I climbed the stairs. Those dusty old stairs in the back of the theatre. The ones that take you up to the dressing rooms. And I looked up and there he was. I waved and he peered around the corner just like in a movie, a surprised grin on his face. And in that moment, I forgot everything I was going to say.
It seems that I have done that a lot lately. It has been months since I have written. Well, I should say it has been months since I have written anything new. I have been writing, a new book that will be out soon if I ever declare it finished. So it isn’t like nothing has been happening, or truly that I have forgotten to write about it, but my mind has been somewhere else. And when I saw Luke MacFarlane, all golden there in the back of the Golden Theatre, my mind was somewhere else again.
He is so handsome. So handsome! It makes me uncomfortable. So naturally, I do that thing I do when I am overwhelmed by any man: I insulted him.
“Hey! What are you doing here?” he asked brightly through his billion dollar smile.
“Don’t worry. I’m not here to see you!” I declared, I suppose in an attempt to assure him that I am not stalking him, but instead I just sounded like an asshole.
Who says that? He just got off stage from appearing on Broadway in The Normal Heart. The performances were amazing. The show is powerful and challenging and upsetting and incredible. And this is the best I can do? I still had tears in my eyes and I couldn’t muster one scrap of anything nice to say? But in my defense, he is that handsome.
I had been meaning to see The Normal Heart for a while. It is a limited engagement with great reviews. It takes a pry bar and a stick of dynamite to get me out to anything in Manhattan. And you can just forget an outer borough. My heart is still filled with every intention to see the Alexander Hamilton exhibit at the Natural History Museum, whose billowing banners I passed on countless cab rides before it finally closed (out of sheer exhaustion!) in 2004. If Mike hadn’t encouraged me to go to The Gates in Central Park, Christo’s miles of fabric might still be on my to-do list.
So when John Benjamin Hickey came by the studio last week to do our show, and confessed his fandom for us, I felt incredible pangs of guilt. Luke MacFarlane had already been on our shows weeks ago. Not only had I not seen The Normal Heart then, I had never even seen him on Brothers & Sisters. In fact, I had never seen him in anything except photos on the internet. Meanwhile, he had been listening to our show for God only knows how long. I felt selfish, hogging attention without properly reciprocating. At least with John Benjamin Hickey, I had watched every episode of It’s All Relative. But I still had not seen The Normal Heart.
“I’m going this Wednesday!” I blurted out spontaneously to John as he was leaving the interview. He was so excited.
“Great! Come backstage after, will you?” Okay!
But then I went to buy tickets online and there is no Wednesday matinee of The Normal Heart. Since I work every night, Wednesday matinees are best for me. I can see things on the weekend if I am not traveling, but usually my weekends are spent happily buried on Saturdays in the Real Estate then the Automobile sections of The Times (don’t ask) and then Sundays in the Business section (makes even less sense). I like a hot cup of coffee and some lox and I’m in heaven. It takes extreme measures to wrest me from my quiet weekends in the suburbs living out my Douglas Sirk fantasies and this was such a circumstance.
Since I was going to the Pier Dance after seeing a Broadway show, I thought about bringing two outfits: one more dignified for the theatre and the other considerably less dignified for the Pier Dance. But in the end, I decided on short khaki shorts and a short-sleeve button-down blue and white seersucker shirt. So there I was, unsuitable to any occasion, like always.
Going backstage, I had planned to take the liberty of inviting John and Luke out to Kevin and Christopher’s island for July 4th. Those boys are Broadway folk and I am sure they wouldn’t mind. Besides, John was Christopher’s TV husband on It’s All Relative so it is practically all in the family already. And the 4th is a Monday so I am sure they will all be off work, include Christopher who just stepped back into Chicago as Billy Flynn. But then I saw Luke and insulted him and forgot everything I was going to say and after some nice small talk about Romaine, he grabbed his bike and fled while I made my way up a second flight of stairs to John’s dressing room, wondering what the hell was wrong with me that even though I talk for a living, I can’t talk to people like a human person!
Things went better with John who was very excited to see me. We had a nice long chat and he assured me that if he had been in a regular show that was off after the Sunday matinee, he totally would have given me a ride back to Westchester! That’s pretty amazing right? The nicest guy! I wonder if Luke had a motorcycle if he would let me ride on the back behind him. I am going to assume after how I was that such an adventure might not be in the cards.
Somewhere between talking about John’s partner writing for Modern Family and me awkwardly forcing the wonderful Ellen Barkin to shake my hand, I forgot to invite John out to the island too. At least I gave him my card so if he emails me, I will bring it up. And as I walked down the alley toward the street, instead of thinking about Anne Baxter waiting there in All About Eve, I hoped Luke would still be out front signing autographs next to his bicycle so I could apologize and hand him the other business card I had in my wallet. But as the sunlight hit my eyes, I looked around and he was long gone.
When I appeared outside, the crowd was momentarily excited but then seeing that it wasn’t a cast member, the deflation was palpable. “I’m not anyone!” I wanted to yell out in confirmation but it seemed like overkill. I’m just people. People who know people.
Showing posts with label Kevin Burrows. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Kevin Burrows. Show all posts
Monday, June 27, 2011
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Mexican Jumping Scenes
You may not know this about me but I am something of an amateur biogenetic engineer. As hobbies go, this may seem like a pretty strange one, but then again, what about me isn’t pretty strange? I am not making super crops hydroponically in my basement or trying to cross a dog with a cat. My work is in a more social realm, trying to bring disparate peoples together, often to disastrous results.
For a long time, I have been a notorious matchmaker. Without rhyme or reason, I am constantly trying to get people together. It is a horrible habit. And after many decades, I have only one moderate success under my belt. Undeterred by reality, I charge ahead. After all, when you meet a perfect gay specimen of man like Matt Kugelman, it naturally causes the fingers in your brain to start twirling the old mental rolodex. But my social bioengineering is not limited to love. In fact my primary work is in friend bonding. I have been saving up for years for a portable fission machine and until then, I will have to continue to do it the old fashioned way: over dinner at Arriba Arriba.
When I lived in Los Angeles, my friend Paul used to hate my habit of inviting him out to dinner and then in the intervening days or even hours, ballooning the intimate meal for two into a ragtag fugitive fleet of random strangers. B Listers as Paul used to call them. As in, “what B Listers will be there?” Despite his recent woeful claim that he himself has dropped somewhere below C level, I am certain that if I invited him out his first question would be “who else is coming?”
