If my blog were a television show, this post would be equal to the season finale.
You probably aren't surprised to see Wisconsin in the title above. For about two months now, I get semi-regular updates on Woodsy and Nicely Nice Guy: who apparently are the Liz Taylor and Richard Burton of the Midwest. Screaming at each other under the Chinese lanterns at the Pride Festival. Using bratwursts as billy clubs. Returning sets of keys: then patching things up via multiple orgasms.
Woodsy at long last was promoted at work and now has an assistant, who I'll call Smokey. Despite my insistence that I do not want to hear about the fights and especially not the reconciliations between these bickering babies, Smokey can't seem to keep his mouth shut. I think he may have a crush on Woodsy but when I suggested that, he got pissed. And then, one night after telling me that he and Woodsy had an argument and weren't speaking, he tosses this into our chat.
"You were so fucking hot in those videos Woodsy has. I can't wait to get into your pants."
Now I know the reason for my Midwest popularity: Woodsy has been showing the videos we made a few years ago around the Great Lakes. In certain situations, this would be fine: except that I'd asked him not to. We weren't making a demo reel or infomercial... well at least I wasn't. This was more of an 'intimate' moment, meaning it was more kissy-face and coo-coo. At least that's how I remember it: I don't have a copy. Oh....and my cat is stretched across the bed snoring while Woodsy and I bounce off the walls.
Smokey was no different than everyone else who watched those videos and told me about it. And like everyone, he was compelled to make this comment.
"I told Woodsy it's clear you are in love with him."
I brought about such insight, and now such embarrassment: all upon myself. I''ll explain. As part five of our, yes, five-part mini-series video concludes, I walk over to the camera, look directly into it, and with a crack in my voice, say
"Oh, Woodman."
Camera off.
The End. Made in Hollywood, USA, by Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer
Woodsy was flying home the next morning. This was our last night together after three days of beautiful synchronicity. I can't explain what it was, but it was real. He had been honest about what he wasn't looking for....but his eyes seemed to contradict that. For me, orphaned at age 12, shuffled about as 'sidekick to a Trust Fund', and watching a disease: first called GRID then AIDS, carry a generation of mentors and suitors away, I have said goodbye to too many people. Like many of you have: this I know.
Perhaps had I turned back to Woodsy and delivered that line, instead of to the camera......
You see, the only person who's watched that video and NOT gotten my subtext, is You know Woo. Smokey was startled when instead of letting him continue, I took his line in the script:
And Woodsy said to you, "Oh, Gee, Really?" The dumb ox.
I added, ' I was. Was in love with him.'
As it so happened, the next night I got a message from The Ox himself. He had been rushed to the hospital. Nicely had brought W's cell and laptop over, but apparently had taken the liberty of reading all W's texts and e-mails, thus putting himself and W not on speaking terms. Not having spent the night as a patient in a hospital, Woodsy was scared, alone, and would I call him?
Of course I called him. (I'm pretty dumb too). We talked about an hour and a half. It was lovely. Woodsy wasn't happy with his life and wanted to do something about it. He needed to get away and think and thought I needed to get away too.
"We should go somewhere. Together." he suggested. "I have flyer miles. How about Vancouver?"
"Noooo," I replied. "Madrid."
(readers who've been following this for awhile will know I cancelled my Madrid vacation to visit Woodsy in Milwaukee about a month after he visited Los Angeles).
"I lived in Madrid, you always forget that." he said drolly, or maybe it was drowsily. "Tahiti."
"Tahiti?'
"Yeah...it's the South Seas"
"Woodman Marquette McCarthy, I know where the fuck Tahiti is. So what if my imagination conjured up African natives and safaris?"
"I thought I heard drums." He said.
While my mind kept sending me messages clearly reinforcing that Woodsy was on sedatives, I still floated home on cloud 9. Now, I expected nothing more than airfare, hotel and to guzzle Stoli and Noni Juice cocktails by the gallon: meaning Woodsy was picking up the tab. The key would be to get on that plane before he and Nicely made up. Perhaps at last, Woodsy and I could be friends without love complicating things.
Woodsy was released the next day and while I didn't expect to hear from him, neither did I expect to hear from Smokey....who texted me that he and Woodsy had patched up their argument....and were celebrating by fucking. A couple of hours later, with Woodsy sound asleep. Smokey called me.
As usual, he talked too much, informing me that Woodsy had read to him aloud the last e-mail I sent. After one of the more serious break-ups Woodsy and Nicely had, Woodsy was hurting and I wanted to help, and fingers to keyboard I went. That's all there was to it. I made some observations about Nicely that weren't exactly polite....not by a long shot...but reinforcing that if Woodsy loved Nicely, to work it out.
The 'work it out' portion of my e-mail was glossed over. Smokey and Woodsy heartily agreed with my comments that Nicely Nice Guy was Fatal Attraction nuts-especially when a bit airborne. Woodsy so very much agreed with my thoughts, Smokey said, that Woodsy had forwarded my e-mail onward to Nicely. With no explanation or comments.
While I was adjusting to the shock of learning I was being used by the bastardly half of America's Sweethearts, Justice intervened. Smokey got another call. His Native American friend, Nokomis, was to pick him up at Woodsy's. Nokomis had stopped by Nicely's to pick up one peanut butter and one cherry pie to be entered in the Wisconsin State Fair. Nokomis casually mentioned having to then go over to Woodsy's to collect Smokey.
Woodsy it seems, told Nicely he was staying home-alone-that night. After all, he'd just gotten out of the hospital. What a crummy way to treat Nicely...and punctuating it by using my words!
