discovered a wonderful audio application at WiredPlanet when I investigated the They Might Be Giants web-site. Of course it is only about half as cool as their web-site. Go there.
Today is—what's the phrase?—'unseasonably cold'. It is snowing.
This is spring, or supposed to be. You know, with bright sunshine, and flowers abloom in abundance, with unbelievably blue crystal clear skys and gentle breezes. All day the sky has been gray, close and dark, and spewing on us wet snow that is icy, not fluffy—as if the sky is dumping on us the old snow which was left over from early in the winter.
my bathroom window is right above the driveway between my landord's buildings, which is actually an alley that people use once in a while as a shortcut. Just as I passed that window naked on my way to the shower today, a beautiful young black man strode through the alley a scant twenty feet away. He wore a bright red bandanna on his head, he was twenty years old, maybe 22, and had a perfect face. I stood back from the window, for fear that he would glance up and catch me watching him, and watch I did, for the entire seven and a half seconds he was visible. Then I took him into the shower, at least in fantasy.
If he is anything like I imagined, we have to meet.
then it was time for supper; I shower late. I called Tech Pizza and ordered a large toasted tuna sub with everything but hot peppers, and an order of chicken fingers. I really only needed the sub, but their chicken fingers are fabulous. And not finger-like at all, they are plump little medallions of moist tender chicken meat, encased in a rugged crust of perfectly seasoned batter. It is a wonder to me how they get these things cooked just right all the time. There is never any pink even in the plumpest chunks, and neither are the smallest pieces ever over cooked.
The older son took my call. The owner, Paul—who is not too bad a figure of a man himself, and probably not much older than me—has two sons, both gorgeous. The younger is... well, younger, about eighteen (he is in college) but his youthful vitality in combination with his reserved demeanor whenever he's dealing with me feels a little too much like condescension. On the other hand, he is, I imagine, much more the player than his brother. The younger one—if he would ever bless me with the opportunity—would accept all the pleasure I could give him and would not encumber the encounter with any expectations beyond the purely sensual. He would use me like an appliance.
The older one, who I spoke to on the phone tonight, is much more romantic. And needy, too. This has it's own appeal for an aging infantile personality like mine. Nothing about him is condescending, even at a stretch. He is the soul of sincerity, and I think vulnerability, too. He is not as 'pretty' as the younger one, though this may be simply the result of believing himself to be unattractive. I think the beauty of youth proceeds in significant part from the fact that they have not yet learned self-loathing. But I suspect the older one learned early.
It seems the younger is the favored son, as sometimes the younger are in mediterranean cultures, from the behavior of the two when they are together. The older one assumes a secondary role, standing behind his brother, and deferring to him in every movement, even keeping his own demeanor subdued in the younger one's presence, whereas the youth acts with spontanaeity and his affect is unregulated. The older brother maintains an almost self-conscious cognizance of the actions and intentions of everyone around him, apparently so as to not interfere or impede his father or brother. This appeals to me greatly, as it is a role I have occupied throughout my own life.
his eyes make him romantic; there is great depth within this self-effacing, perhaps insecure young man, and his gentle Mona Lisa-like smile is unconflicted, and rises pure to his whole face, and is not forced the way his younger brother's smile appears to be. The sincere vulnerable one is, in my opinion, way better than the pretty condescending one. And tell me, all of you with hearts of stone now broken; in the end, aren't the sincere vulnerable ones always better?
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