I had a dream involving my mother. I have no idea what it was about ... as it came and went as spirits tend to do. Whether I was comforted or disturbed, I cannot say either; it was a whisper in the midst of noise.
Life is noisy of late - a clamor of depression, frustration, and uploading country music to my computer. In the absence of blues LPs, country fills a void - a boozing, lonely, wife-beating, deer hunting, coon hound having void.
I have been remiss in my reading of late - choosing drunken sex and time with the guy I was THEN seeing over gay murder mysteries. I feel their call. A Habit for Death - about a nun serial killer in a Catholic boys' school suddenly seems more powerful than a dirty martini.
I've got a killer to catch ... Sister Clarissa Darling must be avenged ...
Showing posts with label the guy I'm seeing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label the guy I'm seeing. Show all posts
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Friday, June 5, 2009
Plenty of fish in the ...
When Lysander observes, “the course of true love never did run smooth, “ (Midsummer Night’s Dream) he said a mouthful brother … although, in truth, what I am dealing with is neither true love or even good lovin’. As it happens the series of unfortunate events that is my love life has moved from the ridiculous to the absurd. Keep in mind that I certainly have plenty bigger fish to fry these days than to worry about my love life, or even getting laid; nonetheless, man cannot live on bread alone.
A man has needs …
the Frenemy being the frenemy he is commented the other day that he saw the guy I’m seeing and our favorite Russian buddy buddy(ing) about at the grocery store the other day. As things go, one never needs to hear much about one’s exes, something that the Frenemy never quite seems to grasp. Mind you, this is someone who spent three years stalking a guy he slept with a total of three times. In truth, I haven’t thought much of the guy I’m seeing since our thing dissolved – give or take finding out that he is now dating the guy with whom I wanted to rebound. Four years, all things considered, fly by without much ado – particularly given that our thing largely consisted of doing drugs together and making out in the occasional bar restroom. Ah, young love …
I have been lucky enough – thinking of it now – to have had some lovely, long-term bed buddies (although none of them made it to boyfriend status). And yet it is – I suppose a question of degrees. Rodney – the pale, bone-thin, accounting major (who was a convicted sex offender, mind you) – had an instant willingness to play. He was passive to the point of resembling a blow-up doll. I don’t recall how it ended … but somehow, a fade-out occurred.
Brian wrote beautiful poetry – about his dead lover; we listened to the Carpenters while he talked about the plans he and his lover had together, or pored over old photo albums. That we were naked when these things occurred was the few actual nods to a sex life we enjoyed. He dumped me when I applied to law school – said he couldn’t bear to lose another man in his life.
the guy I’m seeing, of course, never saw me in daylight; we had breakfast together once – separate checks, please – and drinks together many times … among other less than legal associations. The sex was never reciprocal although the drive was mutual. Despite the amazing kisses, and occasionally passing out together post-blowjob, we could never sleep together. It was a motley assemblage of arms and legs, with injury around every elbow or corner. I somehow think the black eye he wore the last time I saw him has more to do with more bad sleep chemistry than it does with any domestic violence.
Mikey – who enjoyed fisting – blew my mind, among other parts. He was smart, funny, kinky, playful and in constant want of large black man, individually or in a group setting. After three years of wearing him like a glove, I still got exciting from just him walking into a room. If there is God in this world, he is in rehab … or post-rehab … has moved to a religious colony in the mountains of some very small town. His demons caught up with him shortly before my own did with me.
While the rest of my sex life – before, after, and certainly during college – is a blur of ups, downs, and the occasional sideways, the sum of the tragic comedy that is my life occurred just the other night. I met Roger online. We seemed to hit it off well enough, and one late night, spent hours sitting on my father’s front porch – innocently chatting. We shared a kiss and parted ways somewhere around 5AM. When I didn’t hear from him, I assumed it was just another missed connection … and then he called. It was 2AM, and he was drunk, and wanted company. I know this by way of the voicemail he left – the five voicemails, actually. I was in bed at the time, and was indeed in bed the next three or four nights when he called at 2 or 3 in the morning.