Falling into an old rut, I did some rapid-fire inviting and suddenly I had filled the round table of Arriba Arriba, out back by the bathrooms and emergency exit. I had been wanting to see Ben Harvey forever and as usual invited him to a social setting where any hope of an intimate conversation would be impossible. He was hanging out that night with Dennis Hensley at a screening, so it was a perfect opportunity to see Dennis too. On a whim, I invited Kevin and Christopher, who because of their own nighttime schedules take for granted that people eat dinner at 10:30pm. I threw in two new people (the aforementioned Matt and John Saldivar) into the mix to really stir things up, and asked my roommate, even though he hates going out late on a school night. However, I think the guest list wooed him since it was many of his favorite people too, and no B Listers!
Christopher finished his show early and was starving, and didn’t know other people were coming, so told me to meet him after my show at the bar at Vynl, across the street from Arriba x2 (or as Matt calls it Arriba Squared). Chris was in good spirits despite the literally back breaking new schedule for Shrek The Musical, through which he performs and dances eight shows a week on his knees. We were happily chatting away and I (as I can do) lost all track of time and disregarded the other five people waiting at the restaurant. But moments later, we were there and it turns out I had nothing really to worry about. They were all busy chatting and enjoying margaritas at the bar. And no one was a complete stranger. John knew Mike who knew Dennis who knew Ben who knew Matt. A thin tangential thread but a connection nonetheless. Gay society has thrived on less for far longer.
We all sat down, waiting to order food until Kevin arrived but not hesitating on rounds of margaritas. I pulled a standard Agatha Christie opener “I am sure you are all wondering why I brought you here.” Everyone laughed but there was a grain of truth to it. After all, it was a table full of people whose sole real connection was me. And that isn’t narcissistic at all. Maybe that is the problem I have. The only thing I care about in my social experiments is bringing together the elements I care about, without regard to how they will mix. I am pretty sure that’s how my Uncle blew his finger off in high school. This dinner didn’t blow up in my face and in fact, turned out to be quite a success. And my Uncle had mixed those chemicals before without incident. I guess, we all have our share of successes and even when it all goes badly you can still find a silver lining. That finger in a jar of formaldehyde years later made a killer show and tell item for his daughter. After all, any bad interaction can still leave a juicy story behind.
For a long time, I have been a notorious matchmaker. Without rhyme or reason, I am constantly trying to get people together. It is a horrible habit. And after many decades, I have only one moderate success under my belt. Undeterred by reality, I charge ahead. After all, when you meet a perfect gay specimen of man like Matt Kugelman, it naturally causes the fingers in your brain to start twirling the old mental rolodex. But my social bioengineering is not limited to love. In fact my primary work is in friend bonding. I have been saving up for years for a portable fission machine and until then, I will have to continue to do it the old fashioned way: over dinner at Arriba Arriba.
When I lived in Los Angeles, my friend Paul used to hate my habit of inviting him out to dinner and then in the intervening days or even hours, ballooning the intimate meal for two into a ragtag fugitive fleet of random strangers. B Listers as Paul used to call them. As in, “what B Listers will be there?” Despite his recent woeful claim that he himself has dropped somewhere below C level, I am certain that if I invited him out his first question would be “who else is coming?”
Falling into an old rut, I did some rapid-fire inviting and suddenly I had filled the round table of Arriba Arriba, out back by the bathrooms and emergency exit. I had been wanting to see Ben Harvey forever and as usual invited him to a social setting where any hope of an intimate conversation would be impossible. He was hanging out that night with Dennis Hensley at a screening, so it was a perfect opportunity to see Dennis too. On a whim, I invited Kevin and Christopher, who because of their own nighttime schedules take for granted that people eat dinner at 10:30pm. I threw in two new people (the aforementioned Matt and John Saldivar) into the mix to really stir things up, and asked my roommate, even though he hates going out late on a school night. However, I think the guest list wooed him since it was many of his favorite people too, and no B Listers!
Christopher finished his show early and was starving, and didn’t know other people were coming, so told me to meet him after my show at the bar at Vynl, across the street from Arriba x2 (or as Matt calls it Arriba Squared). Chris was in good spirits despite the literally back breaking new schedule for Shrek The Musical, through which he performs and dances eight shows a week on his knees. We were happily chatting away and I (as I can do) lost all track of time and disregarded the other five people waiting at the restaurant. But moments later, we were there and it turns out I had nothing really to worry about. They were all busy chatting and enjoying margaritas at the bar. And no one was a complete stranger. John knew Mike who knew Dennis who knew Ben who knew Matt. A thin tangential thread but a connection nonetheless. Gay society has thrived on less for far longer.
We all sat down, waiting to order food until Kevin arrived but not hesitating on rounds of margaritas. I pulled a standard Agatha Christie opener “I am sure you are all wondering why I brought you here.” Everyone laughed but there was a grain of truth to it. After all, it was a table full of people whose sole real connection was me. And that isn’t narcissistic at all. Maybe that is the problem I have. The only thing I care about in my social experiments is bringing together the elements I care about, without regard to how they will mix. I am pretty sure that’s how my Uncle blew his finger off in high school. This dinner didn’t blow up in my face and in fact, turned out to be quite a success. And my Uncle had mixed those chemicals before without incident. I guess, we all have our share of successes and even when it all goes badly you can still find a silver lining. That finger in a jar of formaldehyde years later made a killer show and tell item for his daughter. After all, any bad interaction can still leave a juicy story behind.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Surprise Part(l)y
Today is Christopher’s birthday so his wonderful boyfriend Kevin plotted a surprise party for him. This apparently took a lot of effort. Chris is smart so it took serious subterfuge on Kevin’s part. A couple of weeks ago we all got separate emails letting us know about the party tonight at Bamboo 52 but also to help “accidentally” suggest there was a surprise party on Thursday. This would throw Christopher off the scent. I told Kevin tonight that if he really wanted to surprise Christopher he should also go ahead with the surprise party tomorrow night too. Nothing like a double fake out.
I did my part in keeping the secret although I nearly helped Kevin botch it all. Two weeks ago we were all at their apartment playing Buzz on the PS3 and one of the answers was the Blondie song “Atomic” and no one had heard of it. Not the boys. Not Michelle from BestWeekEver.TV. Not even Jonathan who seems to know everything I know. So I told them I would email the song to them later. So a few days ago, I sent the song and a short email. I was going to include Christopher on the email with a “See you on Thursday” coda but then thought better of the idea. Maybe that wasn’t a subtle enough accident. So I just emailed Kevin, Michelle and Jonathan and said at the end “See you on Wednesday.” Well, Kevin didn’t read the whole email before starting to read it aloud to Christopher and when he got to the end he suddenly heard himself saying “See you on wen- wasn’t that nice of Derek to send us that.” As close a call as you want when plotting a big surprise.
