right.

Mark