SEARCHING FOR KEVIN SPACEY

Sometimes a house in the Pines just isn’t ready to die . . . the Ditz and Testa Grande stepped up to the plate, jointly signing the lease and each agreeing to organize two groups for the 2003 season . . . that means the Curmudgeon, the Expatriate, the Sun Queen and i will be spending at least one weekend a month with Testa Grande next summer . . . the knowledge that we have been rescued from Limbo makes our remaining time together at the beach less precious and changes the dynamics of the house politics . . . regime change indeed!

Friday

Der Fuhrer decided to spend the holiday weekend with his family at the Jersey Shore and then go directly to the Allegria party with the Curmudgeon on Sunday night . . . a lousy weather forecast and the death of the Ingenue’s stepfather kept him and the Prince away, too . . . even this diehard was going to stay in the city until the Curmudgeon said he had packed his bag and would leave from work Friday afternoon . . . i took a later train than usual and spotted Lois Smith hiding behind her copy of the Times on the ferry . . . i wanted to tell her she was the best thing in Minority Report (if u don’t count the spyders) but u could tell by her refusal to make eye contact that she valued her privacy.

Testa Grande called to say a “drawing emergency” would delay his arrival until Saturday . . . well, this is the weekend to invite a guest i informed him . . . and one u won’t have to pay for. it looks like only three of us will be in residence . . . i met the Curmudgeon at the harbor who called his brother from the Pantry to invite him and his boyfriend . . . when i sent him to Peter’s Marina Market to purchase fresh clams, he returned with a dozen in shells . . . that’s not what i asked for . . . the owner gave him a hard time when he tried to exchange them for chopped clams, pointing to a sign that said no refunds . . . he finally relented but then instructed the kid behind the counter throw away the clams he wants to return. think about it he said guilt tripping the Curmudgeon into paying for his mistake but forever alienating a customer who only two weeks earlier had purchased more than $250 worth of lobsters.

While i made linguine with clam sauce and turkey bacon, garlic bread and a fresh salad, we played Scrabble and listened to the terrific new Marianne Faithfull CD and the original cast recording of Hairspray . . . the last holiday weekend of the season and we went to sleep with four empty beds.

Saturday

The current carried me well into Cherry Grove when i went for my late morning swim just beyond the crashing surf . . . by the time i returned, Struggling Artist and the Renaissance Man had driven in from Williamsburg bearing several bags of groceries and beer . . . i asked the Struggling Artist how his show in Provincetown was doing . . . i can’t believe they’re asking $900 for one of my small drawings he said . . . i tried to tell the gallery owner i should do a souvenir print of the dunes or something to sell for $25 but she doesn’t do things like that . . . when the Renaissance Man showed me some digital photos he had taken during their visit to Cape Cod earlier in the summer, i asked if i could look at the rest of his beautifully composed images . . . he recently had been given access to a loft in the building where he works as a framer and discovered the workshop of an Orthodox Jew who made false teeth . . . dental x-rays and pin-up girls hung above a table cluttered with weird tools . . . it was easy to imagine hipsters clad in black staring at these photos in some Chelsea gallery . . . not a bad way to spend a gray afternoon.

The Curmudgeon and i ran into Testa Grande with his hunky, last-minute guest on our way to the Pantry to pick up ingredients for a fajita dinner . . . OZzy, who had taken the train up from Philadelphia, seemed a little nervous during the introductions . . . he also looked a little like an ex con with his buzz cut and tattoos . . . this is going to turn out to be one very interesting weekend, i thought, rain or no rain . . . we found ourselves food shopping alongside a fashionably bespectacled and grizzled John Bartlett . . . does he ever wear anything other than his gray Harvard t-shirt in the Pines? . . . we know, John, we know.

Back at the house i started quizzing OZzy while i prepared guacamole and everybody began swilling Rolling Rock . . . he turned out to be a nurse and the reluctant boyfriend of the Tender Young Morsel . . . yeah, the little shit had such a good time, i figured i might as well come up for a visit too when Testa Grande instant messaged me last night with an invitation. i didn’t tell him where i was going until i rolled over and turned off the alarm this morning . . . the tit-for-tat approach to budding relationships . . . Testa Grande obviously had begun his effort to recruit a Philadelphia crew to share the house . . . and what could be more effective than separate visits for two potentially partnered housemates? . . . the Pines is so much more enjoyable without a boyfriend, reluctant or otherwise, to cramp your style.