After the show, I raced down to Bamboo 52 to make sure I was sequestered in back with the rest of the gang before Christopher left the Broadway theatre where he is performing in Shrek The Musical. He steals the show, by the way, in case anyone was wondering. While waiting I ran into dreamy Steven DeLuca’s boyfriend Carl who by chance was there having dinner with friends. I told him to join us back there when he was finished and then headed for a banquette in the corner. I recognized a few people from my two trips to Kevin and Christopher’s island but by and large we don’t have a lot of friends in common.
Christopher was dutifully surprised when he walked in and soon the room was buzzing with cocktail chatter and clever Broadway bon mots. I felt like I was in All About Eve but everything was in color and there was a fight on to be Margo Channing. Kevin complained to me about how loud it was. I assured him that it is because half the people can’t hear anymore and the other half demand to be heard no matter what. “It’s all loud from here.” I told him referring to the domino effect of our birthdays: Kevin, then Christopher, then me, but in retrospect, I think that might make a good book title. Hmmm. I will store that idea away for later.
My pal Eddie from LA was there but left quickly for Florida. Then Adam Jay flew in direct from London with barely a moment to shake the dust of the West End off himself. Suddenly, Steven DeLuca popped into the room, no doubt encouraged by Carl who was still out in the restaurant talking at the sushi bar. Steven and I caught up, and when we spent a few moments with Christopher, he reminded him of when they met so many years ago while Christopher was doing a show in his theatre called “Avow.” Names of shows and actors and directors flew between them and past me like a newspaper headline montage in a 1930s movie. I gave it my best Joan Blondell perplexed and tried to keep my mouth clamped around fists full of sushi as much as possible. When I am in a crowd of strangers, I eat like Shelley Winters and Dom Deluise fighting over the last piece of chicken in the bucket. And tonight was no exception.
I hate surprises myself. And it’s a good thing too because I don’t think anyone could effectively throw a surprise party for me. Maybe I keep it this way, but I am the only person who knows everyone I know. It would probably take four or five of my friends who don’t even know each other well to actually piece together the guest list. And as lazy as my friends are, that isn’t happening anytime soon. But I do have a big birthday coming up this year, so I suppose I will have to do it up right. I have been thinking of a birthday in NYC and one in LA. Why not? And as for surprises, well I promise you that no one will be as surprised as me that I am turning as old as I am. In any event, I hope by then that I have had so much Botox that I will look surprised no matter what.
I did my part in keeping the secret although I nearly helped Kevin botch it all. Two weeks ago we were all at their apartment playing Buzz on the PS3 and one of the answers was the Blondie song “Atomic” and no one had heard of it. Not the boys. Not Michelle from BestWeekEver.TV. Not even Jonathan who seems to know everything I know. So I told them I would email the song to them later. So a few days ago, I sent the song and a short email. I was going to include Christopher on the email with a “See you on Thursday” coda but then thought better of the idea. Maybe that wasn’t a subtle enough accident. So I just emailed Kevin, Michelle and Jonathan and said at the end “See you on Wednesday.” Well, Kevin didn’t read the whole email before starting to read it aloud to Christopher and when he got to the end he suddenly heard himself saying “See you on wen- wasn’t that nice of Derek to send us that.” As close a call as you want when plotting a big surprise.
After the show, I raced down to Bamboo 52 to make sure I was sequestered in back with the rest of the gang before Christopher left the Broadway theatre where he is performing in Shrek The Musical. He steals the show, by the way, in case anyone was wondering. While waiting I ran into dreamy Steven DeLuca’s boyfriend Carl who by chance was there having dinner with friends. I told him to join us back there when he was finished and then headed for a banquette in the corner. I recognized a few people from my two trips to Kevin and Christopher’s island but by and large we don’t have a lot of friends in common.
Christopher was dutifully surprised when he walked in and soon the room was buzzing with cocktail chatter and clever Broadway bon mots. I felt like I was in All About Eve but everything was in color and there was a fight on to be Margo Channing. Kevin complained to me about how loud it was. I assured him that it is because half the people can’t hear anymore and the other half demand to be heard no matter what. “It’s all loud from here.” I told him referring to the domino effect of our birthdays: Kevin, then Christopher, then me, but in retrospect, I think that might make a good book title. Hmmm. I will store that idea away for later.
My pal Eddie from LA was there but left quickly for Florida. Then Adam Jay flew in direct from London with barely a moment to shake the dust of the West End off himself. Suddenly, Steven DeLuca popped into the room, no doubt encouraged by Carl who was still out in the restaurant talking at the sushi bar. Steven and I caught up, and when we spent a few moments with Christopher, he reminded him of when they met so many years ago while Christopher was doing a show in his theatre called “Avow.” Names of shows and actors and directors flew between them and past me like a newspaper headline montage in a 1930s movie. I gave it my best Joan Blondell perplexed and tried to keep my mouth clamped around fists full of sushi as much as possible. When I am in a crowd of strangers, I eat like Shelley Winters and Dom Deluise fighting over the last piece of chicken in the bucket. And tonight was no exception.
I hate surprises myself. And it’s a good thing too because I don’t think anyone could effectively throw a surprise party for me. Maybe I keep it this way, but I am the only person who knows everyone I know. It would probably take four or five of my friends who don’t even know each other well to actually piece together the guest list. And as lazy as my friends are, that isn’t happening anytime soon. But I do have a big birthday coming up this year, so I suppose I will have to do it up right. I have been thinking of a birthday in NYC and one in LA. Why not? And as for surprises, well I promise you that no one will be as surprised as me that I am turning as old as I am. In any event, I hope by then that I have had so much Botox that I will look surprised no matter what.
Thursday, August 7, 2008
Garden State
I think that my Dad thinks the Olive Garden is a fancy New York restaurant. Whenever he comes to town, it is where we go to dinner because I love it there. But I don’t think they have them in Utah so I assume it’s a uniquely Manhattan experience to him. That is fine by me. Personally, I see the Olive Garden as a special kind of Americana kitsch. True it has all the homey warmth of a lit can of Sterno, but the bottomless salad is like crack and who doesn’t love an overly salty warm breadstick.
