Uncle Tom's Cabin

What a lazy weekend. Hottie Zach invited himself up on Saturday to help around the house. His last visit had him helping Roommate and I install some light fixtures and we did have a lot of fun. I initially envisioned a painting party for the upstairs hall if I could get the wallpaper off in time and put on a coat of primer before Friday. Since none of that happened, I just decided that we should have a big country breakfast and then go swimming in Clayton’s pool instead. As it turned out, a much better plan.

Zach arrived with his dog Diva, who really lives up to her name. Mike had to share the backseat with her on the ride over to Clayton’s and she was not amused about having someone else in her space. Mike, who loves dogs, was delighted to have a canine companion to pal around with, albeit a reluctant one. At Clayton’s Diva, whose love of insects and mice is legendary, made haste into the foliage, while the four humans relaxed around the pool with mojitos made with mint fresh from Clayton’s garden.

On our last swimming adventure the previous weekend, Clayton and I spent much of our time critiquing our diving postures. We were both much improved the second time around thanks to that previous day of practice, but neither of us could hold a candle to Zach who admitted after he surged gracefully across the pool that he had been on the swim team (of course). Mike chose to relax in the sun and consume a few beers instead of joining the rest of us on the diving board. After tiring of chasing bees, Diva also got into the act, leaping into the pool ostensibly to rescue me and then later Zach, from some unknown watery fate. We capped the day with a sumptuous meal at Chili’s and then, a bit sun-kissed and exhausted, we all headed home to make an early night of it.

The next day, after a leisurely breakfast out on the sunny porch of coffee and the last of the cinnamon buns that I had made fresh the day before, Mike and I decamped to the Catskills for Tom Judson’s little summer party. Tom lives even further from the madding crowd than I do, as evidenced by the hour and a half long drive to his little cabin in the woods. A few years ago, Tom made a name for himself as a porn performer (that name was Gus Mattox), though lately he has distinguished himself as something of a celebrated house flipper thanks to his ACME Housing Company.

Tom is a dream man. He is so handsome and intelligent, plays the piano beautifully and can turn a one room cabin into something truly stunning. And I am not just waxing poetic merely because he said I looked “incredible” and “so trim” when we arrived after the long drive. Tom’s cabin has expanded greatly from its humble beginnings and has even made room for the grand piano he picked up The Plaza Hotel auction a while back. It can be lovely when all of our treasured memories are shamelessly sold off if one or two of them can fall into the hands of our friends.

Tom’s party was made up mostly of the local friends he has gathered over the last eight years, a motley crew of artist types and relaxed gays, all suitable characters for the multi-level deck that ribbons the house evoking instant off-Broadway memories of Fifth of July and its ilk. When I accused him of such obvious stagecraft in his architecture, he just smiled that million dollar smile that toured in 42nd Street and got him plenty of tail in Big Rig (among others) and left it at that.

The party was not without its small excitements. Misty rain dampened the edges but could not extinguish the torches that ringed the house nor the fun inside. Tom wandered out onto the porch in one of those grand entrances and lamented that while the entire pitcher of bloody mary mix had been consumed no one had touched the vodka bottle sitting right next to it. Party guest Scott who had consumed four of those delicious yet quietly non-alcoholic cocktails and then switched responsibly to beer in time for his drive home was suitably mortified to discover his own sobriety. Later Scott found me lounging in the “Pavilion” a freestanding lavish sunroom that has become Tom’s signature design move chatting with other party guests. I had one leg carelessly draped over the arm of the chair and the other resting comfortably on the matching ottoman and he said I resembled a 1930s movie star. Well, I only emulate the best, and when I am around Tom he really brings out the Hepburn in people.

The end of a perfect weekend is never fun. It is hard to say good bye to good friends when they return to the city with loving dog in tow, or when you have to depart from a quiet sliver of paradise in a lush wood. But I suppose all good things must come to an end. A former boss at SIRIUS once told me after I lamented a particularly crappy show that if you never have the lows, how do you really know how high the highs are? I suppose the same is true of weekends. If we didn’t have the dull work patch in between, how would we know the weekends we had were so great. Though I suspect this would have been an amazing time, even if it had lasted forever. Clayton and Zach and I are already plotting a pool and slumber party to cap the end of summer, so you never know. Maybe this time we can defy the odds and make the moment last forever.