A couple weeks ago I went out with my friend Michael, who is back and settled from his month of silence, and a regular chatterbox.  He wanted me to see the Greene and Greene exhibition at the MFA.  We chatted a bit about it at dinner afterward.  So I was surprised when I saw him yesterday in the garden and he wanted to know what I thought of it. 

Truth is, I hadn't really thought of it since, partly because it was such a tight exhibition, a seamless story of a set of extraordinary convergences (from large-scale historical movements like the opening of Japan to the West, to individual encounters, like Charles Greene's introduction to the English Arts and Crafts aesthetic on his European honeymoon in 1901) that produced a blip of sublimity (not to mention the "ultimate bungalow," the perfect dwelling).  Such blips seem rarer and shorter-lived in our own time.

The inspired collaboration of the brothers, Henry and Charles, typifies these unlikely convergences.  Henry was more an engineer, Charles an artist, as you can easily see...


(I'm sure Henry was a nice enough chap, but only Charles made my AILF* list.)

The show takes the boy's Tao of Design as its cue.  There is a sense of organic ferment in the narrative, which has three parts — in three spaces (with an epilogue in a fourth space) — flowing easily from birth  through maturation, to the dissolution of Greene and Greene, presenting an interesting object lesson in the fragile process of creative collaboration, and the arc of a collaborative relationship.      

In isolation it's easy to see that all of the elements in the environments Greene and Greene created are integrated and in harmony, too, but you have to remember that the world of Greene and Greene was, despite its synergy of source materials, a necessarily isolated one.  Which is why such a sustained and harmonious collaboration seems nearly impossible in our modern world of manic multitasking — a world probably best memorialized by an architect like Frank Gehry, whose finest work looks like an accident of inspiration (and whose worst just look like an accidents, period). 

It could just be me, but we seem to inhabit a time of great creative energy, even convergence of energies, but with little cohesion or coherence, an age in which moments of mastery are not so sustained that they stabilize before dissolving again into drift.  In fact, where the cult of the new reigns supreme, and the test of authenticity is pure spontaneity, it's sometimes hard to see any value in the kind of sustained attention the arc of the Greenes' collaboration required.

I wouldn't say that there aren't fascinating synergies happening right now.  In fact, they're multiplying exponentially.  But they're artificial — the hothouse, genetically-modified variety.  Pumped-up with hormones.  Big, plump, and flashy, but without the flavor, and little aftertaste but the longing for something bigger, plumper, juicier.  It's the same Tao, but we're past the babbling brook and into the rapids.  Hey... is that a waterfall ahead?

I hadn't been the to the MFA all summer, and in addition to the new addition (not yet finished) they have really jazzed up the place.  And after my little trip to DC last month (particularly the Reynolds Center), I could see it'd needed it.  It's like a whole new museum, and hanging out with Michael there made me want to go back and do some more exploring on my own, with a wingman, or, heaven help us, with a date. 

Well, as luck would have it, by Wednesday of this week I was able to wrangle up a date with a guy — we'll call him Gabriel — I'd chatted with some months ago who's in Boston as a visiting scholar now.  I know I said I've sworn off the internet for this kind of thing, but Gabriel got grandfathered in. I had given him my email address months ago when he was making plans, and that's how he eventually got hold of me.

He's one of these guys — he's so freakishly handsome I feel like the Hunchback of Notre Dame when I'm with him.  Because of the nature of the thing, I obviously can't divulge any information positively identifying my various paramours, much less provide photographic proof, but when my posthumous illustrated memoirs are published, you people are not gonna believe this shit.  I'm not even joking.  You're gonna so hate me.

We'd actually met up over the weekend, but not for a, um, date, exactly.  So when he called to tell me he was just leaving his place about the time I was supposed to meet him at the museum — meaning it would be another forty-five minutes minimum before he got there — I didn't get pissy.  I knew it'd be worth the wait.  In fact, I figured, hey, that gives me an hour to explore on my own before he arrives.

When he finally did I remembered how blindingly handsome he was and felt hideously ugly again (I remember reading some time ago about "imagined ugliness", which apparently afflicts 1 to 2 percent of the population — I have the situational kind, I guess).  I want to be clear about this, by the way: I'm not anti-ugly.  Some of the hottest guys I know are dogs.  So, this isn't a value judgment here. 

We strolled the galleries.  He slipped his arm through mine.  I struggled to put my finger on the precise nature of my dysmorphic moment when in the "Vida y Drama: Modern Mexican Prints" exhibition, we came across this self-portrait of legendary artist and womanizer, Diego Rivera...


...and I was like BINGO! that's it.  That's exactly how I feel when I'm with this guy.  Like Diego Rivera looks in this sketch!  But Diego got his share of chocho.  Can't deny it.  That's what I'm saying.

