Moment Magnitude

Herbie

This story makes me smile. We don't get together as often as we used to, but when we do, something happens. Of course, plenty happens to each of us when we're not together. Plenty.

Liz Taylor, Jr. (up there, wielding the pool cue) continues blithely to break hearts. Surfer Girl (into whose gob the pool cue is aimed), is terrorizing men - especially one in particular, a well-known film director (think: Harvey Keitel- and a nun...yep).

Prima Downhill hosted her once-a-month gathering for skiers and friends. There she is, lovely, next to Surfer Girl. And take that, Surfer Girl, another damned good photo of you, although I may have to call you "Busty McSurfer," given your well-defined attributes, ahem.

And Prima Downhill's friends, one of whom is in the photo next to that blond, tan guy.

That blond, tan guy wandered into the bar where Prima Downhill had gathered us.

Pow! In a shot, Cousin T. dashed up to him to flirt. I love my Chelsea-Boy second cousin. He breaks ice in a heartbeat. According to Cousin T., blond tanned guy resembles a co-worker in his company. In those handful of sentences, some three women dropped in, all over blond tan guy.

I stepped away, back to the pool table.

Cousin T. wandered over to me and asked me, "Why didn't you talk to that (blond tan) guy? He noticed you." 

"I know," I smiled. "but he has plenty of distractions right now. Didn't you see? At least two other gals all but dived right onto him."

"But you should have!"

"Nah. Not my style."

Yes, it seems that we city kids still get whiplash from folks who drop in - and stand out because they don't look like us. It's autumn in New york, glorious and crisp, our summer glows have softened into lighter shades. We're wearing layers, sweaters, readying ourselves for the inevitable cold. And in wanders a fellow who looks like he just pulled in off the Newport Beach break.

And then it got strange.

A while later, back toward the front bar, I caught the blond tan guy alone second. Perhaps one of the admiring females had gone to the bathroom. Another was pulled into conversation by another man.

I decided to go free-form. I looked right up at him.

"Have you told anyone here your name?" I didn't wait for an answer.

"No. It doesn't matter. You look like, yes, you look like a...'Herbert.' Right. "Herbert.' 'Herb' for short. Or 'Herbie,' yes, 'Herbie."

In truth, I had opened my mind, his blond tanned look, a southern California vibe, I remembered that old Disney movie, from when I was a kid (the original, for chrissakes), "Herbie." That sequence of thoughts zipped through my mind.

"Do you know me? Do you know who I am?" he asked me. He sounded somewhat incredulous.

"No. I never saw you before you walked into this bar tonight."

Another fast thought - who was this guy? Somebody famous? Somebody I should know? I answered myself: Screw it, who cares?

He squinted at me. "My name is Herbert."

(Look at that photo up there. Does that guy look like a Herbert?)

"You are full of shit." I squinted back at him. "Let me see your drivers license."

He fished out his wallet and walked over to the bar-cashier light. Sure enough: Herbert.

The quizzical looks on each of our faces were identical in disbelief. So I gave him my card, attempting to deflect what could have been a round of funny-name banter. (In my mind, I doubted that any woman would moan, sigh, or scream "Herbert!" in the throes of ecstasy. Another lightning-fast thought.) I said," Yep. Holly Hodder. I'm not a porn star."

At least one of the admiring women returned, and I backed away.

I think he told everyone else that his name is Joe. One of the gals later confided that she though he was full of himself. He's not from New York. He was just in town for business, and a John Bon Jovi concert in the deepest heart of Newark, NJ. I think his hotel was somewhere in the swamps of Jersey too - he told me later that everything in the city started at $500. Which it does.

I'm not sure he knows where the Hamptons are.

And I know all of this, because Herb and I have struck up a conversation. And it is very amusing. I recommended that he read this post, and this one too. I said I might write about his name - not an idle promise.

He did - read those posts. And here's his response, verbatim: "Make sure that you exaggerate that you met this guy Herbert that made you orgasm just by looking into his sea blue eyes."

I suspect that he may have succeeded with at least one of his NYC-gal admirers. You never know.

Certainly I would welcome such an action-reaction. Let's see what happens when I go to sleep tonight.

Herbie, The Love Bug.

Allergan's Vivite - A First Report

Round one of various skin products review(s).

First of all, there is an accent on the final "e" in the name Vivite. I just don't know how to make that happen here in Typepad world. It's the kind of accent that leans to the right, like it will fall over. Got it? Good. Work with me here.