Not exactly in the mood to be someone’s booty call, but also in need of a little attention, I called him – at a decent hour – and suggested we get together. He picked me up, and as I could not play at my place, and he could not play at his, we decided to get a motel room – or I did anyway. I brought the necessary requirements, a bottle of booze, a change of clothes, and condoms. I think it was halfway through the bottle when the frank conversation started – one I’ve heard time and again over the years – the “I like you, but just not in that way …” I was finishing the next glass when he proposed I get a hooker … a twink … that way, we could both play.
I toyed with the idea for whole seconds, before determining that I’d rather right off a night without nookie than pick up a crack hoe, especially on my dime. We went round and round on that before I simply demanded to be driven home. He refused. Under the auspices that he was too drunk to drive all the way back to my place and then get himself home, he suggested I stay in the room, that I perhaps get a hooker on my own, that I have a friend pick me up … in other words, he was done with me. After more bitching, he begrudgingly agreed to pay for the taxi to send me on my way.
I believe the taxi ride cost approximately a tenth of what I spent on the evening, but it was the tedium of yet another rejection that stung much more than the lingering feeling I was played. As things go, counting down my remaining days of freedom, I am half-tempted to get in as much fun and frivolity as I may, and otherwise find myself wanting to lock myself away in a monastery – safe from the temptations, thrills, rejection(s), and other such things that made up the previous two years.
At some point, the party’s over …
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
"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.
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.’
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
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 Czarina and the Great Prince, while not especially dramatic themselves, do tend to have occasional drama. And when a good
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Date Wrecks, (Or - L is for Larceny)
My recent return to the 'intellectuals' chat room on gay.com has had a very amusing series of effects on my psyche and / or love-life. As I have mentioned before, I have a complete and seemingly eternal inability to be loved - or even liked much - in this city; so, it's nice to have attractive men offering to fly to San Antonio - from Portland, or San Francisco, or Kabul - to enjoy my company (and innumerable charms).
It sets the bar rather high, and - while there were no men in this city interested as it were - now, I am chomping at the bit to make the run (away) to some fine, intellectual paradise - where I may once-again find tiny studios with hardwood floors and lots of natural lighting, where I can sleep with a guy who gets my erudite references and has seen "Death on the Nile" or "It's a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World," and so on ...
Of course, under the auspices of intellectualism, the strangest bed-fellows (and - at least in my case - potential bed-fellows) do combine. Someone with whom I was chatting, in one of the cities to which I am most interested in moving - Portland, OR - asked me about my type. I responded that I like a man who is pale, thin, smells of patchouli and beeswax - someone with polyester pants, beat-up shoes, waist-length (blond) dreadlocks - someone with an affinity for jazz music, great sex, and over-priced aesthetic thrills, who learned at some point how to acquire them on a grad student budget, a charming mo-fo who has the good sense to prefer a vintage Mercedes to a Volkswagen Bus, and who looks damned good naked - which he would often be.
But that's just an idea. I haven't given it much thought.
The man who asked, and who lives in Portland, is paralyzed. He is young, around my age, and no longer has use of his hands (or legs). He, as we discussed one odd night, can still get an erection (but cannot cum).
And then there's the guy in the VW Bus; for one reason or another, I know two or three guys who have one (or several), and only one of them lives in Portland. The guy I met online lived in his Bus for five months - until the seals that leaked every time it rained, drove him mad to the point of renting a studio apartment with hardwood floors and lots of natural lighting. I think, however, that he is one of those people who has draped blankets (or vintage '50s curtains) over the windows in order to suit his odd schedule / life-style.
Victor has the stink of patchouli, and a pot-dealing ex who he visits with some regularity. Through the haze of crippling poverty, he has forsworn his affection(s) - along with a willingness to visit, or host, and get naked.
And then there's Kenney - who reminds me of the worst combinations of both Brian Kinney and Justin ("Queer As Folk") - in Framingham, MA; we met over a discussion about physics, and its impact on the end of the world. I barely held my own - influenced largely by two Stephen Hawking articles and a few chapters from Bill Bryson's A Short History of Nearly Everything. He barely held his own - influenced by the instructor (who - I'm guessing - reeks of patchouli). They take "smoke" breaks together, Kenny and this instructor. He, Kenny, is a high school senior, caught somewhere between 17, 18, and 1965.