As I travel through life, professing my deep and abiding love for The Olive Garden, I have discovered other unlikely devotees along the way. Michelle Collins was really the first and she is my core Garden demographic. I know that she is always ready at a moment’s notice to split a salad over a couple of strawberry frescos. And the last time we went, she didn’t miss a beat when I walked out with a breadstick in my mouth.
Over July 4th weekend on Kevin and Christopher’s island, we picked up more of them. It was as if we ran a giant alfredo-scented lint roller over the island and chain restaurant loving gays adhered themselves to it en masse. So we planned an island reunion of sorts to commence as soon as possible at our favorite tacky Italian restaurant. Michelle is moments away from a month long adventure in Israel so the clock was ticking. After an abortive effort last week, our new Garden party descended on Times Square tonight in full force.
Joining me and Michelle were original Jonathan who bonded with Michelle on the bus ride over to the island, as well as Kevin and Adam Jay. Kevin joined me at the studio beforehand for a quick tour and then we walked the long two blocks to join the others upstairs. When we arrived, Adam mentioned some other island veterans might drop by but really it was just the five of us for dinner. They seated us in a big round corner table in back which at first seemed like heaven. But moments after sitting down, Michelle realized that the nuclear glow of the M&Ms sign in her eye line was certain to spark the kind of seizure usually reserved for viewers of Anime and the dulcet tones of Entertainment Tonight’s resident siren Mary Hart. She switched seats and then we were all off to the comedy races.
The witting banter flew at a lightning pace, frequently outdone by the kinds of offensive statements you don’t want easily overheard by traumatized tourists one table over. The surprise island veteran was none other than blonde venus Hannah Waddington, looking svelte and gorgeous. I tried to entice her with a free breadstick but they were off to join others for dinner at a real restaurant instead. Hannah is statuesque and while I would love any excuse to hang out with her again, I have to assume that the allure of The Olive Garden doesn’t easily translate across the pond.
After our fantastic dinner, we tried to find a local watering hole for a final night cap before I ran off for my late train. We finally settled in a very chic lounge on the second floor of a Times Square boutique hotel. If the place hadn’t been so deserted we might have felt horribly underdressed and out of place. Plus it was intensely jarring to leave the processed cheese product slickness of The Olive Garden for the modern chic of a midtown Manhattan hotel, but Michelle with her Century 21 shopping bag and Garden take out container charged up to the bar and ordered our drinks anyway. After all, we may have looked and (after almost two hours inside the Olive Garden) smelled like tourists, on the inside we know we are New Yorkers. And as such, we know, we belong anywhere we want to go. Because when you are Manhattan, you’re family.
As I travel through life, professing my deep and abiding love for The Olive Garden, I have discovered other unlikely devotees along the way. Michelle Collins was really the first and she is my core Garden demographic. I know that she is always ready at a moment’s notice to split a salad over a couple of strawberry frescos. And the last time we went, she didn’t miss a beat when I walked out with a breadstick in my mouth.
Over July 4th weekend on Kevin and Christopher’s island, we picked up more of them. It was as if we ran a giant alfredo-scented lint roller over the island and chain restaurant loving gays adhered themselves to it en masse. So we planned an island reunion of sorts to commence as soon as possible at our favorite tacky Italian restaurant. Michelle is moments away from a month long adventure in Israel so the clock was ticking. After an abortive effort last week, our new Garden party descended on Times Square tonight in full force.
Joining me and Michelle were original Jonathan who bonded with Michelle on the bus ride over to the island, as well as Kevin and Adam Jay. Kevin joined me at the studio beforehand for a quick tour and then we walked the long two blocks to join the others upstairs. When we arrived, Adam mentioned some other island veterans might drop by but really it was just the five of us for dinner. They seated us in a big round corner table in back which at first seemed like heaven. But moments after sitting down, Michelle realized that the nuclear glow of the M&Ms sign in her eye line was certain to spark the kind of seizure usually reserved for viewers of Anime and the dulcet tones of Entertainment Tonight’s resident siren Mary Hart. She switched seats and then we were all off to the comedy races.
The witting banter flew at a lightning pace, frequently outdone by the kinds of offensive statements you don’t want easily overheard by traumatized tourists one table over. The surprise island veteran was none other than blonde venus Hannah Waddington, looking svelte and gorgeous. I tried to entice her with a free breadstick but they were off to join others for dinner at a real restaurant instead. Hannah is statuesque and while I would love any excuse to hang out with her again, I have to assume that the allure of The Olive Garden doesn’t easily translate across the pond.
After our fantastic dinner, we tried to find a local watering hole for a final night cap before I ran off for my late train. We finally settled in a very chic lounge on the second floor of a Times Square boutique hotel. If the place hadn’t been so deserted we might have felt horribly underdressed and out of place. Plus it was intensely jarring to leave the processed cheese product slickness of The Olive Garden for the modern chic of a midtown Manhattan hotel, but Michelle with her Century 21 shopping bag and Garden take out container charged up to the bar and ordered our drinks anyway. After all, we may have looked and (after almost two hours inside the Olive Garden) smelled like tourists, on the inside we know we are New Yorkers. And as such, we know, we belong anywhere we want to go. Because when you are Manhattan, you’re family.
Saturday, July 5, 2008
The 4th Dimension
Things are rarely better the second time around, but Tamarack Island is the exception to the rule. I was last there over Memorial Day, invited by Kevin and Christopher, even though Kevin was busy lifting swings over his head. This is a Broadway-related happenstance apparently, the kind of occupational hazard that comes with touring in Spamalot. A few weeks ago, all the swings were on stage for a single performance leading to a concern that soon they would need to draft ushers and concession attendants or worse, me, to join the cast. But all those problems were left behind on the shore and a short row boat ride later, we all succumbed to the quiet paradise of Tamarack.
Roommate and I made the long journey out to New Jersey on July 4th with a firm set of goals, to be completed even before we reached the party. We hadn't even left town before we failed at the first one. Mike wanted some coffee but as fate would have it, our local coffee house closed early for the holiday, quite literally in his face. We would get coffee along the way, I promised, along with gas for the car (usually as much as fifty cents cheaper than it is at home) and much to my delight, the new Girl Scout Thin Mint Blizzard at Dairy Queen! I saw an ad for it flash across the screen during the show one night last week as the silent TV in the background was tuned to CNN. After I jumped out of my chair, seizing my chest and throwing myself against the glass wall of the studio, for a moment Romaine thought the world had blown up.