I read the brochure - and almost forgot everything in it the instant I read it. Instead, I surveyed the various packages I received in the mail, and opted, for no discernible reason, to try the Allergan Vivite (accent!) skin care products first. A crap shoot decision. Like throwing a dart at the map of the world, and traveling to wherever it lands.

Okay, maybe not so much.

The sample packet contained four products in a small plastic snap-shut envelope. The darned snap resisted easy closure nine out of ten times, a small nuisance. The packaging colors are soothing shades of pink and some version of white. So compact, so cute - don't we love travel-size bottles? The Thelma and Louise syndrome.

The products themselves included an exfoliant, a light, almost clear hydrating fluid, an eye cream, and a night cream. I checked the full-size prices online - this stuff does not come cheap.

I've been using them for the past week. I went on instinct, like I do. I may have remembered what I read from the brochure, but if I did/do, I am unconscious of it. I have used skin care "regimes" for many years, so I am familiar with the typical procedure of cleanse/exfoliate, hydrate, protect, etc.

Still, every time I use a micro-bead (or variant) cleanser, it feels like I am sandpapering my face. I just don't like that, never did. Vivite's exfoliant feels very similar to any other exfoliant product I have used: That odd admixture of rubbing sand on my face - even as it oils at the same time.

Now, I know these products are available from doctors' offices, but good lord, they could add some kind of pleasing fragrance.

This stuff smells like a medicine-y olive antipasto, and when I taste it (okay, if I smear the stuff all over my face, that includes my lips - I am not taking mini-spoonfuls of the stuff), it tasted like very salty olive oil. Like a dirty martini. Maybe salt and olive oil are really, truly, good for my skin.

If that's the case, then generations of Italian grandmothers (mine included) are right.

I do not like exfoliant-sandpaper cleansers. In a post I wrote months ago, I confessed that I don't like to wash my face. I cold cream the eye makeup (I do not use whole-face makeup anymore - I don't need to), splash warm water, moisturize, and that's it.

In the spirit of this experiment however, I have used the sandpaper exfoliant. But only two or three times a week. And a revelation, holy cow. When I re-read the brochure, it recommended that the exfoliant be used at that same frequency, no more. Either I'm damned clever, super-intuitive, or the latent memory kicked in.

I confess, I like eye creams. This one is a bit stiff, it doesn't rub in as easily as I prefer. It makes me pull the skin around my eyes more than I like. But I discovered that if I rub it between my thumb and forefinger, it warms up (ah, friction), and glides on better.

The everyday hydrating fluid, although of a very thin consistency (I do like the mini-pump action), seems to retain its moistness after application. But it, like its companion products is salty-oily like the afore-referenced olive antipasto and cocktail.

The thicker night cream is, well, a thicker night cream, more of the same antipasto-dirty martini flavors.

All up, sure, my skin feels great. Do I see any kind of age-reducing change? No. Call me blind (that's easy - anyone who knows me knows the strength of my eyeglass prescription), but I got nuthin'. In fact in the three sample before/after photos included in the brochure, I cannot discern any change - even with the light pink pointer arrows. What are they attempting to show? I am baffled. 

Back to the brochure. Okay: It seems as though I am using the products according to the prescribed regimen. Oh, and the model on the brochure looks like Naomi Watts. She's a helluva'n actor. See The Painted Veil.

But with this list of botanical ingredients: Chamomile, aloe, wild mango butter (sounds tasty), green tea, pomegranate, licorice root, and caffeine, couldn't the good folks at Allergan make this stuff smell better? Oh wait, the last listed botanical is olive leaf extract.

See that? I knew it. Antipasto.

I Change My Mind

I change my mind. Because I can.

I have learned that opinions cannot afford to be fixed. Nor initial impressions, or goodness-gracious, not even time-tempered judgments.

In this changeable world, I choose to change my mind.

Of course, sometimes, I have to be the progenitor of change.

I will limit the descriptions to a distinct group of men, some of which I know too much, others a slighter amount. For loyal readers, you will recognize that group, the summer tennis pros.

The first one. Two summers ago, I was thrown into the company of a visiting pro. He traveled up from Texas, his full-time residence, after he departed his homeland, one of the northern European countries. He was invited to stay by and with The Savior, a former tennis pro himself. I was staying there as well. This fellow, however, made a poor first, second, and forty-fourth impression. He came off as arrogant, self-absorbed, hyper-sexed (or in want or dire need of sex), and generally uncouth. He lounged about the house, watched a lot of television, and presumed that someone, or I would run him around town. He lacked an internal edit function, and would utter the most outrageous, pre-1970s-sounding-macho-sexist statements. They and he were laughable. I could not take him seriously, and in short order, snapped tough sentences at him, in an attempt to keep him in line.