I am enamored of a cursor. My greatest romantic entanglements have been, and are at present, the result of clandestine connections across thousands of miles.
Some years ago, there was Adam - Adam Mizer (which bore far too close a resemblance to the perfume bottle) - who was at a very exclusive North East school - earning his Master of Fine Arts degree. He was, as I affectionately dubbed him, the "cyber stalker." He would always show up when I got online, called me often and we spoke for hours, sent me an Hermes scarf and tried to send a Mies van der Rohe chair - but the shipping was too pricey. I inspired his affection, and he answered my desire for romance and a nightly chat partner. We never met, but somehow that added to the charm. He dumped me when - after months of being afraid to send me his picture, owing to his major self-esteem issues ... and a propensity to sweat profusely for no apparent reason - I sent him one. He never responded - just disappeared one day.
The pain was unbearable for whole seconds, and then bitchy set in.
Recently - in a moment of weakness (and sincere longing) - I messaged the guy I'm seeing with the simple missive, "I miss you." - to which I received the reply, several hours later, "Miss me? Reload." What I initially took to be humor proved later to be another instance of cool indifference; I say this because my reply, "You are a strange, but lovely man ..." went unanswered, and the implications - to a couple who did drugs together - of the word, 'reload' suddenly set in.
I digress. Also recently, my dear friend and frequent commiserate, Ellen - who, you may recall, is presently dating / doing the ex (husband) she spent most of the last two years divorcing, wants me to submit something to DateWrecks.com. Frankly, I find the concept amusing - and there does need to be a bigger gay presence on that web-site - but really? Where does one begin?
There was the date - with the hair-dresser - who, when I agreed to have coffee after the movie, took me to AA; "the coffee's great here, and you can meet my friends ..."; there was the guy who turned our second date into a drug run - replete with driving all over the worst parts of the city, chasing a drug dealer with a cell phone, a bus pass, and a difficulty with both truth and scheduling, and then there's James.
James was a physics major at Trinity, the other expensive liberal arts college within a few blocks of the expensive liberal arts college from which I graduated. We had a date in our freshman year, and then met up again for a date five years later. I do not know why we decided on a "second" date, other than the obvious - that we were both lonely and, thus, open.
When James and I met, he had just lost 80 lbs. It was one of the things about which we bonded - my weight loss a few years back - and his then current (and on-going physical transformation). We enjoyed no chemistry - fumbling, as it were, through a quiet and lovely (but expensive) dinner, an even more awkward walk in the park, and then an embarrassing uncertainty regarding what may well have been a good night kiss, that wound up being just an ass grab.
As I said, I don't know why we were mutually interested in meeting again. Nonetheless, we chatted a few times online, and then the offer came up - I forget which of us proffered the notion. It was 2006, and I was optimistic. He still did not drive, and had no car - accordingly. I picked him up at the school where he was then teaching. Admittedly, we had a date five years prior, so it was not exactly a 'first' impression, but whatever the number the impression was not initially a happy one.
He had gained back those 80 pounds, and seemingly added about 60 pounds - just for good measure, or perhaps to ensure that he could withstand gale force winds. He dressed to impress in white khakis, a blue plaid shirt, a black belt, brown Velcro strapped (hiking) sandals, and white socks. We failed to plan the date, so after some hemming and hawing, we decided to have dinner and see a movie.
It sets the bar rather high, and - while there were no men in this city interested as it were - now, I am chomping at the bit to make the run (away) to some fine, intellectual paradise - where I may once-again find tiny studios with hardwood floors and lots of natural lighting, where I can sleep with a guy who gets my erudite references and has seen "Death on the Nile" or "It's a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World," and so on ...