We finally happened upon a Dunkin Donuts in New Jersey, much to the chagrin of the evil calorie counting GPS system that implored us to turn around immediately. I ignored his bland tones and had a Bavarian Cream Fill and a nice French Cruller. Then, as we were leaving, casually drove the long way out so we could get a better look at the hot guy helping his mother with her groceries on the other side of the parking lot. Such a nice boy! Moments later, covered in powdered sugar, I pulled into the Dairy Queen parking lot like I was driving an ambulance to the scene of a horrible accident. Inside they offered up all the old tyme ice cream favorites and even a few new delights I was dying to try, but I stuck to my guns and got what I came for. Fat.
Within minutes, most of my Blizzard was gone along with all of my dignity as we pulled up to the dock. I was a little nervous because along with Mike, I had invited some other friends along to the party. Kevin and Christopher insisted it would be fine, but I brought another bottle of vodka just in case. The friends I had invited joined other friends of the hosts in a bus they chartered to take them from the city. Mark, a handsome massage therapist and regular David Coleman party veteran, spoke with a few people on the bus but mostly read his book. I asked the original Jonathan who was also coming to be on the lookout for Michelle Collins since she said she might be five minutes late so he waited near the front for her arrival. Apparently, it was love at first sight and the two landed at Tamarack an hour later as inseparable best friends forever, like kids on their way to summer camp.
Christopher dispatched Logan to come row us over from the mainland. Logan, the fifteen year old heart breaker from the last party was mercifully less desirable in a polo shirt and sans sunglasses. Although, as his youthful vigor powered us across the lake as effortlessly as one might pull a Kleenex from the box, I had to keep muttering the words "fifteen... fifteen" over and over in my head. Once on the island, I reunited with Kevin and Christopher and all my invited guests and settled in for a good time. The previous party had been centered at the main house but this one was in full swing as we arrived at the guest house. The booze was flowing like everyone already had their next liver lined up. The earlier rain had dissipated and even though it wasn't sunny per se, it was still a perfect day.
The usual Broadway crowd was there, many of them holdovers from Memorial Day. Some of them were so comfortably drunk when we arrived that I wondered if they had ever left. I kept assuring Michelle throughout the party that at any moment it was certain to burst into song. She couldn't wait. I insisted that if she walked into the house, turned off the stereo and hit the middle C on the piano, the crowd would take care of the rest. It never came to that. Rachel, who had been so helpful in naming "Hole-y Board" "glory hole" last time, kept us all in stitches with her rendition of a tone deaf Broadway hopeful nervously auditioning and breaking down in mid-song. Many cocktails later, Christopher dueted with Michelle and for a moment I thought she might just collapse into a hopeless puddle in the middle of the living room.
Mark wanted to take a swim and I decided to join him. I had been dreading being seen in a bathing suit at a gay party all month (Hell, my whole life) but it was such a nice welcoming crowd I figured they wouldn't notice and if they did they would probably be too drunk to remember. It didn't help that insanely adorable little Joel with his perfect 90 pounds of zero body fat toned yumminess was already down there splashing around with the kids. Mark and I changed into our suits and headed down to the water. The lake was wonderful, just the right temperature. And I remembered as I came up for air after my first dive and looked over at the kids playing on the platform in the middle of the lake that I hadn't been swimming in a lake in 20 years. Not since Nanny and Poppy took me out to the lake they used to summer on when my mother was a kid. Suddenly I was eighteen, feeling the warm silt squish between my toes like it was the first time all over again.
Meanwhile on shore, Mike and Jonathan and Michelle got into a heated game of Holey Board (renamed this time as "cock rings and glory holes") with Logan, for whom Michelle more appropriately shared our inappropriate desire. And to be fair, at the party he was the perfect man: simultaneously handsome and feverishly anxious to make sure you never ran out of drinks. Turns out Jonathan is as sore a winner as I am, and things got a little heated but soon hot dogs from the grill and more cocktails from Logan made it all better again.
As the sun went down, a rumor of fireworks on the lake circulated through the party. The hours of food, merriment and mostly drink had started to take its toll. Mark, now drunk and swirling away in the hammock, decided that he wanted to watch the fireworks from on the lake. So, we borrowed the orange paddle boat and the two of us paddled out to the middle of the lake. It was so still and lovely on the lake, truly a perfect night. And there, mere feet away from us, the rockets fired off and exploded over our heads. It was magical. It was amazing. It was perfect. Behind us, the drunken party goers cheered and inside the boat the warmth of the night, the delight of the show, enveloped us.
And isn't that just the problem with life. It seems like just at the moment that you get used to how perfect something can be, the moment is over and it is time for the next thing. Minutes after we returned to the island from our paddling adventure, the daunting task of pouring the drunks out of the party into little row boats and then into the bus back to the city began in earnest. Christopher herded Mark, Michelle, Jonathan and the others out with the kind of ambition that wins elections, no doubt born of the past experience of waking up to find a heretofore unknown party guest passed out in the bushes and in need of a way back to civilization.
After most of the guests were safely on their way back to that other, less interesting island Manhattan, we settled into a more subdued but no less delightful party coda with Kevin and Christopher. Their work done, the teens decided it was time to swim, so off they went. Moments later, they returned dripping wet and nearly naked. I suppose I should applaud the kind of progress we have made that allows hot straight teen boys to feel comfortable enough in a room full of gay men to parade around in a wet bathing suit so low slung that it leaves nothing to the imagination, but at the risk of once again betraying my gay brethren, I wish they hadn't. Especially that scruffy blond one with the hot, sweet girlfriend. Him especially. All I could hear in my head when he walked back in from the lake was "There's sweet tea on the counter. I just have to put this laundry in the washer and I'll be right out."
Soon enough it was way past time for us to leave. Logan was off somewhere being half naked and handsome so Kevin offered to row us back to shore. It was probably for the best. I think if Logan had taken us back shirtless he would have only asked why I was crying the whole time and I just don't feel emotionally centered enough to tell him why. The ride home was an eventful adventure through every imaginable weather hazard including blinding rain and fog, sometimes at the same time. That seemed particularly fitting. Visiting the island is magical but it is a distinct place and time, far removed from the real world and I suppose not unlike Fantasy Island, with a lesson or two to be learned along the way. It isn't just tropical drinks and welcomes by the dock. It is also an opportunity for a little personal growth and adventure, and yes, even errands. Today Mike noticed how clean the car was after the torrential downpour on the way home from New Jersey. "Now we don't need to get the car washed." Another problem solved, another desire fulfilled, all in a day at Tamarack.