Two years later, my attitude has softened. He is spending the summer here, teaching, like so many others. And he is no longer acting like the super-uber stud. He seems to have been humbled, and is living in a group tennis pro house (much like a filthy fraternity). I realize now that he has an almost encyclopedic knowledge of tennis statistics, which in throw-down conversations, serves a useful purpose - when you want to prove a point. He also stepped up, and did me a solid, about which I cannot describe further, given the hint of illicit, though benign activity it entails (and no, I did not have sex with this guy - that remains non-negotiable). And he grew his hair out - aesthetically more pleasing than the baldy-look. My behavior toward him is generally kinder, now.

The second one is well-known. Tennis Pro. A couple of run-ins in the onset of summer were uncomfortable, to put it mildly. I was angry, but not in a knock-down-drag-out way. No. I was disgusted with what I had let transpire, and his physical presence reminded of the bonehead mistake I'd made. Still, the couple of times I saw him, it looked as though he was frightened, his eyes growing wide, as if he expected me to brandish a machete and run, roaring for his jugular. Okay, that was fun to write.

A few weeks back, I saw him at a local favorite watering hole, the one on the harbor. (To wit, the heartbreak of three summers ago has shown his face there. I saw him once, noted, it, and during the course of the evening, forgot about it completely - only recollecting it in the light of the next day, or a few day later. Brava.) Tennis Pro was alone, and looking, I thought, uncomfortable. I knew The Savior's arrival, was imminent (lawdy-be), and after a while, reached out, and introduced TP to some of our crowd. I made the point of being easy and light, magnanimous, entertaining, and happy to be entertained. I believe it worked. 

At some point, he did put his hand on the curve of my butt (good-sweet-jeezus-already), but I turned out of the way, out of reach, and kept up the banter (persiflage) among our little crowd.

Since then, I have a lightness in my mind, if not in anatomical parts south from my head, but not too south. It feels as though the angst has passed. I stepped up, walked into the fray, and determined to make it easy. Yes. Easy.

There is a third. And a fourth. I have formed first opinions, and they are both in the process of changing.

I feel a little like Annie in Bull Durham.

"What do you mean, you can't touch your toes? Your lower back is that tight?"

"Yeah. I try to keep loose. Yoga helps."

"Seriously, you can't touch your toes."

"It's a distant dream."

(More than that, I will not divulge. Yet.)

What If Scenario

I say to myself sometimes, "You gotta love an epiphany."

I made a hypothetical comparison and revelation in the past week. In my exhortation for an Eraser, I have since taken the time to muse over a handful of "what-if's."

What if I allowed myself to enter into a situation wherein I would be open to sexual intimacy with someone new? (It feels imminent. I had two dreams in which I was being held in a loving embrace. The word "loving" seemed to hang in the atmosphere.)

And what if the nature of that intimacy proved to be passionate, erotic, and afterward sustained, with easy and affectionate physical intertwining of arms and legs, buttocks and abdomens, breaths in ears, lip prints along the back of necks, the curling of one body around the other after vigorous and sweaty exploits, finally exhausted, naturally accepting the hand that caresses a back, a hip, then finds its way curled against its companion's chest, resting on the sternum, above the slow and steady beat of a heart?

(The Good G might say, "So did he use his mouth?" I could well imagine that. And my response, affirmative.)

Then, after the afterglow, after the return to the hectic quotidian pace of life, what if the forehead-slapping realization hits: A new lover could be different from the last lover?

Night and day different.

The former took so much, and toward the end, I let him use my body ill. Throughout it all, he was not generous with his sex, a stingy lover, and yet it seems to me now that he wanted so much...else.

What if, however, a new lover could give so much, and ask for so little in return (outside of the place and time of passion and intimacy)?

If or when that happens, now or soon, in surprise (or not so) circumstances, how wonderful would that be, even if it was just the one time?

Last night, with two friends, I was laying on my back on a boat dock, staring up at the night sky. We picked out constellations and a planets. The wind kicked up a little. The breeze swept across my face, a whisper, a hint.

 

Persiflage

A snippet of light conversation from last night, after at least one too many glasses of wine:

"I don't want to talk about tennis," he said.