Of course, under the auspices of intellectualism, the strangest bed-fellows (and - at least in my case - potential bed-fellows) do combine. Someone with whom I was chatting, in one of the cities to which I am most interested in moving - Portland, OR - asked me about my type. I responded that I like a man who is pale, thin, smells of patchouli and beeswax - someone with polyester pants, beat-up shoes, waist-length (blond) dreadlocks - someone with an affinity for jazz music, great sex, and over-priced aesthetic thrills, who learned at some point how to acquire them on a grad student budget, a charming mo-fo who has the good sense to prefer a vintage Mercedes to a Volkswagen Bus, and who looks damned good naked - which he would often be.
But that's just an idea. I haven't given it much thought.
The man who asked, and who lives in Portland, is paralyzed. He is young, around my age, and no longer has use of his hands (or legs). He, as we discussed one odd night, can still get an erection (but cannot cum).
And then there's the guy in the VW Bus; for one reason or another, I know two or three guys who have one (or several), and only one of them lives in Portland. The guy I met online lived in his Bus for five months - until the seals that leaked every time it rained, drove him mad to the point of renting a studio apartment with hardwood floors and lots of natural lighting. I think, however, that he is one of those people who has draped blankets (or vintage '50s curtains) over the windows in order to suit his odd schedule / life-style.
Victor has the stink of patchouli, and a pot-dealing ex who he visits with some regularity. Through the haze of crippling poverty, he has forsworn his affection(s) - along with a willingness to visit, or host, and get naked.
And then there's Kenney - who reminds me of the worst combinations of both Brian Kinney and Justin ("Queer As Folk") - in Framingham, MA; we met over a discussion about physics, and its impact on the end of the world. I barely held my own - influenced largely by two Stephen Hawking articles and a few chapters from Bill Bryson's A Short History of Nearly Everything. He barely held his own - influenced by the instructor (who - I'm guessing - reeks of patchouli). They take "smoke" breaks together, Kenny and this instructor. He, Kenny, is a high school senior, caught somewhere between 17, 18, and 1965.
I am enamored of a cursor. My greatest romantic entanglements have been, and are at present, the result of clandestine connections across thousands of miles.
Some years ago, there was Adam - Adam Mizer (which bore far too close a resemblance to the perfume bottle) - who was at a very exclusive North East school - earning his Master of Fine Arts degree. He was, as I affectionately dubbed him, the "cyber stalker." He would always show up when I got online, called me often and we spoke for hours, sent me an Hermes scarf and tried to send a Mies van der Rohe chair - but the shipping was too pricey. I inspired his affection, and he answered my desire for romance and a nightly chat partner. We never met, but somehow that added to the charm. He dumped me when - after months of being afraid to send me his picture, owing to his major self-esteem issues ... and a propensity to sweat profusely for no apparent reason - I sent him one. He never responded - just disappeared one day.
The pain was unbearable for whole seconds, and then bitchy set in.
Recently - in a moment of weakness (and sincere longing) - I messaged the guy I'm seeing with the simple missive, "I miss you." - to which I received the reply, several hours later, "Miss me? Reload." What I initially took to be humor proved later to be another instance of cool indifference; I say this because my reply, "You are a strange, but lovely man ..." went unanswered, and the implications - to a couple who did drugs together - of the word, 'reload' suddenly set in.
I digress. Also recently, my dear friend and frequent commiserate, Ellen - who, you may recall, is presently dating / doing the ex (husband) she spent most of the last two years divorcing, wants me to submit something to DateWrecks.com. Frankly, I find the concept amusing - and there does need to be a bigger gay presence on that web-site - but really? Where does one begin?
There was the date - with the hair-dresser - who, when I agreed to have coffee after the movie, took me to AA; "the coffee's great here, and you can meet my friends ..."; there was the guy who turned our second date into a drug run - replete with driving all over the worst parts of the city, chasing a drug dealer with a cell phone, a bus pass, and a difficulty with both truth and scheduling, and then there's James.
James was a physics major at Trinity, the other expensive liberal arts college within a few blocks of the expensive liberal arts college from which I graduated. We had a date in our freshman year, and then met up again for a date five years later. I do not know why we decided on a "second" date, other than the obvious - that we were both lonely and, thus, open.
