Playing a game

In case you don't know, "Twenty Questions" is the simplest of games; I think of something and my opponent asks up to twenty questions to ascertain what it is. Below is a transcript of a recent game between Don and me.

     1. Is it mineral? Yes

     2. Is it in its natural state? No

     3. So it has been manufactured or transformed in some way? Yes

     4. Is it wearable? No

     5. Is it useful? Yes

     6. Would you most likely find this in a home? No

     7. Is it something you'd carry with you frequently? No

     8. Would you likely find it in an office? No

     9. Is it bigger than a breadbox? Yes

   10. Is it bigger than a phone booth? Yes (in at least one dimension)

   11. Is it something that would be mostly used by men? No

   12. Is it all of one mineral? No

   13. Is it metal? No

   14. Is it stone? A qualified Yes

   15. Is its primary purpose to intrigue, attract, entertain or amuse? No

   16. Is it part of some sort of transportation? Yes        

   17. Have you, Walter, used it? Yes

   18. Is it sea based? No

   19. Do you, Walter, have one of these? No

   20. Is it a toll booth? No

Don’s final question was asked after I emailed him the photo below and told him that the blacktop and the paint were clearly fresh, but that what I was looking for was what used to be there.

And what used to be there?

Believe it or not, a speed bump was installed on that spot about three weeks ago . . .

and removed last week!

WTF? Did a powerful New Haven resident complain that he didn’t like having to slow down? Did the city put their speed bump in the wrong place and then come back and get it? Did the People for the Ethical Treatment of Asphalt complain that speed bumps suffer terrible pain?

I have no idea. I only know that one day it appeared and then another day it disappeared.

Strange.

A public thank you

The picture above is of two stained glass panels I just installed in our bedroom. This is the second time I’ve installed these two pieces; the first time was in 1978 – thirty-three years ago. They haven’t been in my possession for twenty-five years; they just came back to me early this month.

Kudos to my buddy Malette for reuniting me with something I treasure – thank you my friend; I will never be able to truly pay you back for your kindness.

The story starts in New York where Chris Shepherd and I were browsing through an antiques store on a trip from Richmond. If memory serves, the shop was on the Upper West Side, near the Museum of Natural History. We saw these two panels and liked them immediately, but could only afford to buy one.

The details of what happened next are a bit fuzzy but I know that I somehow returned to the store on a later trip and bought the second panel, surprising Chris on his birthday, or for Christmas, or for our anniversary – not sure which. He was thrilled, as was I.

(If anyone reading this needs a refresher on who Chris was and how important he is to me, read this).

I installed the two panels in a set of bookcases, jerry-rigging lights behind them. The bookcases enjoyed pride of place in our Monument Avenue apartment and later in our Charlottesville townhouse.

Fast forward to 1986 and my move to New York. Chris and I had separated, I had ended up with the bookcases and I was lightening my load, getting rid of lots of stuff for the move into Ransom’s apartment. Malette had always liked them so I sold the bookcases to him, though they were really showing their age – it was a cheap, pressed-wood, pre-fab unit, the kind Ikea now sells by the millions.

He and his wife Jane Ann built a beautiful home on the beach near Wilmington, North Carolina, and had the two pieces of glass installed in a wall between two rooms. They looked great. (see picture, not great).

Chris died in 1994 and after the service I visited with his sister Ashley who very kindly asked me to choose something of his as a keepsake. I did, taking a couple of goblets that we had bought together. I knew though that the keepsake I most wanted was in that beautiful home in Carolina Beach. Years later when Malette and Jane Ann moved out of that house he asked me if I wanted the glass back. He offered to give it to me if I would pay to have the wall patched. I was delighted and thought the offer was exceedingly generous.

It’s taken quite a while for us to figure out how to get the glass to CT, but early this month Malette and I met in DC; we had both driven, and there the swap was made.

And now it’s taken me too many words to tell this story, but it is such an important story to me that I hope you’ll forgive. Chris will always own a piece of my heart and now I again own a piece of our life together. Once more, thank you, Malette.

And to bring the story full circle: when, with a bit of anxiety in my heart – since, after all, they represented my life with another man -- I asked Ransom what he thought, he said “I love them.” There’s no better ending than that. 

Random Thoughts

Ransom and I saw War Horse yesterday, the Tony winner in June for best play. It was a remarkable experience. I don't think it's a great play, but the showmanship with which the tale unfolds is breathtaking. The "horses" -- huge puppets actually, each operated by three actors -- are so lifelike that I fought hard to keep from sobbing out loud near play's end. We enjoyed it thoroughly.

It's a testament to how our lives and preferences have changed that, instead of going out to some fancy, expensive New York restaurant, we drove home to CT and ate an acceptable, not great, meal at a new Asian buffet we hadn't tried. The days of spending half a month's grocery budget on one dinner are past.

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I heard a bit of NPR's coverage of this week's Republican debate. Rick Perry talked about how sacred life is. Isn't this the same Rick Perry who is the governor of Texas? And isn't Texas the state that executes more people than any other state, more than just about every other country on the planet? Am I missing something here? 