OZzy even agreed to sit down to a game of Scrabble with the Curmudgeon, the Struggling Artist and me . . . he played slightly better than the Tender Young Morsel but we all were distracted by an unannounced, if welcome, visit from Testa Grande’s ex, the Mess, and several adorable members of the house where he was staying . . . the bevy of much younger, attitude-free beauties included Newfie, a banking attorney and his boyfriend, an economist who once struck up a conversation with me one Halloween by asking do u hang out at the Lure? not the kind of question i normally get though i was wearing a Pendleton shirt, jeans and black boots at the time . . . the Mess had come over to get Testa Grande’s input on some professional black and white photos of the two of them . . . they’re going to be hung in an exhibition about tension in relationships he explained . . . remarkably, the Mess’s new boyfriend, a dewy-eyed, baby-faced fellow with a short blond beard, didn’t seem to mind in the least . . . too bad they all couldn’t stay to play a round of Celebrity with us tho Newfie did do a spot-on impression of Britney Spears at the MTV Video Music Awards . . . he could have done Axl Rose just as easily and made me a LOT happier altho i suppose i wouldn’t have gotten a glimpse of his navel.

Maybe it was a good thing we didn’t play Celebrity . . . i ran into Newfie and his boyfriend at low tea where i think i referred to Anna Nicole Smith as a second-rate Jayne Mansfield . . . who’s that? he asked . . . stunned, i replied read Hollywood Babylon. it dishes the dirt on her and a lot of other dead stars during a time when scandal meant more than walking out of a concert because it rained . . . i left tea feeling very old . . . how does Testa Grande do it?

Renaissance Man, a vegetarian, and i were in charge of dinner . . . i stir fried the chicken and beef with onions and peppers while he prepared the rice and beans . . . the prefect summer meal, but a premature autumnal chill prevented us from eating it out of doors . . . everyone ate heartily, piling their fajitas high with a variety of toppings . . . it’s a hit said the Curmudgeon . . . too bad about his dessert: sliced pears and apples arranged with crackers around a wedge of melted Camembert . . . Martha Stewart meets Taco Bell: not a good thing.

Sunday

When u break out the beer at 11 a.m., not long after serving the banana bread and a fruit salad that could have foregone the cinnamon or the spearmint, u know it’s going to be a long day spent indoors . . . and without the distraction of a television or even the newspaper, u have to rely on the company to provide your sole diversion . . . we were lucky in this regard because OZzy, Struggling Artist and Renaissance Man all had fresh biographies, each with their own coming out story, interesting profession and varied drug history . . . despite a little bit of tension over musical tastes (circuit seniors vs. emocore devotees) the rainy day wasn’t nearly as miserable as it might have been and this busybody was sorry to see the Curmudgeon, the Struggling Artist and Renaissance Man catch a late afternoon boat.

So when Testa Grande and OZzy returned from the harbor with snack food, chicken soup ingredients and a $50 bottle of Tanqueray, i started sucking down gin and white grape juice to help get me through what was turning into a pretty intense group therapy session . . . earlier in the day i had remarked to OZzy your matter of factness about your dysfunctional family background is refreshing . . . the floodgates, shall we say, opened and for the next several hours i listened in astonishment to a more detailed account of his horrible childhood (never meeting his biological father even tho they now live in the same city and being dragged to a dozen different schools before he turned 16 by a mother he referred to as a “tart”) and the long-term relationship where he found refuge if not sexual satisfaction . . . no wonder he’s studying to be an anesthetist.

Testa Grande probably already had heard much of this story . . . we asked OZzy lots of sympathetic questions but we also spent some time discussing what makes gay men of such vastly different backgrounds as the three of us more alike than not in many respects . . . it’s a yearning that comes with our freedom and utter lack of responsibility i posited and i think it’s hard wired. because most of us will never have kids and the opportunity to see our genes reassembled in the flesh of another human being, we’re all searching for something, never to be satisfied: the perfect lover, the best job, an adopted child, a bigger house. and no matter what we do find, it’s always more this or more that, something else just beyond our reach . . . razor blades anyone?