When James and I met, he had just lost 80 lbs. It was one of the things about which we bonded - my weight loss a few years back - and his then current (and on-going physical transformation). We enjoyed no chemistry - fumbling, as it were, through a quiet and lovely (but expensive) dinner, an even more awkward walk in the park, and then an embarrassing uncertainty regarding what may well have been a good night kiss, that wound up being just an ass grab.
As I said, I don't know why we were mutually interested in meeting again. Nonetheless, we chatted a few times online, and then the offer came up - I forget which of us proffered the notion. It was 2006, and I was optimistic. He still did not drive, and had no car - accordingly. I picked him up at the school where he was then teaching. Admittedly, we had a date five years prior, so it was not exactly a 'first' impression, but whatever the number the impression was not initially a happy one.
He had gained back those 80 pounds, and seemingly added about 60 pounds - just for good measure, or perhaps to ensure that he could withstand gale force winds. He dressed to impress in white khakis, a blue plaid shirt, a black belt, brown Velcro strapped (hiking) sandals, and white socks. We failed to plan the date, so after some hemming and hawing, we decided to have dinner and see a movie.
We went out to his favorite place - California Pizza Kitchen. He chewed with his mouth open and I kept wanting to reach over and not only close his mouth but pick from his teeth the spinach wedged there from his lunch four hours earlier. We finished our food over the course of what seemed hours - but was, in fact, just under an hour, and in just enough time for us to miss the movie.
I took two mojitos just to get through dinner, and so - when he suggested a book-store rather than finding a different movie to see, I was amenable to the concept. We went to browse Borders Books ... which proved to be the only shining light in an otherwise dull evening. The conversation sparkled; in this area, he / we shone. We read all the same books - even the obscure philosophy texts, and one or two of the physics books. We walked and talked for over an hour - going up and down and up again every aisle and section of the store, up to and including a review of the kids' section and all the books we loved as children.
I took two mojitos just to get through dinner, and so - when he suggested a book-store rather than finding a different movie to see, I was amenable to the concept. We went to browse Borders Books ... which proved to be the only shining light in an otherwise dull evening. The conversation sparkled; in this area, he / we shone. We read all the same books - even the obscure philosophy texts, and one or two of the physics books. We walked and talked for over an hour - going up and down and up again every aisle and section of the store, up to and including a review of the kids' section and all the books we loved as children.
The whole time, he was picking up books and had quite an armful when we decided to go for movie tickets. There was quite a line at the main register stand, so James veered toward the coffee bar. I was two steps away from explaining that they probably wouldn't cash out his 11 books at the coffee bar, when he suddenly veered away from the counter and out the side door of Borders.
At this point, my being a black man in a very white neighborhood, I envisioned two armed guards - and some random citizens, for good measure - beating me with batons and/or clearance books. I was deciding the best course of action - which was, at that point, to either report the fat queen or run. When in doubt, the New York Times is a haven for those in question. I picked up a copy of the paper of record for our times, looking about nervously for the foot patrol, and then thought better of it. I got to my truck to find the fat queen, spinach still in his teeth, looking indignant - and having stashed his ill-gotten booty in the bed of my truck.
I was in mid-read when it occurred to us both that leaving would be good. I parked in the movie theater lot across the street and suggested to James that his behavior was perhaps uncouth. He retorted with some spiel about the evils of corporate America, that Borders had no right to charge such an exorbitant amount for the books he liked to read, that on his income he could not possibly afford to maintain his reading schedule. I reminded him of the existence of libraries - as I was starting the car, and while dropping him off at his mother's apartment took the opportunity to point out both the bits of food still in his mouth and the ill-advised choices he made re. belt, shoes, and socks worn with sandals.
Now, and I say with equals measures of shame (and amusement) that James and I actually had a second date. Essentially, he called to apologize - weeks later - but the apology came across more as an ongoing indictment of a system gone wrong than a heartfelt mea culpa on the subject of rudeness and petty larceny. Maybe because I was lonely that day, or because he asked, or because - further still - I like odd people (like a highly educated math geek who comes from a wealthy family of lawyers), I agreed to pick James up for what was - in essence - a second date.