Roommate and I made the long journey out to New Jersey on July 4th with a firm set of goals, to be completed even before we reached the party. We hadn't even left town before we failed at the first one. Mike wanted some coffee but as fate would have it, our local coffee house closed early for the holiday, quite literally in his face. We would get coffee along the way, I promised, along with gas for the car (usually as much as fifty cents cheaper than it is at home) and much to my delight, the new Girl Scout Thin Mint Blizzard at Dairy Queen! I saw an ad for it flash across the screen during the show one night last week as the silent TV in the background was tuned to CNN. After I jumped out of my chair, seizing my chest and throwing myself against the glass wall of the studio, for a moment Romaine thought the world had blown up.
We finally happened upon a Dunkin Donuts in New Jersey, much to the chagrin of the evil calorie counting GPS system that implored us to turn around immediately. I ignored his bland tones and had a Bavarian Cream Fill and a nice French Cruller. Then, as we were leaving, casually drove the long way out so we could get a better look at the hot guy helping his mother with her groceries on the other side of the parking lot. Such a nice boy! Moments later, covered in powdered sugar, I pulled into the Dairy Queen parking lot like I was driving an ambulance to the scene of a horrible accident. Inside they offered up all the old tyme ice cream favorites and even a few new delights I was dying to try, but I stuck to my guns and got what I came for. Fat.
Within minutes, most of my Blizzard was gone along with all of my dignity as we pulled up to the dock. I was a little nervous because along with Mike, I had invited some other friends along to the party. Kevin and Christopher insisted it would be fine, but I brought another bottle of vodka just in case. The friends I had invited joined other friends of the hosts in a bus they chartered to take them from the city. Mark, a handsome massage therapist and regular David Coleman party veteran, spoke with a few people on the bus but mostly read his book. I asked the original Jonathan who was also coming to be on the lookout for Michelle Collins since she said she might be five minutes late so he waited near the front for her arrival. Apparently, it was love at first sight and the two landed at Tamarack an hour later as inseparable best friends forever, like kids on their way to summer camp.
Christopher dispatched Logan to come row us over from the mainland. Logan, the fifteen year old heart breaker from the last party was mercifully less desirable in a polo shirt and sans sunglasses. Although, as his youthful vigor powered us across the lake as effortlessly as one might pull a Kleenex from the box, I had to keep muttering the words "fifteen... fifteen" over and over in my head. Once on the island, I reunited with Kevin and Christopher and all my invited guests and settled in for a good time. The previous party had been centered at the main house but this one was in full swing as we arrived at the guest house. The booze was flowing like everyone already had their next liver lined up. The earlier rain had dissipated and even though it wasn't sunny per se, it was still a perfect day.
The usual Broadway crowd was there, many of them holdovers from Memorial Day. Some of them were so comfortably drunk when we arrived that I wondered if they had ever left. I kept assuring Michelle throughout the party that at any moment it was certain to burst into song. She couldn't wait. I insisted that if she walked into the house, turned off the stereo and hit the middle C on the piano, the crowd would take care of the rest. It never came to that. Rachel, who had been so helpful in naming "Hole-y Board" "glory hole" last time, kept us all in stitches with her rendition of a tone deaf Broadway hopeful nervously auditioning and breaking down in mid-song. Many cocktails later, Christopher dueted with Michelle and for a moment I thought she might just collapse into a hopeless puddle in the middle of the living room.
Mark wanted to take a swim and I decided to join him. I had been dreading being seen in a bathing suit at a gay party all month (Hell, my whole life) but it was such a nice welcoming crowd I figured they wouldn't notice and if they did they would probably be too drunk to remember. It didn't help that insanely adorable little Joel with his perfect 90 pounds of zero body fat toned yumminess was already down there splashing around with the kids. Mark and I changed into our suits and headed down to the water. The lake was wonderful, just the right temperature. And I remembered as I came up for air after my first dive and looked over at the kids playing on the platform in the middle of the lake that I hadn't been swimming in a lake in 20 years. Not since Nanny and Poppy took me out to the lake they used to summer on when my mother was a kid. Suddenly I was eighteen, feeling the warm silt squish between my toes like it was the first time all over again.
Meanwhile on shore, Mike and Jonathan and Michelle got into a heated game of Holey Board (renamed this time as "cock rings and glory holes") with Logan, for whom Michelle more appropriately shared our inappropriate desire. And to be fair, at the party he was the perfect man: simultaneously handsome and feverishly anxious to make sure you never ran out of drinks. Turns out Jonathan is as sore a winner as I am, and things got a little heated but soon hot dogs from the grill and more cocktails from Logan made it all better again.
As the sun went down, a rumor of fireworks on the lake circulated through the party. The hours of food, merriment and mostly drink had started to take its toll. Mark, now drunk and swirling away in the hammock, decided that he wanted to watch the fireworks from on the lake. So, we borrowed the orange paddle boat and the two of us paddled out to the middle of the lake. It was so still and lovely on the lake, truly a perfect night. And there, mere feet away from us, the rockets fired off and exploded over our heads. It was magical. It was amazing. It was perfect. Behind us, the drunken party goers cheered and inside the boat the warmth of the night, the delight of the show, enveloped us.
And isn't that just the problem with life. It seems like just at the moment that you get used to how perfect something can be, the moment is over and it is time for the next thing. Minutes after we returned to the island from our paddling adventure, the daunting task of pouring the drunks out of the party into little row boats and then into the bus back to the city began in earnest. Christopher herded Mark, Michelle, Jonathan and the others out with the kind of ambition that wins elections, no doubt born of the past experience of waking up to find a heretofore unknown party guest passed out in the bushes and in need of a way back to civilization.
After most of the guests were safely on their way back to that other, less interesting island Manhattan, we settled into a more subdued but no less delightful party coda with Kevin and Christopher. Their work done, the teens decided it was time to swim, so off they went. Moments later, they returned dripping wet and nearly naked. I suppose I should applaud the kind of progress we have made that allows hot straight teen boys to feel comfortable enough in a room full of gay men to parade around in a wet bathing suit so low slung that it leaves nothing to the imagination, but at the risk of once again betraying my gay brethren, I wish they hadn't. Especially that scruffy blond one with the hot, sweet girlfriend. Him especially. All I could hear in my head when he walked back in from the lake was "There's sweet tea on the counter. I just have to put this laundry in the washer and I'll be right out."
