HOME AGAIN, HOME AGAIN...

Well, we went, we saw a bunch of stuff, and in the process we spent a ton of money. This theme has been recurring in our conversations of late, as I headlined the two expense statements I put together [our goal is for expenses on joint outings to more or less equal out, rounding off some] as "Unbelievable Expenses Incurred at..." The Goat keeps sidling up to the fact that it was all wonderful and all worthwhile, and I never go far from my "Jesus, what a lot of money!" feeling. [Can this marriage be saved? One of the things Isis and I never had a disagreement about, so far as I can recall, was money; but then, back then there was plenty of it, which usually means it's not important. Money isn't important, as long as you have it...]

It was the best of weekends; it was the worst of weekends...

The Guy Dinner was quite amusing, and it turns out that a few, perhaps even a goodly number, of those gruff burly guys are bent enough to have at some point played both sides of the street (who knew a taste for grease and custom detailing was a feature of the Gay Gene?). In any case, my intention to wear beige and smile a lot foundered on the quantity of alcohol flowing and the general agreement that the stickier the subject, the more fun it was to bandy it about. Quite a bit got bandied about, and much fun was had, not least by me and those in my immediate vicinity. The Goat is still talking to me, which I guess means that I didn't embarrass him too much in front of his friends...

Then we went on to what I still foolishly refer to as The Big City, though of course it's neither the world's grandest metropolis nor a piss-hole in the snow; it was my first big city, and that's what it has always remained. There we dipped our toe in culture: a touring B'way show for me, some high-level dance for the Goat, and several expensive restaurants to round things out. Our P'town hosts did indeed meet us for dinner, and insisted on shooing us off to my late-evening meeting with one of my friends before we settled the check, which means we can add another staggering bill to our long list of debts to these folks. I guess they figure that that's what money is for, or perhaps they are just writing us off as a charitable deduction. I have to say I appreciate it a lot...

Speaking of what Betty MacDonald called "the Dahnse": I don't get it. I know I've been gnawing on the bone of language all my life, so I'm hardly the person to judge, but, beautiful as individual things may be, I just don't get it. I don't. I marvel at the bodies the discipline produces, and at the capabilities of individual dancers, but the whole set of assumptions and traditions just doesn't speak to me.

Maybe it's because I am one the world's clumsiest people--and it's all just envy speaking--but I don't think so. Lucky me, to have landed where "the Dahnse" not only has its own festival, but is practically a religion. And me with this guy who is a devotee of the Art, if not exactly a High Priest of it. [See: can this marriage be saved? above] Well, I paid for the ticket, and I sort of enjoyed the evening, but I couldn't get one old friend's saying out of my head: when driven to distraction by the choreographers he was forced to deal with, he summed it all up with the pithy saying: "They think with their feet."

We got to spend a morning waiting for a couple of the Goat's old-time leather buddies to decide to get out of bed so we could meet them for breakfast (which we finally had at something like 2 o'clock in the afternoon), and we got the Dinner to End All Dinners with his P'town Buddies. We had a late breakfast or early lunch at a diner with one of my poet friends, and drinks with a friend who still works in "the Theatah" after his show got out. ("The Theatah" is famously nearly as crazy an undertaking as "the Dahnse," but at least if you pay attention to what people are saying, you can usually figure out what the hell is going on.)

A teacher of mine (and maybe he made too great an impression on me, come to think of it) once said at a dance concert which he was forced to attend: "Is this piece called 'Vortex'? All pieces like this seem to be called 'Vortex'..."

Well, maybe I should just lay this topic to rest.

The drive in and back out was nice; when the Goat isn't snoozing, he's a fun companion on the road. Unfortunately, he does tend to snooze in the car; I once remarked that I kind of counted on his conversation to keep me awake on a long drive back from the airport late at night, and his response, though not as pointed as all that, landed in the general vicinity of "tough titty." A man of pith, my Goat.

Well, it's only four or five weeks until Spring Break, and the departure for Vacationland. Now that I think of it, having a warm winter getaway in his pocket balances out any of the more irritating qualities a boyfriend might have, and I have to say it completely covers a multitude of such little sins as being a balletomane.

So, after all, was my hero Edward Gorey...

But then, as a friend of mine once opined: you can always tell an Ivy Leaguer--you just can't tell him much...

Hang in there, everyone.
The alternative is too horrible to contemplate.
C