We saw "V for Vendetta" and he talked through the entire film; I was in tears at the end (having already seen it twice, mind you). The film was perhaps a bit too heavy-handed in the midst of the Bush administration, the War on Terror, etc., but it touched all the right places. I cried. I sought political and social links. I admired Natalie Portman. I want to meet Stephen Fry. I was awash in pleasure and charm(s) - even on a third viewing, and then James turned to me - during the closing credits - to compare 'V' to Osama bin Laden. There was what I would consider a juvenile debate about the black and white aspects of the right / wrong dyad ...
Needless to say, there was no third date. I have not seen James since that unpleasant night in 2006, although he sent me a message online a few months later - to tell me about his boyfriend, a junior at Trinity - a tall, thin white boy who found him fascinating - and who, being a vegan, often had spinach in his teeth.
Mark
At this point, my being a black man in a very white neighborhood, I envisioned two armed guards - and some random citizens, for good measure - beating me with batons and/or clearance books. I was deciding the best course of action - which was, at that point, to either report the fat queen or run. When in doubt, the New York Times is a haven for those in question. I picked up a copy of the paper of record for our times, looking about nervously for the foot patrol, and then thought better of it. I got to my truck to find the fat queen, spinach still in his teeth, looking indignant - and having stashed his ill-gotten booty in the bed of my truck.
I was in mid-read when it occurred to us both that leaving would be good. I parked in the movie theater lot across the street and suggested to James that his behavior was perhaps uncouth. He retorted with some spiel about the evils of corporate America, that Borders had no right to charge such an exorbitant amount for the books he liked to read, that on his income he could not possibly afford to maintain his reading schedule. I reminded him of the existence of libraries - as I was starting the car, and while dropping him off at his mother's apartment took the opportunity to point out both the bits of food still in his mouth and the ill-advised choices he made re. belt, shoes, and socks worn with sandals.
Now, and I say with equals measures of shame (and amusement) that James and I actually had a second date. Essentially, he called to apologize - weeks later - but the apology came across more as an ongoing indictment of a system gone wrong than a heartfelt mea culpa on the subject of rudeness and petty larceny. Maybe because I was lonely that day, or because he asked, or because - further still - I like odd people (like a highly educated math geek who comes from a wealthy family of lawyers), I agreed to pick James up for what was - in essence - a second date.
We saw "V for Vendetta" and he talked through the entire film; I was in tears at the end (having already seen it twice, mind you). The film was perhaps a bit too heavy-handed in the midst of the Bush administration, the War on Terror, etc., but it touched all the right places. I cried. I sought political and social links. I admired Natalie Portman. I want to meet Stephen Fry. I was awash in pleasure and charm(s) - even on a third viewing, and then James turned to me - during the closing credits - to compare 'V' to Osama bin Laden. There was what I would consider a juvenile debate about the black and white aspects of the right / wrong dyad ...
Needless to say, there was no third date. I have not seen James since that unpleasant night in 2006, although he sent me a message online a few months later - to tell me about his boyfriend, a junior at Trinity - a tall, thin white boy who found him fascinating - and who, being a vegan, often had spinach in his teeth.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
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
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
Friday, April 3, 2009
The Night the Lights Went Out at Web House (part deux), Or Guess Who's Coming to the Drag Show
My favorite haunt - the quirky and smoky, small and dirty bar with the cinder block walls and creaky hardwood floors, the place that thumps with a jazz club beat, that demands a cigarette-panted hipster snapping her fingers to a rag-tag rhythm - Web House is in decline.
It all started before the bar opened - nearly three years ago now, or was it seven years ago when the Mad Man and the Russian first made their acquaintance? Only time or the fates will tell. Another regular and I were talking about the patterns of this our favorite hole-in-the-wall.
the Mad Man bloviates on the tragedy of his life - the abusive lover who alienates affection and has a substance abuse issue, the never-ending flow of funds from his account with little or no return, he drinks and we all suffer. Eventually, the stress and (in)fighting get to be too much and Manny retreats. He focuses on work, stays away - at their country home - removed, relying on phone calls, emails, and wild suppositions to comfort himself.