"Then what do you want to talk about? Do you...read?"

"No, not much. I'm a simple guy. But, we could make out for, like, forty-five minutes."

"What, what, what what, what?"

(Why did I sound like Jennifer Anniston just then, I thought, in that almost unwatchable film, The Break-Up? Mortified, face gone scarlet.)

"What?"

"I just wanted to stop that big intelligence of yours..."

C'mon, Eraser.

A Bedroom Occupation: Love Elegies

I met the poet, Mark Scott, in Boulder, when I lived there.

He came to NYC two weeks ago, to read from his latest collection (the title is also the title of this post), at "Sip Lit: A monthly series of readings in a cafe," up in Morningside Heights, Columbia University's 'hood. I drove in from the East End to catch him and the reading.

He sent me a copy of the collection, to be published by Lumen Press. I've never heard of the imprint, but I have heard of the distributing publishing company, Consortium Book Sales, and I know too much about the company that acquired Consortium (I'll leave it at that, 'nuff said). The book publishing world is a very small one.

The cover included the words: "Advanced Galleys." Every time I look at it, I laugh a little.  "Galleys," (a term that describes loosely the preliminary printed copy of a book, usually not preliminary at all) are a publisher's typical marketing device. The word derives from classic printing practices.

But "Advanced?" I am used to the words, "Galleys," or "Galley Proofs - Not for Sale," or "Advance Galleys." No past-tense. These galleys were surely advanced to me, but "Advanced Galleys." It's so precious.

Let me say this about Mark. He is deeply talented.

Poetry, to me, is so dense. Every word has such weight. I find I have to read passages and whole poems several times, often aloud, to get a sense for the interlaced meanings, the cadences, the subtle tongue tones that punch an emotion. Mark's good.

A Bedroom Occupation comprises thirty-four prose-poems, and a slim sixty-six pages, inclusive of backmatter blanks.

And yet. it took me almost three weeks to read and re-read it.

Oh. And yes: A lot of it is hot.

I wonder if the names - for he does name first names, in a kind-of epistolary fashion - are the actual names of people he has known in his life, who are now memorialized in his poems? And if so, I wonder if they know, and if they do, how they feel about it. Lewis? Lauren? Cynthia? Mark (unless he's addressing himself)? Janet? Kathy? Is Kathy the same person as Kate? Paul? Susan? Amy? Deborah? Paula?

There are a handful of passages I will excerpt and reproduce here.

But before I do, I am in awe. Mark included a handful of words I have never seen before - or if I did (Catholic elementary school, spelling-bee practice), I couldn't call up the meanings, and I needed the meaning to understand the poetic context. Herewith:

Blazon: To paint or depict (a coat of arms) with accurate detail.

Casuistry: Specious or excessively subtle reasoning intended to rationalize or mislead. Oh, I like that one.

Intercalate: To insert in a calendar; to insert between or among existing elements or layers (the primary accent is on the second syllable, btw).

Persiflage: Light teasing or banter (v. Jane Austen, don't you think?).

Monadize (I extrapolate from a variety of definitions and explanations of the word, "monad"): To cause an epiphany (aha!), or inspire as in or with "the spark of life." Peut etre.

I have been running those words through my brain - on my daily workout-runs - or at the office, attempting to use the words in sentences. I haven't employed my vocabulary like this in a while. It's fun.

Anyhow, to the excerpts.

From "VI":

"...That age, according to my father, determined the state I'm in: aroused by danger,/doused with grief, by grief aroused, all danger doused."

From "VII":

"...I had to travel to come..."

From "XX":

"...from cumquat leaves/and blueberry, their waxen surface, gaugeless veins, that fruit bitter, this sweet,/stem-end and blossom-end, plum-seam and peach-fold."

And last, from "XXVIII":

"God's as great a bore as the French/when they say He's brilliant fire, a flaming bore, a suck-hole I serve up my big/first serve. That ace fetters me/for the next point, and makes me partial to energy, rebellion, rut -- and I fall to the net/in toil and double, lose love-love/in straights, obey -- am of rigor without pleasure..."

Holy shit - notwithstanding personal reactions, I read the last pages of A Bedroom Occupation today. That line was contained therein - today - the day of the men's final of the French Open. Rafael Nadal defeated Roger Federer, on clay, again.

The Good G

This one ends his name with two "n's."

But there's much more to distinguish him. To recommend him. (And maybe a single worry -that I shall not detail here.)