Soon enough it was way past time for us to leave. Logan was off somewhere being half naked and handsome so Kevin offered to row us back to shore. It was probably for the best. I think if Logan had taken us back shirtless he would have only asked why I was crying the whole time and I just don't feel emotionally centered enough to tell him why. The ride home was an eventful adventure through every imaginable weather hazard including blinding rain and fog, sometimes at the same time. That seemed particularly fitting. Visiting the island is magical but it is a distinct place and time, far removed from the real world and I suppose not unlike Fantasy Island, with a lesson or two to be learned along the way. It isn't just tropical drinks and welcomes by the dock. It is also an opportunity for a little personal growth and adventure, and yes, even errands. Today Mike noticed how clean the car was after the torrential downpour on the way home from New Jersey. "Now we don't need to get the car washed." Another problem solved, another desire fulfilled, all in a day at Tamarack.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Kevin Can Wait
This past weekend was the one year "home-iversary" of my move to the suburbs. Mike realized it last night around 1am as I was in the midst of still peeling wallpaper off the walls upstairs, and journeyed up the treacherous stairs to my part of the house to tell me. He hates the upstairs. I think he thinks it is haunted. At the very least, when no one is expected over, it is a filthy mess. Right now, it is especially horrible with shards of wallpaper literally littering the carpet. My last two trips to the basement to do laundry ended with the clean clothes still residing in the laundry baskets, which I tossed in the guest room/office upstairs. Out of sight, out of mind. I haven't made my bed in weeks. The twisted sheets look like a crime scene now. I have long since stopped noticing. I refuse to care.
There is much to love about owning your own house. If you hate something, you can get a mad fever and rip the shit out of it. The house came with a tacky wooden shelf in the kitchen, with little hearts carved into the bottom. It looked like something you might find holding figurines at the Precious Moments Chapel and Gift Shop in Carthage, MO, but not that high end. The worst part about it was its placement, at eye level right next to the refrigerator and the entrance to the basement, where you could frequently bang your face into it. I have to assume that after the previous owners lost an eye or two coming around that corner, the look of the thing no longer bothered them. The same could not be said for us, and one night in a fit of rage, Mike tore it right off the wall leaving two hearts where they had painted around it and a deep gash in the plaster that I assure you was far more pleasant to look at than the shelf had been.
How fitting that I should spend the anniversary of home ownership at someone else's house. Kevin and Christopher (who travelled all the way down to Florida to meet me in April) invited me to their small gathering for Memorial Day at their weekend place, which is situated on a small island in the middle of a lake in New Jersey. Kevin wasn't there, having dropped briefly into the tour of Spamalot, leaving Christopher to tend to the parrot, the BBQ and two dozen theatrical types from both the world of Broadway and the wilds of Jersey. It was like West Side Story, if you set it on an island, and made the Jets thin and gay and the Sharks straight and boozy. Everyone there was a star, including the local kids over which the Broadway gays threatened to launch a revival of Oliver! just so they would have a fitting starring vehicle beyond the bright lights of the private island.
Mike and I arrived and in the midst of my being painfully adorable and calling Christopher to tell him we were hopelessly lost (even though we were there), I made the wrong right turn and ended up driving all the way around the lake. Because the house is on an island, everyone (and everything) must be transported by row boat. We were greeted at the dock by Logan, a foxy teen from J Crew heaven in a button down shirt, loose shorts and an endlessly grin behind sunglasses, hired to row, clean up after the drunks and give the gays something to look at and feel bad about. Later when I found out he was fifteen(!), I seriously considered pulling a Shelley Winters (a la A Place In The Sun) and falling out of the boat in the dark row back to shore. But then I realized I was at a party full of Broadway professionals and I had no chance of outdoing any of them in the dramatic movement department, tempting though it might be to try.
Christopher was cheerfully manning the grill as we arrived, so filled with 1950s brio only a chef's hat and Kiss The Cook apron or a slender smoking pipe with pork pie hat could make the scene more complete. I have no doubt that by the July 4th party one of those two ensembles will be in place. Perhaps Kevin will wear one and Christopher the other. Everyone at the party was very friendly and lovely and sweet and I am afraid to say anything about any of them because people always take it the wrong way. Also, I only have the capacity to remember two names and while I think I might have actually pulled out three or four, I don't want anyone to feel bad that I didn't remember their name. They are actors after all and not being known, named or recognized is even worse than a bad review.
I will say that Hannah was a high point at the party. She had appeared with Christopher in the West End production of Spamalot as, ironically enough, the Lady In The Lake. She is currently in the Broadway production and even though I have never seen the show, know nothing about her role or her ability to sing, I assure you from watching her devour half a watermelon while sitting with a straight back and a naked ballet toe, that she will be the best thing in the show. That she later rowed entirely around the island without breaking a sweat and informed us all that of course she rowed for Great Britain in college came as a surprise to no one. She is tremendous. Logan thought so too and while I am certain he long since lost his virginity, I suspect that he wishes that he lost it to Hannah. I know I did. She seemed completely oblivious to the fact that his chin frequently tried to rest between her breasts as she gorgeously reached for something else to eat. She was a star among stars but so unassuming about it that no one seemed to mind being upstaged by her.
Mike is not what I would call social and being in a sea of outgoing people seems to make him want to retreat even more. At one point, he wandered off to one of the hammocks and rested a while on an outcropping over the quiet waters of the lake. It really was a perfect day for it and he wasn't the only one who sought refuse in a hammock or two. He did briefly engage in the handmade game Christopher imported from his Minnesota childhood. Similar to horseshoes, it involves tossing over sized washers into holes in an AstroTurf-covered platform some feet away. The other guests I believe mistakenly called the game "holy war" which didn't seem fitting for a nice backyard diversion from a quiet Northern state. Those of us spectating on a nearby rock tried to rename it "glory hole" in a fit of inappropriateness, but Christopher's ancestors can rest easy knowing that name didn't seem to stick either. Speaking of Minnesota, I knew when I made my hamburger there would be mayonnaise in the fridge to put on it, although Christopher insisted that Kevin is the one who loves mayo and he has always been partial to the Miracle Whip (with the H not at all silent).
Christopher and I spent some nice quality time talking about the joys of home ownership and all the miseries that go into owning something on an island. He confided a charming anecdote about the move-in that I remembered from the 2004 New York Times article Kevin sent me. I don't blame him. My patter when showing people my house is so canned, I could just give them a recording on my ipod and let them tour on their own like in a museum. Their island paradise did fill me with insane mad jealousy that made my own house seem instantly less magical when I got home. But of course, I only got to see it when it was filled with happy people and sunshine. When you don't have to drag supplies across an ice-covered lake only to discover you forgot to buy milk, it is easy to fall in love with the charm spell that can descend on such a place. In the end, I realized that owning a house on an island, while lovely, is really a whole lot of work and misery and aggravation, punctuated with brief moments of blissful happiness. Just like marriage!