Meanwhile, the Crazy Russian indulges; the top shelf liquor is free-flowing, the cash drawer a refillable piggy bank of 'mad money.' You don't tell the owner no, least of all one with sniper training and easy access to an assault rifle.
When the week-long binge is done, the Russian sleeps for days and the Mad Man returns to pick up the pieces. It's a pattern that, although it has only played out over the past two and a half years, feels somehow age-old and time-honored.
Quite recently, in the middle of last week, when the Russian curled up on a bar-room couch, smelling vaguely of day-old crack and fresh cigarettes, I showed up to a bar with no electricity and very few supplies. They were out of gin, out of beer, out of ice, and Coca-Cola. The dedicated drunks, among them two professors, a high level executive, three bartenders, and a BMW mechanic sat in candlelight, our tabs recorded on a cocktail napkin. Cell phones and a lone flashlight lit the way into the kitchen to fetch the last cubes of ice or a clean high-ball glass. It was bohemian, broken - our musical accompaniment the hold music on the electric company hot-line the Mad Man put on speaker.
As it grew darker, the night coming on quickly, and the CPS people still within their window of 4PM to midnight to come back and restore power, the Straight Boyfriend and I sat in the front room, doing shots by candlelight and relying on the street lights out front to find our cigarette packs and lighters.
He worked there for a month - maybe more - became a damned good bartender, and even took on the dubious task of managing the bar, picking up liquor orders, coming in on his days off to help with this task or that, and he even marshaled the biggest and most appealing event Web House has to offer - the once monthly First Sunday art happening. All that said and done, he cannot collect a paycheck.
I said to him just last night that I think I am the only bartender who ever worked there and was paid. The various friends, acquaintances, and former lovers who manned the bar relied on tips and free (gourmet) meals for their compensation. My greatest check while working there was somewhere around one hundred dollars, and the $42 check I received one week bounced (although it was made good within minutes of a phone call to the Mad Man). The darling boy's tips were larger than mine ever were, but that's another matter. When the Mad Man refused to pay him - Monday - the Straight Boyfriend took his work (his art) and his dignity and walked away.
There is much to be said for having the balls to stand one's ground, and I will say that for the kid, he's got style.
And on the subject(s) of style and substance, my dear Ova the Top - he with the lazy eye, who can suck his own dick - is getting married. Tom's lover of the past year or so, Daddy, proposed two days ago. It was supposed to be a surprise, and would probably have happened while Tom was in Vegas, in July, for his birthday ... but life happens.
We joked about this months ago. Ova the Top's mother was / is planning a surprise party, and Daddy had his own surprise (party) planned - a porno shoot. The two of them were going to make a porn (for wide release, by a small fetish studio) - a fitting 30th birthday gift for a leather daddy and his boy. Daddy is moving here, to be with Ova, probably in just a few weeks ... as is one of Daddy's oldest friends, who will rent a room in Ova's house.
This prompted me to observe that Tom's household will soon include: a Daddy, another Caddy, a Yote, and an Odie ... and a drag queen in the second bedroom.
Yote is his hyper-active Coyote and Odie the drag queen's chihuahua.
It is another lazy Friday, and I am looking out on this (potentially) quiet weekend. Things have gone far South with the guy I'm seeing, and my romantic prospects have slipped quietly back into an uncomfortable slumber. Much as I loathe hearing, and would otherwise avoid even thinking it, I find some solace at this moment, in the uneasy knowledge that my time will come. I have absolutely nothing - no romantic history or successful flirtation(s) - to cite as evidence, and the not-so-secret truth is that it may never come, but for now ... it is just a lazy Friday.