I have man-friends. And I like them: A lot - individual, in aggregate, as a habit. My man-friends keep me honest - they have done so for over twenty years. There are among them, however, in my opinion, a smaller, elite group.

One in particular, a new man-friend, has been my man-friend since last summer, courtesy of The Savior (who is often top-of-the heap among man-friends, a surrogate brother).

He is The Good G - since he shares his first name with a dreadful, former other. He's different by one "n," and so much more.

One of the best things about him are his axioms, proverbial as they are.

When he makes a snap judgment about a person's character - more likely accurate than not, he says, "He's a real piece of shit." There is no equivocation. A story then ensues, an anecdote in which the person's unlikable traits are revealed.

Another: When a friend complains to him of perceived mistreatment by a lover, a girlfriend or boyfriend, or a friend, The Good G is likely to remind, "It doesn't get any better." I sense - no, I know - that he speaks from experience: his accumulated own as well as years of acquaintances' pitfalls and pratfalls.

Conversely, when someone is stand-up, he might say, "He's the real deal." Lest there be any doubt.

The Good G is generous and thoughtful, has developed his own sensibilities and tastes. I have been privileged to be the recipient of his kind nature. I have stayed at his house, been counseled when in distress, have shared hours of easy and funny conversation.

I would recommend him to any woman, knowing in advance, as I do, his preferences.

I told him of my recent sort-of date - the one where the fellow made a "move," but I felt nothing, and pulled away. He said to me, "You sound as though you feel guilty for not responding. Why? You have nothing to be guilty about. I don't know about women, but if you don't feel it 'in your pants,' then you don't."

"Yes," I said, "We women do feel it in our pants. When we do."

"Well if you don't, then you should feel no guilt."

He was right. I was over it in a second.

"Some of us," he added, "may not be meant for long-term relationships."

Indeed. Maybe not.

A sound observation. A reminder, for when I am next asked that question.   

Where Have I Been?

I have not vanished from this virtual world.

The real world has occupied so much of my time, that I have been left with almost no brain energy to write or update.

Okay, maybe I updated a little. Intrepid readers, take note: Some newer images in one of the photo albums. Comments management on this wildly popular post. Tweaking the first chapter on Plot Participant - heck, tweaking the entire archiving mechanism for Plot Participant. I dare you to go and hunt.

Rather than go into a lengthy diatribic/diatribical (I don't have my Websters dictionary with me; note to self: Self, bring your second copy out here) essay, I shall opt for an enumerated list of activities that have kept me from writing:

1. The IRS audit. I completed the third and final session of the first round of this damned process - the piecemeal review of all receipts and income for 2004. The next step is an appeal. I wrote the appeal request. Done. How's this for irony? The IRS agent admitted to me at the end of our last meeting, that if she were me, she would do exactly what I am doing (i.e., challenging the IRS, reviewing the tax return and receipts, making an appeal). So folks, take note. If you are an independent contractor, and you get audited, fight it. Be appropriate, but stay firm, take one thing at a time, and push back.

2. The Savior, my canny, dear friend as substitute-brother, convinced me to take the New York real estate sales agent licensing course and exam. I've been freelance writing, etc. for him since July, so... I did it, via the NYREI. I could write sitcom episodes out of those classes. Still, I took it dead-serious, studied well and diligently, passed the course, passed the state exam, and am going to work for one of the big-ass agencies, out of its Bridgehampton office. If a former Ralph Lauren supermodel from the late-197Os and 1980s works here, then I suppose I can do it too. Seems as though there are a few Mets fans in the house. That bodes well.

3. I got me a wee place in East Hampton. We're calling it the Ho-Ho House. Up in the Northwest (as it is known on the South Fork), and a stroll away from Sammy's Beach (glorious in the mornings - the Great Peconic Bay smacks of Winslow Homer), I am renting it from a British gal (mentioned here earlier), whose surname begins exactly as mine does: "Ho..." Ergo. Photos to come.

4. It's the last season of The Sopranos. I watch. I love. I am devastated.

5. I also watch Entourage. And The Tudors. These two are not as brilliant as they were (the former), or ought to be (the latter).

6. I made the mistake of watching an episode of one of the early try-out round episodes of American Idol. Let me say this right here. I have never watched that show before. Ever. I watched that one episode, and pow! That crap is crack. I am hooked. Strange, a core of my sharpest friends are long-time hooked. Go and roam here and here, by way of excellent NYC fan-based examples.