It was weird in the end.  Perfectly charming evening.  Had dinner at a crowded Casa Romero in the Back Bay.  And hopped on the T.  His stop was before mine.  I was not about to invite myself back to his place, but I was not about to refuse when he told me I could spend the night, and then narrowed his eyes, "as long as you don't snore."

He sounded serious.  Like really serious.

I didn't say anything.  I mean, I couldn't promise I wouldn't snore. It's been known to happen.  And when it does, rolling me over doesn't help, unless you roll me right off the bed, out the door, down the street, and into the Charles. 

So he's glaring at me now, waiting for an answer.

I'm thinking: is it really a deal-breaker at this point?  I mean, after we do whatever, if I end up snoring kick me out!  I can promise I won't mind at that point.  I'll take a cab home.  Everybody wins, and I'm boosting the local economy. 

"Well," he prodded.  "Do you?"

What do you expect a guy to say?

So I reared up, looking all offended and bellowed: "Who, me?  Snore? I couldn't if I tried!"

There was a look of lingering suspicion, but just as we were pulling into the station he gave me the go ahead.

"Is dutch-ovening OK?" I asked.

Whew.  Close call.

So we get to his place.  He’s not getting along with his roommate, who's a friend of a friend, which always complicates matters when it doesn't simplify them. Chet, we'll call him.  Chet's got a boyfriend.  I don't know if Gabe does or not.  He hasn't told me either way.  But Chet and his are both basically math geeks — like, serious math geeks.  We're talking MIT here. 

Why Chet doesn't live with this long-term beau is none of my business, but he doesn't.  I imagine it's a math geek thing.  For all I know, they have a very happy virtual home somewhere in cyberspace, and have really hot virtual sex with each other's studly avatars all day and night.  But apparently he's been hitting on Gabriel in real life.  To be fair, Gabriel pees with the bathroom door open.  Which could be construed as dangling a sausage just out of reach of a very hungry, but very small dog's snout. 

Chet wasn't home when we got in, but arrived just as Gabriel was taking a pre-whatever-we-were-about-to-do shower.  I hid out in the bedroom, but Gabriel had left the bedroom door open, and Chet was right outside now.  He didn't know I was in there, and called his lump-lump to say goodnight. 

He and his boyfriend had a weird conversation on the phone, more a series of little noises on Chet’s part. Little gurgles and coos, verging on baby talk, and sighs and queer quasi-musical sounds. It was like the little language lovers have after they’ve both shot their wads, and there’s nothing left to do and certainly not to talk about, and words are just noises, a little more musical than usual.

But with Chet and his BF there was an exaggerated note of melancholy – almost theatrical, as if they both knew the script by heart and were running lines – variations – nothing more.  On the one hand the depth of intimacy that allowed them to communicate like this was impressive.  On the other, it seemed like they didn't have a lot to talk about, actually.  Maybe they leave that to their avatars, too.

So after an interminable twenty minute shower Gabriel comes strutting out in his skimpy little towel, past the slavering Chet, who greets him like a game show host, sounding nothing now like he did with his supposedly significant other.  Gabriel squeezes past him and back into the bedroom, where I'm settled in reading my book....

...although the brain hypothesis claims that we never directly experience the real world, there is a mapping between our experiences and the real world such that we can be said to sense this world indirectly (with obvious caveats about the real world being colourless, silent and without smell)...

I'm thinking, "that sounds about right," when Gabriel tosses me a towel, and gives me a coy little smile.

"Your turn."

A-ha.  I get it now.  I'm going to strut my stuff to show Chet what's what!  Then I'm gonna strut back after my shower — having given him a little time to process that — and then Gabriel and I are gonna have loud, raucous, sex-your-roommate-will-hate-you-for style sex.  Or if not loud, raucous sex, the strained, quiet, but-your-roommate-will-hear-us! type sex, which is, in some ways, worse.  And which is why it's so important I don't snore.  I mean, obviously if you're going to have but-your-roommate-will-hear-us! type sex, snoring's a no-no.  You should burst out every now and again in maniacal laughter, a gleeful squeak or a yelp of pain — something.  But a *snork!* kinda spoils the illusion.

I played the part.  We did about seven minutes of but-your-roommate-will-hear-us! type sex before I fell asleep, and Gabriel checked his email on his laptop.  I got a sharp jab in the side somewhere in there. 

"You're snoring!" he hissed.

So I yelped to cover it.  And that seemed to do the trick.  At least I didn't have to call a cab.

But I had to twist myself into such a strange and unnatural shape to avoid snoring the rest of the night, I woke up several times with a start and couldn't feel an arm or leg.  Well, I could feel them flopping around, from the outside, like dead weight.  You wake up in a strange place with your arms flopping around and no feeling — I was sure I was dying, one limb at a time, and would be a slab of meat by dawn.