Of course my horniness quickly trumped this fundamentally pessimistic view of homosexuality . . . i wanted to jump OZzy’s bones, starting with the spider and ant tattoos on his muscular calves, particularly when he lay stretched out on his stomach on an easy chair and ottoman with his butt up in the air in front of the fire . . . playing an American Henry Higgins to a white trash male version of Eliza Dolittle has always been my favorite romantic fantasy, but OZzy’s ex boyfriend already got there first . . . fortunately, before i drank enough gin to make a foolish pass, he and Testa Grande decided to brave the rain and head for the house where the Mess was staying . . . that group must have exhausted all their conversational options because one of them pulled out a guitar and they ended up singing folk songs for an hour before heading off to Sip ‘n Twirl . . . rainy days do have a way of bringing out the best and the worst in the Pines.

Labor Day

Enough is enough, already . . . no matter how enjoyable the company or how expensive the gin, u catch cabin fever after 48 hours indoors . . . OZzy couldn’t stop cleaning . . . even most of my house mates have never scrubbed the stove top . . . anything to avoid that anesthesiology textbook which i opened more than he did . . . who knew ketamine had legitimate pediatric uses? . . . a not-quite-rolling Curmudgeon called with a breathless circuit party update . . . a lot of guys must have come back to New York because of the weather. we saw a lot of familiar faces but there weren’t as many out-of-town beauties as Pride weekend and the music seemed a little off.

Testa Grande and OZzy didn’t stick around much past lunch, leaving me to leftovers and my own devices . . . but Testa Grande couldn’t resist calling me later that night with his favorite kind of u- won’t-believe-what-just-happened-to-me story . . . i went on-line when i got home. some guy IMd me and said we could hook up later at my place or i could come to his office now. so i went. he worked at a fetish magazine in some Chelsea loft. when he came downstairs to let me in he told me not to worry. so we had sex in what turned out to be their photo studio. i did ask him to turn down the lights. it was really funny. i looked up at one point and saw plastic containers marked “dildos” and “masks” . . . Testa Grande forwarded me his picture . . . did someone say jackpot? . . . it sent me right on-line looking for a M4M Fire Island Pines chat room and within an hour, BigAdvntr IMd me . . . tea was great in spite of the weather . . . yeah, right . . . never underestimate a gay man who has been stuck inside all day he typed after we swapped photos . . . he agreed to make the wet walk from the harbor to my end but never showed up, later explaining in an e-mail that he hadn’t been able to find the place . . . he must not have looked very hard, if he looked at all.

The Week

The bad weather did give me some uncommon solitude . . . i awoke to bright skies on Tuesday and hit pay dirt on Wanker’s Way with a couple of guys who were as horny as i was . . . OZzy sent me a funny thank-u e-mail referring to himself as “nastypiggyscrubtop” and saying that i reminded him of Blanche Deveraux . . . not the first time someone has made that comparison but now that i’m approaching Golden Girl age myself, it stings.

Der Fuhrer finally showed up on Wednesday with the Cook and plans to drive on to Martha’s Vineyard for a solo visit with Beau Monotone. . . it sounded like Siberia to me . . . as soon as they got to the house, we had a long talk about his decision to move on with the Prince and the Ingenue . . . don’t take it personally he repeated . . . i didn’t but i wondered how the Prince would play it when he arrived on Thursday since he was surprised that
Der Fuhrer already had informed everyone.

At tea one of Der Fuhrer’s acquaintances identified him by this pseudonym and inquired after Beau Monotone . . . why don’t u ask the author? he’s sitting right over there he said, shooting me a dirty look . . . i don’t know who was more shocked, i or Der Fuhrer, who had no idea that this blog had a readership beyond our house . . . apparently Beau Monotone’s description gave away the whole game: he and Der Fuhrer’s acquaintance were house mates last season . . . i declined to meet him even tho he told Der Fuhrer that he and his house mates had been looking for a guy who wore goggles on the beach but when he walked past me and said fabulous i nearly peed my pants!

Thursday morning, well before the 9:30 a.m. boat when most early birds arrive, i heard the screen door open and someone wearing hard sole shoes step into the house . . . when Der Fuhrer joined me upstairs for coffee, i asked him if the Prince arrived or if we had an intruder . . . i don’t think so . . . but sure enough, he had caught the construction worker boat and emerged a few moments later from his room with the news the “Intelligentsia” section of New York magazine had reported that Kevin Spacey had rented a house here somewhere along the bay . . . no dear, there is no intelligentsia section in that magazine or among its readership and yes, we already know . . . it suddenly struck me why the Prince was moving on: he and the Ingenue read New York religiously while most of the rest of us are longtime New Yorker subscribers . . . two different crowds entirely.

It kind of just happened he explained over half an egg salad sandwich . . . even tho he and the Cook had stopped for a bite at the harbor, i think he took a helping so i wouldn’t be offended . . . God and everyone else knows i’m sensitive about my egg salad . . . but the rationale behind his defection struck me as lame . . . u want “just happened” when it comes to moving? . . . then how about the scene in the Wizard of Oz when Dorothy’s house falls right on top of the Wicked Witch of the East? . . . still, he did make an effort to be as diplomatic as possible . . . we were looking at houses to buy and the real estate agent said she had a half-share rental we might like. it’s right on the beach and has just been renovated with slate walls in the bathroom. the bedrooms face the ocean and it’s got a pool, a hot tub, Direct TV and a high speed computer connection . . . i nodded politely at his catalog of the amenities, all the time thinking that for me, enjoyment of the Pines is less about the real estate, which in this case was going to cost a cool $30,000, than the people with whom u are sharing . . . of course, it’s entirely possible he gets this too: he and the Ingenue will take one bedroom for themselves, fill another with guests and rent the third to Der Fuhrer . . . and no Pines Party weekend, thank u very much.

It’s time to go look for Kevin Spacey in the kayak i announced, eager to end the conversation now that we had successfully negotiated the awkwardness hump . . . i cut through the choppy waters of the bay listening to the new Coldplay and Aimee Mann recordings, peeping into each of the most spectacular houses on my way to the Meatrack, looking for signs of a closeted actor and his much younger blond companion . . . word has it on the street that pedophilia is as big a problem on some Hollywood sets as in the Catholic church . . . no luck, altho i learned that somebody had redecorated the Pig Pit with a pair of folding nylon chairs, plus i scored with a pair of Biker Dudes who looked as if they should have been campaigning against each other for mayor of Hollister, CA . . . when the Cook and i spotted them at tea the night before, we guessed they were day trippers from the Grove . . . the one with the Jack Daniels headband politely put out his cigar before the three of us had surprisingly tender sex . . . even more surprisingly, the taller and more attractive of the two waved at me from a palatial bayfront home in the Pines when i kayaked back . . . so much for stereotypes.

Altho i would have been perfectly happy to eat fajita leftovers when i returned, the Prince insisted that i eat the meal (penne tossed with sausage, tomatoes and broccoli rabe) that he, Der Fuhrer and the Cook had shopped for . . . by agreeing to do so any residual tension completely evaporated . . . in a sense, i sang for my supper by updating them on my “search” for Kevin Spacey . . . how did u clean up afterward? asked the Prince, betraying his utter cluelessness about what i call vertical sex where gravity often takes care of the messiness . . . i don’t think there are any showers in the Meatrack said the Cook . . . that would never work for me he said . . . Der Fuhrer and i ended the evening companionably laying on couches in front of a tame fire, listening to Paulina Rubio without saying a word . . . a first in my experience and sadly, perhaps the last.

The flies are as fierce as the retirees i reported early Friday afternoon when i returned from Wanker’s Way with what would be my worst facial sunburn of the summer . . . with the Prince and the Cook both gone, i had just enough leftovers to make a fajita lunch for Der Fuhrer before leaving myself . . . i also assured him i would expurgate my blog as he requested even tho this might entail changing his pseudonym to Stalin . . . i never did manage to spot Kevin Spacey altho as the 4 p.m. boat pulled away from the harbor on the kind of late summer afternoon whose beautiful light can bring tears to your eyes, i did see Michael Cumpsty, a face, like Lois Smith’s, that not just anyone would recognize . . . so there!