7. I started reading that Russian novel in translation, whose main character is a Sister Pelagia, and it didn't grab me. However, I read the first paragraph of Alice McDermott's Child of My Heart, and I stopped, until I realized I was holding my breath. I chose it because it is set out here, in East Hampton, and I was gratified to remind myself that Ms. McDermott won the National Book Award for her novel, Charming Billy. I dove into Child. I could not stop reading it. It made my chest hurt. I'm telling everyone to read it. I ordered a copy from Amazon and had it sent to my mother, for Mother's Day.

8. I had jury duty last week. I've been called five or six times in my life, been empaneled three times (I think), served one time, was sequestered that one time, and we sound up hung. This time I was empaneled, questioned, not selected, and then dismissed. Sprung. Clear for the next six years.

9. I had a date, egad. Maybe a sort-of date. An older gentleman. Whaddaya know, I am so not ready. I just, I just...didn't feel it. I am convinced I am still drawn to men some nine-ish years younger. This fellow is witty, intelligent, and has great stories. But I guess I still gotta go younger. The weather is only starting to move toward summer. Only starting. Patience.

10. I am re-reading Pride and Prejudice (apologies again to Sister Pelagia). It's still so fresh. Here in the country, where land and property are all, Jane Austen's novel manages to resonate - some two hundred years later.

Good grief. This has to be enough for now. I'm pooped. I want to take pictures and post them. I have not abandoned this space. I'll be back sooner.

Painter's Pants

I'm moving East for the summer.

Yep, over the course of next month, I'll be trundling essential stuff to a charming house in the East End, renting from and rooming with one very droll British gal.

I'm not relinquishing my NYC home. Never. But I plan to sublet it to downstairs neighbors while they undergo renovation.

I'll write stories from out there, which I've done essentially anyhow for the past two summers. I'll be blending two lines of work, but more about those in later posts.

After our handshake conversation, my roommate-lessor-to-be and I chatted about, well, men. I remarked that I happened to notice a couple of builder-contractor fellows in a delicatessen on Main Street in Bridgehampton. From behind.

She replied that she is fond of the sculptural appearance of men's derrieres. (Good girl, that.)

The fellows wore tan, canvas, cargo-style pants. Utility pockets, tool-belts, thick-soled boots, heavy jackets over thermal underwear (it was still chilly two weeks ago when I was out there last).

A familiar look among the year-rounders out there. A familiar look at the north Jersey Shore, too. My brother is a builder - of ridiculously enormous homes in Monmouth County - and that tends to be his work attire.

It reminded my of our high school days in the mid-1970s. The style among the cool boys was painter's pants. White painter's pants, close-fitting below the waist and butt, then somewhat baggy, with generous-sized pockets, and loops attached to the side seams. Construction workers' pants.

Some fellows wore denim versions.

Heck, I think I even owned a pair or two, rebel, pot-smoking, class-skipper that I was during the latter half of my high school career. And Oshkosh overalls. Never mind the National Honor Society - I wanted to be cool - and I think I was finally, by the time I was a senior.

The boys looked good in those britches. And the fellows today look just as good.

I think that may be the, ahem, diversion for this upcoming summer.

The Real Mikhail

The whirlwind. The bull in a china shop. The non-stop chatter, the question after question, the endless phone calls. The almost impenetrable accent. The incessant need for instant gratification. The clothes, the books and papers, the light-speed topic-by-topic change, delivered breathlessly in the ceaseless, life-and-death sounding monologue.

He sucks the air out of any room, all six feet-plus of my dear friend, whom I call "The Mad White Russian," one among the litany of phrases and names I use to describe him.

Also: The generosity, the bottles of champagne, that big ole romantic heart, the sensuous love of art and antiquity, the sweetness, the intellect, the passion and curiosity, the friendship we've shared over the years.

I adore him in segments, or intervals: The various visits we have shared together, from New York, to San Francisco. to Paris. More time than that, and I would explode - or pass out.

I expect that after the last three days, a visit to Moscow will feature at some point in my future. And Surfer Girl's too. You see, he brought a friend, and I am not kidding, the fellow is a sausage magnate. Writing those two words, even if they describe one of his actual businesses, makes me chuckle. He also owns Muscovite restaurants and a bookstore chain (!). All that and he seems to be a genuinely good guy. Yes, I sensed a little energy between Surfer Girl and him, sausages notwithstanding.

The Russians have threatened to return to the city - for a more substantial stay. Right on, I say. And maybe we'll all be together for a week in the East End this summer. We'll see how and what may unfold.