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Tickets to Spider-Man, Turn Off the Dark have been appearing lately on the TDF website. TDF, the Theatre Development Fund, of course runs the discount TKTS booths in New York but they also offer members a chance to buy even more discounted tickets, in advance, to Broadway, Off-Broadway and even Off-Off-Broadway shows, as well as to dance, opera and musical performances. The top hit shows are almost never on this list. Lion King and Wicked, for example, have never been there, to my knowledge. But Spidey is. That's good news for people like me who are aghast that anyone ever thought of making a Broadway show out of a comic book. I'd say its web has been nearly spun out.

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I'm breaking one of my rules this week. I'm going to hear the Yale Philharmonia, along with the Yale Camerata and Yale Glee Club, perform Beethoven's Ninth Symphony. No, I don't have a rule against hearing great music. I do try though to never attend a concert in Woolsey Hall, the acoustically-challenged, creature-comfortless barn of a building that is Yale's only space for large orchestral concerts. It is nothing less than a scandal, say I, that Yale University, which in many ways is among the finest learning institutions in the world has not one world-class performing arts space. Not one! Woolsey's acoustics are so bad that I should really say I'm going to "hear" the Ninth, or "some of the Ninth," or "an approximation of the Ninth."

____________________

A final random thought; from today’s New York Times comes this exciting bit of commentary, about the relationship of the Irish people to the Catholic Church: “the awe, respect and fear the Vatican once commanded have given way to something new — rage, disgust and defiance — after a long series of horrific revelations about decades of abuse of children entrusted to the church’s care by a reverential populace.” You can read the whole article here. I take heart that even the Irish, who so long embraced this evil institution, are throwing off their shackles and facing it for what it really is.

Yep, it’s a good day in the neighborhood.

A love letter

President Obama was hanging out in my old 'hood yesterday and I'm sorry I wasn't there to hang with him. He didn't stay long, which is a shame, because the capitol of the Old Dominion is a lovely place to visit. The following was written almost a week ago:

I write this from the cool comfort of the very cool Helix Hotel in Washington, DC. The hotel is cool no matter what the weather and it's a real find; I highly recommend it to anyone looking for a hip spot to crash. I just took my second shower in 12 hours and what a joy that was -- it had been perhaps 80 hours since my last one!

My time in Richmond, Virginia, was certainly different from any other visit there, although being in Richmond during a hurricane-caused power outage was not new: I experienced both Agnes and Camille while living in Richmond. But living there and just visiting are different experiences. Most people don't head toward a hurricane; but, as you know, I've never been most people.

Even without power -- and without a much-anticipated visit to the Westhampton Pastry Shop for the best creme horns on the planet -- it was a pleasant stay that made me once again realize what a gem this Southern city is.

Saturday night we found a cluster of open restaurants in what is likely the largest mall in the Richmond area. Now I am NOT a mall person -- I almost never go to any of the malls in CT -- but this one is amazing. It's an outdoor mall, with covered walkways and lots of open air courtyards. Sitting in one of them, waiting for a table on a balmy summer evening, was a most pleasant experience.

Likewise, DRIVING to the mall was pleasant: six-lane, well-paved roads with traffic-synchronized stop lights and left-turn lanes at every intersection: trust me, Richmonders, you don't know what a joy that is. Come to my neck of the woods and drive down crowded, pot-holed roads where every light works on its own schedule so that you may well wait at every single one. It's a hol difrent sperience.

Another of Richmond's pleasantries is its people: friendly, helpful and kind; slower to anger perhaps and more polite too. These are generalities, sure, but I believe they hold true.

So why do I live in the New York area? Because, Richmond, for all its charm and sweetness, is not New York. Many Southerners would acknowledge that proudly, but my life would be far less complete without Broadway and off-Broadway, the Metropolitan Opera and Lincoln Center, American Ballet Theatre and the Joyce Theatre -- and all the other cultural attractions of the Big Apple. And then there's New Haven and the best pizza in the world, as well as all the goodies Yale has to offer.

But let's face it: if I still lived in Richmond I'd likely be very happy, for it truly is a lovely place to be. For me though, the Northeast is where it's been, where it's at and where it'll always be.

Saved by a Canadian -- again

In 1974 when I was young and frisky, I took a 30-day road trip from Charlottesville, Virginia, to Richmond, Virginia, via Toronto, Detroit, Montreal, Rochester, Provincetown and New York City. It was glorious. In those days I was an in-shape, twenty-something queer man who could usually make a new friend in a gay bar. I counted on that particular talent as I knew no one in Toronto, Montreal or Provincetown and was on a very tight budget, with no money for lodging.

Montreal was the highlight of the trip. It didn't start that way though; I was in a bar, it was getting very late and my attempts at meeting someone had all fizzled out, either because the guy spoke only French or because he wasn’t interested (how could THAT be possible, you ask). I was getting worried; the back seat of my AMC Gremlin was really tiny!

Then I saw this attractive blond boy mouthing the words to an American pop song. Assuming he spoke English, I introduced myself. It was touch and go for a while – he told me later he was not immediately interested – but after talking a while we started to really click.

I spent four days with John, staying in Montreal about 36 hours longer than I had planned, and it was wonderful. He not only rescued me that night but he shared his great city with me over four terrific days of talking, sightseeing, relaxing and . . . well, you can guess.

This morning another Canadian saved me. This man’s name was also John, and he was from Toronto. Our relationship was very short and I didn’t get to know him at all, but I am VERY grateful that he paid me a call: