Up, up, and Away ... (Or, "Dog on a Cold, Wood Limb")

On a bright and sunshiny day in the great state of Michigan, the sun was shining, a Spring breeze cooled those browsing through the Dixie Land Flea Market. The weather was shifty that day, as it tends to be in Spring - so, surely no one expected to see Tinker Belle fly by.

Tinker Belle is an 8 months old Chihuahua who was picked up by a 70 MPH gust of wind, lifted from the trailer to which she was leashed, and flew - like the Disney fairy for which she was unfortunately named.

The elderly couple (Dorothy and Lavern Utley), who stood - horrified - while their beloved dog blew away, tried to catch her; however a 5 lbs. dog and a 70 MPH wind make for a rather speedy exit. After two days of searching, the distraught couple called a local radio show - which, for one reason or another, happened to actually have a pet psychic on.

The psychic - and this says so much for what reading the minds of Schnauzers can do for you - advised that the couple was looking in the right spot ... but too low. Yes, yes indeed ... Tinker Belle - propelled by strong winds, perhaps even the faint smell of Kibble in the air - flew 3/4 of a mile away, and was 'nesting' in a tree.

As many a bemused "local interest" reporter commented - begrudgingly eying anchor desks all over the country, Tinker Belle was fine - although hungry. It was ultimately a good day for Dorothy, "... and her little dog, too."

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.

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.

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

A Shit-storm (in the Making)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then I shit my pants.

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

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

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

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

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

Mark

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I feel like my old self.

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

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

Mark

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.

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

Yesterday was the first day of Spring, and I spent most of it in a hot tub. the Czarina and her darling Andrew and I sat about, exchanging kind words, barbs, and knowing glances - good friends or long-time lovers simply know.

It was a working holiday; Andrew - a Jack-of-all-Trades (Master of Many) - repaired a car, built a wall, installed a sink, and did something involving the (front) bumper of a Lincoln Town Car - not mine. the Czarina - did I mention she was once a CFO? - and I did taxes, discussed the economy, and opined about Barack Obama's "Rainbow Tour."

We are both of the opinion that Tim Geitner will likely pull a Joceleyn Elders soon enough.

Mais, n'importe quoi ...

Last night, it was "A Streetcar Named Desire," and I could not resist either of the twin urges to ogle Marlon Brando (it should really have been in his contract that he appear naked at all times) ... and/or to affect an over-the-top Southern accent.

Despite the near constant mention of Blanche's and Stella's ancestral home, it was all too clearly an Antebellum beauty - something divine that ceased to exist once the South fell, something borrowed against for which nothing could be forgiven; Belle-Reve indeed, a ... beautiful dream.

As I lay in the Czarina's bed - betwixt she herself and the Great Prince Andrew - sultry horns beat out the soundtrack, Stanley Kowalski sweat and bulged through his shirt-sleeves, and I marveled at the terrific prominence in the night of Jasmine. There is Star Jasmine in the garden, and it emits - offers forth, really - a fragrance second only to Magnolia blossoms in Summer (heat). If there were ever a competition for the scent of the Divine (ambrosia), the two would battle to the very death.

It was as I lay (living) that I determined to revisit New Orleans, or Savannah, or maybe that hellacious heaven from which Ole Miss comes - a land that indeed spawned Blanche DuBois and Stella Kowalski.

The Old South, notable for its fallen aristocracy, is known for two very important things: lynchings and (amazing) characters.

In what I consider a great and kind, long-standing tradition of this Old South, passive aggression is at its best enacted. The Frenemy - a hateful, often soul-less, wanton thing - is never averse to taking advantage of the misfortune(s) of others. Amanda is an old frenemy and neighbor of the Czarina and Great Prince; she purchased a car from them, and lives in one of their homes. Kindness can only lend itself out so far, so, when Amanda failed to pay her way (again), the Czarina took back the car. While this process could certainly have flowed smoothly, it proved neither likely nor true. Amanda took up expletives, and a baseball bat.

In the end, petty threats and pointless offers notwithstanding, the vehicle in question was back in the Czarina's palace driveway - where it languished for only a day. The Frenemy, upon hearing of this great and varied mayhem leaped upon the opportunity. In his defense, the 1987 (Indy Pace Vehicle) Dodge Dakota - with racing stripes (and cum stains - his doing, mind you), was not QUITE his style. He actually desperately wants my 1979 Lincoln Town Coupe, but that's neither here nor there; I am not giving up the lovely beast.

Given the option(s) of dual power seats, digital displays, leather interior, and a very cold A/C, the Frenemy is in whore heaven (and once again, my mind wanders to New Orleans). Before my night of Jasmine and the Quarter began, the Frenemy pulled away (in his big, green Town Car) beaming and, in theory, ready for a "busy" night.

As to the heretofore alluded passive aggression let me say simply that the Great Prince commented that he'd rather have my car - a solid steel concoction with mechanical rather than digital parts. Computerized engines and internal details are trouble - mechanically and otherwise. Amusingly, my 1979 Lincoln has 150,465 miles. The Frenemy's 1994 Lincoln has 230,000 miles! I drove the '94 Lincoln yesterday; somewhere around 92 miles per hour (digital read-out) I thought it was perhaps a car worth having. If the car lasts more than a year, I'll be amused.

He's happy now; that's enough, no?

And on the implied subject(s) of naivete (and/or idiocy), I was at my usual haunt - Web House - when I encountered a beautiful man, He was 6'5" or so, broad-shouldered and narrow-hipped (with one hell of an ass); he sat alone and looked a tad forlorn. I talked to him, as I have done many a man and woman over the years. I asked, among other things, his age - at some point in our dialogue - "22 and a half," he replied. It was so innocently and simply offered I almost laughed/cried. Later, in the course of advising him on a girlfriend (and flirting), he made mention that he (thought he) should be settling down, thinking of kids.

I have had few occasions in life to guffaw. Out of politesse, I refrained this time.

The beautiful boy received flirtation well, reminding me of the blond beau in "Carrington" - with whom Lytton Strachey was in love, who was in love with the ambiguously sexual Carrington. He, too, was pretty and simple. I expressed my interest, to which he replied that he realized he could truly (innocently?) love a man. We parted ways that evening - his debit card was declined and he promised to return to pay his tab. I may (or may not) encounter him again.

And on the subject of the guy I'm seeing - it is unfortunately true that I also may never see him again. the Czarina and I exchanged a knowing glance during the infamous scene in which Stanley - having, in a drunken state - beat his pregnant wife - shouts / begs, "STELLA ... Stella ..."

While Mark will never beat me, the depths of his devotion are very much in question. He apologized for a faux pas that happened the other night - a general lack of attentiveness; and yet, I have not seen or spoken to him in over a week (this after the previous occasion when I had seen or spoken to him in over a week, which was what led to the apology in the first place).

If nothing else, in the aftermath of that incredibly potent scene between Stella and Stanley, it was clear that what they shared was a tremendous bond of love ... and the sort of hunger and passion for each other akin to addiction. It was fire and heat, horns blowing sultry rhythm into the balmy Louisiana night; it was clumsy fumbling and rough humping. It was all kinds of Southern (and down below). Beneath. Right up in there ... as they say, and I am not just talkin' 'bout the sex.

What was on that screen is not in the room when the guy I'm seeing and I are there; it seems to be, it felt like it was (and surely was) on Valentine's Day ... and yet, things change - if only in the course of a fortnight.

It is now a lazy Sunday afternoon, and I am sorely in need of getting out of my clothes and mind. The familiar strains (and shouts) of Gospel music penetrate the wall between the kitchen and where I lay; I would give anything to be somewhere else - preferably in a shabby New Orleans apartment, languishing under hot and humid air, barely clad in wife-beater and cotton pants, barefoot, bawdy, and drunk.

Mark

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

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

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

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

(lynching notwithstanding, of course ...)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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


Mark