There is much to love about owning your own house. If you hate something, you can get a mad fever and rip the shit out of it. The house came with a tacky wooden shelf in the kitchen, with little hearts carved into the bottom. It looked like something you might find holding figurines at the Precious Moments Chapel and Gift Shop in Carthage, MO, but not that high end. The worst part about it was its placement, at eye level right next to the refrigerator and the entrance to the basement, where you could frequently bang your face into it. I have to assume that after the previous owners lost an eye or two coming around that corner, the look of the thing no longer bothered them. The same could not be said for us, and one night in a fit of rage, Mike tore it right off the wall leaving two hearts where they had painted around it and a deep gash in the plaster that I assure you was far more pleasant to look at than the shelf had been.
How fitting that I should spend the anniversary of home ownership at someone else's house. Kevin and Christopher (who travelled all the way down to Florida to meet me in April) invited me to their small gathering for Memorial Day at their weekend place, which is situated on a small island in the middle of a lake in New Jersey. Kevin wasn't there, having dropped briefly into the tour of Spamalot, leaving Christopher to tend to the parrot, the BBQ and two dozen theatrical types from both the world of Broadway and the wilds of Jersey. It was like West Side Story, if you set it on an island, and made the Jets thin and gay and the Sharks straight and boozy. Everyone there was a star, including the local kids over which the Broadway gays threatened to launch a revival of Oliver! just so they would have a fitting starring vehicle beyond the bright lights of the private island.
Mike and I arrived and in the midst of my being painfully adorable and calling Christopher to tell him we were hopelessly lost (even though we were there), I made the wrong right turn and ended up driving all the way around the lake. Because the house is on an island, everyone (and everything) must be transported by row boat. We were greeted at the dock by Logan, a foxy teen from J Crew heaven in a button down shirt, loose shorts and an endlessly grin behind sunglasses, hired to row, clean up after the drunks and give the gays something to look at and feel bad about. Later when I found out he was fifteen(!), I seriously considered pulling a Shelley Winters (a la A Place In The Sun) and falling out of the boat in the dark row back to shore. But then I realized I was at a party full of Broadway professionals and I had no chance of outdoing any of them in the dramatic movement department, tempting though it might be to try.
Christopher was cheerfully manning the grill as we arrived, so filled with 1950s brio only a chef's hat and Kiss The Cook apron or a slender smoking pipe with pork pie hat could make the scene more complete. I have no doubt that by the July 4th party one of those two ensembles will be in place. Perhaps Kevin will wear one and Christopher the other. Everyone at the party was very friendly and lovely and sweet and I am afraid to say anything about any of them because people always take it the wrong way. Also, I only have the capacity to remember two names and while I think I might have actually pulled out three or four, I don't want anyone to feel bad that I didn't remember their name. They are actors after all and not being known, named or recognized is even worse than a bad review.
I will say that Hannah was a high point at the party. She had appeared with Christopher in the West End production of Spamalot as, ironically enough, the Lady In The Lake. She is currently in the Broadway production and even though I have never seen the show, know nothing about her role or her ability to sing, I assure you from watching her devour half a watermelon while sitting with a straight back and a naked ballet toe, that she will be the best thing in the show. That she later rowed entirely around the island without breaking a sweat and informed us all that of course she rowed for Great Britain in college came as a surprise to no one. She is tremendous. Logan thought so too and while I am certain he long since lost his virginity, I suspect that he wishes that he lost it to Hannah. I know I did. She seemed completely oblivious to the fact that his chin frequently tried to rest between her breasts as she gorgeously reached for something else to eat. She was a star among stars but so unassuming about it that no one seemed to mind being upstaged by her.
Mike is not what I would call social and being in a sea of outgoing people seems to make him want to retreat even more. At one point, he wandered off to one of the hammocks and rested a while on an outcropping over the quiet waters of the lake. It really was a perfect day for it and he wasn't the only one who sought refuse in a hammock or two. He did briefly engage in the handmade game Christopher imported from his Minnesota childhood. Similar to horseshoes, it involves tossing over sized washers into holes in an AstroTurf-covered platform some feet away. The other guests I believe mistakenly called the game "holy war" which didn't seem fitting for a nice backyard diversion from a quiet Northern state. Those of us spectating on a nearby rock tried to rename it "glory hole" in a fit of inappropriateness, but Christopher's ancestors can rest easy knowing that name didn't seem to stick either. Speaking of Minnesota, I knew when I made my hamburger there would be mayonnaise in the fridge to put on it, although Christopher insisted that Kevin is the one who loves mayo and he has always been partial to the Miracle Whip (with the H not at all silent).
Christopher and I spent some nice quality time talking about the joys of home ownership and all the miseries that go into owning something on an island. He confided a charming anecdote about the move-in that I remembered from the 2004 New York Times article Kevin sent me. I don't blame him. My patter when showing people my house is so canned, I could just give them a recording on my ipod and let them tour on their own like in a museum. Their island paradise did fill me with insane mad jealousy that made my own house seem instantly less magical when I got home. But of course, I only got to see it when it was filled with happy people and sunshine. When you don't have to drag supplies across an ice-covered lake only to discover you forgot to buy milk, it is easy to fall in love with the charm spell that can descend on such a place. In the end, I realized that owning a house on an island, while lovely, is really a whole lot of work and misery and aggravation, punctuated with brief moments of blissful happiness. Just like marriage!
Back home, I looked out on the rose bushes I just planted and made plans for an arbor in the backyard where that rundown dog pen used to be. Earlier in the weekend, Mike and I tore the ramble shack overgrown pen apart, digging scoops full of broken glass out of the ground, remnants of a drunken teen night of target practice some years ago. We cleared old branches and dirty trash and one of every kind of ball you can imagine (tennis, whiffle, soft, literally everything but a shuttlecock), like archaeologists discovering an unkempt former civilization happily long departed. Someday I thought, people will feel the happy bliss I felt on Christopher and Kevin's island sitting in my backyard and while they smile contentedly, all I will remember are the piles of broken glass and be filled with resentment that I can't afford to surround the house entirely with water. I suppose I should just be patient. It has only been a year, and the house keeps getting better and better, one tiny improvement at a time. And the way it's been raining, my own private island might not be that far in the future after all.
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