A recent email exchange betwixt myself and a friend, who is in a lovely relationship and knows every single gay man in the city:
After entrusting you to assist me in my quest for matrimonial success, I'd just like to inform you that you are doing a terrible job. I have given you weeks--WEEKS!--to dig through your hordes of eligible male friends, and what have you produced for me? Nothing. If you could please re-prioritize, and give your efforts a much-needed boost. I'm tired of having sex with people I don't like. Thank you for your attention to this matter.
The alternative to having sex with people you don’t like is not having sex with people you do like. Invariably, that’s what having a boyfriend leads to, if the relationship lasts. Nevertheless, I will keep my eyes peeled and my nose to the…whatever.
My response to that:
It doesn't matter if my marriage delves into the depths of sexlessness. I will be far too satisfied from my torrid love affair with Daniel Craig to notice the flesh of anyone else on Earth, much less care about my spouse's naughty bits. Although first, I do need to actually get to Mr. Craig, as there is the possibility that--despite my world-wide fame on the cable-TV scene--he doesn't know who I am yet. (The horror!) Perhaps I should just join Her Majesty's Secret Service and become a double-0 myself? After all, I am already adept at doing the dirty deed as a means to a certain end, such as a free meal...or a place to stay for the night...or a drink...or if I just need a stick of gum or something. Pumping someone for government secrets would be easy. Did I just say "pumping"? How gauche. My apologies. Cheeri-o, I'm off to practice drinking vodka martinis and defibrilating myself.
Hello, and welcome to your Monday. How's it going, that whole back-from-the-holiday thing? Sitting there at your desk, under the fluorescent lights perhaps. How nice. Or maybe you stay at home, in which case your house is finally emptying out a little. Breathe. Ah.
As for me--I'm writing this Sunday night--my apartment is currently occupied by myself and my friend G, who is watching an unfortunately-noisy concert on PBS. "Hey, it's ehCharlotte ehChurch!" I can make fun of him all I want on this blog, as he does not speak (much less read) much English. He was lonely tonight, he didn't want to go home by himself. So here he is...blasting orchestral marching songs. How nice for me.
So things we need to discuss before you go on living for one more moment:
I've decided that 2007 is the year in which I am going to get married.
Who's the lucky fellow? Dunno yet. But I'm working on that.
I realize it's not 2007 yet, but I wanted to give you warning a chance to get ready.
I already have the honeymoon planned. I want to spend a week driving the perimeter of Iceland. A road runs all the way around the island, more or less, and most of it is through some pretty weird terrain. Geysers, lagoons, cliffs, the whole Scandanavian-esque thing, it's going to be really beautiful. And we can stop in the little towns along the way, hang out with the fishermen, and stay wherever. It will have to be a summer wedding, of course...Iceland in the winter is tough. So really, that only gives me until September-ish to get this locked down.
I think it looks really amazing...think of those little hotels along the way!...obviously, whomever I marry is going to need a reasonable sense of adventure. Exploring fjords and swimming in geothermal pools is no fun if he's not into it. Beyond that, I'll be delighted with someone who is nice, and funny. And calm. I need someone to mellow me out. The inside of my head is a chaotic place. No drugs, or desires to engage in three-ways, please--I seem to meet a lot of guys who want me to have sex with himself and his boyfriend, and I realize everyone makes their relationships work in their own ways but personally I find that creepy. A cute butt would be appreciated, but that's just extra credit.
So if you could send someone my way, I'd appreciate it. The clock is ticking, I have plane tickets to buy.
Thanks for your attention to this matter. A nice man interested in monogamy isn't asking to much, is it? If it is, please let me know in advance, I can take that trip by myself, no problem at all.
One of the executives in my office is this incredibly fabulous woman, who is always dressed in fashions and labels and looking flawless. Just the right look, just the right jewelry, never too much, perfectly accessorized with a genuine smile on her face. Every week she walks in with an entirely new head of hair, and all the gay men in the office quietly applaud behind her back while mouthing the words SO FIERCE! at each other in ecstasy. When she speaks, it's with a quiet control, and everyone listens. Her presence commands power. She glows with self-confidence. That, and really good cosmetics. I kinda want to be her when I grow up.
She became famous 'round these parts a few years ago--she was in a nasty car accident, where her car drove off the road and rolled over. She wasn't really hurt, so she climbed out of her car to call the police on her cell. But then her car caught on fire. So she reached back into the burning car, grabbed the box of new shoes she just bought, and then ran to safety.
That's how they found her, on the side of the road, with her purse, her phone, and her box of shoes.
If you know who "she" is, this is not news, you've been checking his weblog every day to find out the latest. But yeah, she's dead. Heart is still beating, for the organ donor thing. But technically, dead. Which is weird to wrap your brain around.
I discuss it not just because it's a sad story. It takes a lot of guts to write every detail like he did, share it with zillions of people whom you'll never meet. People ask "What's a blog?", and you point them to that. Real-time relay about the demise of your wife. I don't know if I could do it, although I have the luxury of not having such problems at present.
If you're just joining us, go to November 1 of his blog, the calendar is on the side, and start reading. There's, like, a lot.
One of my neighbors is this old man who takes walks every night at midnight. His steps are so tiny and he walks so slow, it takes him about 2 hours to make it around the block. And he drags his left leg, his walk making a clomp-shhhhh, clomp-shhhhh sound. clomp-shhhhh, clomp-shhhhh.
Sometimes he wears a military hat, presumably earned from some past war. I like to think he limps because of a war injury, rather than a stroke or other pedestrian scenario. Hopefully there's a good story at least.
Last night, as I walked past him shuffling into the gate at 1:45 AM, he smiled. "I WAS DOWN ON LINCOLN ROAD!" he said. Everything he says, he takes a deep breath and strains his voice with the words. "IT'S SUCH A NICE PLACE. I GOT TO BUY DRINKS FOR SOME PRETTY LADIES."
Lincoln Road was the other way than from where he was walking, I'm afraid. Oh well. "That sounds good," I said, and I held the gate while he walked through. clomp-shhhhh, clomp-shhhhh, clomp-shhhhh.
Every night, he takes his walk. Same loop, right around the block. And for him, it's an evening filled with endless adventures.
It must be fun, partying with all the pretty girls in his head. He seems to enjoy himself, he smiles a lot. Perhaps he'll invite all those ladies over for Thanksgiving.