So I wouldn't say I slept much, and while the feeling of waking up naked cuddling a needlessly handsome half-naked man — bottom half, if you must know — is definitely worth the hassle, it does tend to make the ensuing workday an utter misery.  And at my age it takes at least two days to make up for one sleepless night.  And all that, mind you, for seven minutes of sex. 

You see what I'm saying about collaborations and convergences these days?

By yesterday I was back among the living, or at least among the living dead.  Which was good, because I had work to do in the garden.  My neighbor Tony has decided to give up his plot, and has bequeathed its bounty to yours truly.  I feel a little like a grave robber, but feelings pass. 

After a spot of pillaging, I'd worked up an appetite and met my dear friend Sully for lunch and a movie in the Fenway.  The last time we checked in with Sully he was trying to figure out what love is.  We meet up for movies and  I ask him what he thinks about what I think and he asks me what I think of what he thinks about things, like you do.  I think he's had a hard year. (But, honestly, he doesn't look any worse for the wear, the bastard.)

I wish I could say the same.  I started bitching about 40 again, and told him I'd started to notice it's not enough for young guys to ignore me, they get this look like it's a big hassle to ignore me now.  I was just getting used to the invisibility cloak they give you when you cross over.  I had no idea it emited some kind of annoying frequency only under-40s can hear (and the younger the louder and shriller, apparently). 

Sully said he'd tried out Grindr, at my suggestion, and that it was the same people who're online, just with different names and faces, and that the only thing it was good for was to know how close you are to a hook-up that's not gonna happen.  That close call — it's even closer than you think.  Isn't technology great.  They need to make an iphone with a taser on it.  If I get can close enough to stun them, I might have a chance.

But Sully's over it.  He's got real problems.  His latest is: his best friends are a lesbian couple.  I won't get into the wisdom of that.  I'm a huge fan of freedom of association.  They all went on a trip out West last summer, and he was the third wheel.  And I guess — at least according to all who witnessed it — he flirted inappropriately with the male half of a straight couple they visited on the way.  No one said anything at the time.  And these are all people who have been best friends for twenty-five years.

Fast-forward to, like, last week.  And the girls call him in for a heart-to-heart.  Apparently, even though he had no clue he was behaving any differently than he ever has, everyone was mortally offended at what they deemed was his "gender bias", and the inappropriate way he expressed it, or some such nonsense.

Two words for ya: Cambridge lesbians.

I mean, I almost said, "well, Sully, that's what you get."  It's like Siegfried & Roy and their fucking white tigers.  You know, you get comfortable enough to stick your head in there, and see what happens.  It may take twenty-five years, but keep sticking your head in there, and eventually they'll bite it off.

And then everybody'll be all like, "oh, they didn't mean anything!"  and "it was their mothering instinct!"  and "they were just trying to protect you when they punctured your jugular!"

But then who's in physical therapy for the next ten years and has to learn to talk again after five strokes?  You. And what do you get?  Cards and flowers?  No.  More like: "well, why'd you stick your stupid head in there in the first place?  Whadja think was gonna happen?"

Gender bias my ass.

Free advice!  Here's how you deal with a bored, possibly drunken gay friend who gets grabby:  First, issue a verbal warning.  If that doesn't work, splash cold water on him.  If he persists, bring out the taser. 

Here's how you don't deal with a bored, drunken gay friend getting grabby: first, look on in shock and horror at the unspeakable, unforgivable breach of decorum.  Next: let simmer for several months.  Finally, accuse him of gender bias.

I mean, does everything have to turn into the Nuremberg Trials?  Yes! OK!  Guys get grabby!  And their grabbiness does tend to have what you might call a gender bias!  Deal with it!  Christ, the only thing worse than a bored man is a bored woman!  How's that for gender bias?

"Gender bias."  Pah.  Who says that to someone for real — like someone you know and profess to care about?  How about, "you were an ass!"  or "quit hitting on my brother-in-law, will ya?" or even "stop or I'll shoot!" 

I was sure Where the Wild Things Are would hit the spot — you know: LET THE WILD RUMPUS START! But in the end it didn't.  And I remembered that the last time we went to a movie together, me and Sully, we saw another one co-written by Dave Eggers — Away We Go.  I don't think we should make a habit of this. 

The great thing about the Maurice Sendak book, aside from the illustrations, is that you can flip through it as fast or as slow as you want.  The movie, on the other hand, lingers and lags — lovingly, I can't deny — but lingers and lags at times it does.  The Wild Things are delightful, the kid's OK — a little behind developmentally — but I gotta say if I had a mom like Catherine Keener (LOVE LOVE LOVE HER) who was dating Mark Ruffalo (I could definitely eat him up), I would seriously just STFU. 

I dunno.  Weird.

Those moments when things click — they're fleeting.  I've got it down to seven minutes, here, but I can probably do better.  As for the rest?  When it gets to be too much, there's always Palm Pre.   


I heard the 2010 models come with a built-in taser.
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*AILF - Architects I'd Like to F*ck.