It all started before the bar opened - nearly three years ago now, or was it seven years ago when the Mad Man and the Russian first made their acquaintance? Only time or the fates will tell. Another regular and I were talking about the patterns of this our favorite hole-in-the-wall.
the Mad Man bloviates on the tragedy of his life - the abusive lover who alienates affection and has a substance abuse issue, the never-ending flow of funds from his account with little or no return, he drinks and we all suffer. Eventually, the stress and (in)fighting get to be too much and Manny retreats. He focuses on work, stays away - at their country home - removed, relying on phone calls, emails, and wild suppositions to comfort himself.
Meanwhile, the Crazy Russian indulges; the top shelf liquor is free-flowing, the cash drawer a refillable piggy bank of 'mad money.' You don't tell the owner no, least of all one with sniper training and easy access to an assault rifle.
When the week-long binge is done, the Russian sleeps for days and the Mad Man returns to pick up the pieces. It's a pattern that, although it has only played out over the past two and a half years, feels somehow age-old and time-honored.
Quite recently, in the middle of last week, when the Russian curled up on a bar-room couch, smelling vaguely of day-old crack and fresh cigarettes, I showed up to a bar with no electricity and very few supplies. They were out of gin, out of beer, out of ice, and Coca-Cola. The dedicated drunks, among them two professors, a high level executive, three bartenders, and a BMW mechanic sat in candlelight, our tabs recorded on a cocktail napkin. Cell phones and a lone flashlight lit the way into the kitchen to fetch the last cubes of ice or a clean high-ball glass. It was bohemian, broken - our musical accompaniment the hold music on the electric company hot-line the Mad Man put on speaker.
As it grew darker, the night coming on quickly, and the CPS people still within their window of 4PM to midnight to come back and restore power, the Straight Boyfriend and I sat in the front room, doing shots by candlelight and relying on the street lights out front to find our cigarette packs and lighters.
He worked there for a month - maybe more - became a damned good bartender, and even took on the dubious task of managing the bar, picking up liquor orders, coming in on his days off to help with this task or that, and he even marshaled the biggest and most appealing event Web House has to offer - the once monthly First Sunday art happening. All that said and done, he cannot collect a paycheck.
I said to him just last night that I think I am the only bartender who ever worked there and was paid. The various friends, acquaintances, and former lovers who manned the bar relied on tips and free (gourmet) meals for their compensation. My greatest check while working there was somewhere around one hundred dollars, and the $42 check I received one week bounced (although it was made good within minutes of a phone call to the Mad Man). The darling boy's tips were larger than mine ever were, but that's another matter. When the Mad Man refused to pay him - Monday - the Straight Boyfriend took his work (his art) and his dignity and walked away.
There is much to be said for having the balls to stand one's ground, and I will say that for the kid, he's got style.
And on the subject(s) of style and substance, my dear Ova the Top - he with the lazy eye, who can suck his own dick - is getting married. Tom's lover of the past year or so, Daddy, proposed two days ago. It was supposed to be a surprise, and would probably have happened while Tom was in Vegas, in July, for his birthday ... but life happens.
We joked about this months ago. Ova the Top's mother was / is planning a surprise party, and Daddy had his own surprise (party) planned - a porno shoot. The two of them were going to make a porn (for wide release, by a small fetish studio) - a fitting 30th birthday gift for a leather daddy and his boy. Daddy is moving here, to be with Ova, probably in just a few weeks ... as is one of Daddy's oldest friends, who will rent a room in Ova's house.
This prompted me to observe that Tom's household will soon include: a Daddy, another Caddy, a Yote, and an Odie ... and a drag queen in the second bedroom.
Yote is his hyper-active Coyote and Odie the drag queen's chihuahua.
It is another lazy Friday, and I am looking out on this (potentially) quiet weekend. Things have gone far South with the guy I'm seeing, and my romantic prospects have slipped quietly back into an uncomfortable slumber. Much as I loathe hearing, and would otherwise avoid even thinking it, I find some solace at this moment, in the uneasy knowledge that my time will come. I have absolutely nothing - no romantic history or successful flirtation(s) - to cite as evidence, and the not-so-secret truth is that it may never come, but for now ... it is just a lazy Friday.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
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
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
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
"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
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
Thursday, March 5, 2009
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
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
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
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
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
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