To learn someone is not who you thought they were is a death beyond all deaths. For a couple of days, I did nothing but sit and think. Had Woodsy changed, had I misread him, or had I blinded myself to the real person? I thought of how he disliked drama, emotional outbursts and conflict. Yet he caused the conflicts, the drama, and his and my heated exchanges were diplomatic compared to his treatment of Nicely. Did he care nothing for the feelings of others?
A week went by and I pulled out of the numbness. I wrote to Nicely expressing my sorrow as to the assumptions I'd written, and ended there. He showed a lot more class by accepting my apology. He wrote that he plans to move on. If they love each other, and I thought Woodsy did, I hope they work it out. Really.
Woodsy once told me that should I ever write my memoirs, to speak of him with humor and kindness, not tragedy and sorrow. Perhaps he foresaw this unhappy ending. The night he expressed a desire to take us to Shangri-La away from it all was his finest hour and the last time I heard his voice. I've put the rest: the disappointment, the tears, the 'what if' if not away, then to the side. I'm not angry. I'm not really heartbroken. I have to move on.
Woodsy is off scot-free. Meanwhile, I have a serious drug problem to deal with. And this is where my situation becomes worrisome.
I don't care anymore.
You probably aren't surprised to see Wisconsin in the title above. For about two months now, I get semi-regular updates on Woodsy and Nicely Nice Guy: who apparently are the Liz Taylor and Richard Burton of the Midwest. Screaming at each other under the Chinese lanterns at the Pride Festival. Using bratwursts as billy clubs. Returning sets of keys: then patching things up via multiple orgasms.
Woodsy at long last was promoted at work and now has an assistant, who I'll call Smokey. Despite my insistence that I do not want to hear about the fights and especially not the reconciliations between these bickering babies, Smokey can't seem to keep his mouth shut. I think he may have a crush on Woodsy but when I suggested that, he got pissed. And then, one night after telling me that he and Woodsy had an argument and weren't speaking, he tosses this into our chat.
"You were so fucking hot in those videos Woodsy has. I can't wait to get into your pants."
Now I know the reason for my Midwest popularity: Woodsy has been showing the videos we made a few years ago around the Great Lakes. In certain situations, this would be fine: except that I'd asked him not to. We weren't making a demo reel or infomercial... well at least I wasn't. This was more of an 'intimate' moment, meaning it was more kissy-face and coo-coo. At least that's how I remember it: I don't have a copy. Oh....and my cat is stretched across the bed snoring while Woodsy and I bounce off the walls.
Smokey was no different than everyone else who watched those videos and told me about it. And like everyone, he was compelled to make this comment.
"I told Woodsy it's clear you are in love with him."
I brought about such insight, and now such embarrassment: all upon myself. I''ll explain. As part five of our, yes, five-part mini-series video concludes, I walk over to the camera, look directly into it, and with a crack in my voice, say
"Oh, Woodman."
Camera off.
The End. Made in Hollywood, USA, by Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer
Woodsy was flying home the next morning. This was our last night together after three days of beautiful synchronicity. I can't explain what it was, but it was real. He had been honest about what he wasn't looking for....but his eyes seemed to contradict that. For me, orphaned at age 12, shuffled about as 'sidekick to a Trust Fund', and watching a disease: first called GRID then AIDS, carry a generation of mentors and suitors away, I have said goodbye to too many people. Like many of you have: this I know.
You see, the only person who's watched that video and NOT gotten my subtext, is You know Woo. Smokey was startled when instead of letting him continue, I took his line in the script:
And Woodsy said to you, "Oh, Gee, Really?" The dumb ox.
I added, ' I was. Was in love with him.'
As it so happened, the next night I got a message from The Ox himself. He had been rushed to the hospital. Nicely had brought W's cell and laptop over, but apparently had taken the liberty of reading all W's texts and e-mails, thus putting himself and W not on speaking terms. Not having spent the night as a patient in a hospital, Woodsy was scared, alone, and would I call him?
Of course I called him. (I'm pretty dumb too). We talked about an hour and a half. It was lovely. Woodsy wasn't happy with his life and wanted to do something about it. He needed to get away and think and thought I needed to get away too.
"We should go somewhere. Together." he suggested. "I have flyer miles. How about Vancouver?"
"Noooo," I replied. "Madrid."
(readers who've been following this for awhile will know I cancelled my Madrid vacation to visit Woodsy in Milwaukee about a month after he visited Los Angeles).
"I lived in Madrid, you always forget that." he said drolly, or maybe it was drowsily. "Tahiti."
"Tahiti?'
"Yeah...it's the South Seas"
"Woodman Marquette McCarthy, I know where the fuck Tahiti is. So what if my imagination conjured up African natives and safaris?"
"I thought I heard drums." He said.
While my mind kept sending me messages clearly reinforcing that Woodsy was on sedatives, I still floated home on cloud 9. Now, I expected nothing more than airfare, hotel and to guzzle Stoli and Noni Juice cocktails by the gallon: meaning Woodsy was picking up the tab. The key would be to get on that plane before he and Nicely made up. Perhaps at last, Woodsy and I could be friends without love complicating things.
Woodsy was released the next day and while I didn't expect to hear from him, neither did I expect to hear from Smokey....who texted me that he and Woodsy had patched up their argument....and were celebrating by fucking. A couple of hours later, with Woodsy sound asleep. Smokey called me.
As usual, he talked too much, informing me that Woodsy had read to him aloud the last e-mail I sent. After one of the more serious break-ups Woodsy and Nicely had, Woodsy was hurting and I wanted to help, and fingers to keyboard I went. That's all there was to it. I made some observations about Nicely that weren't exactly polite....not by a long shot...but reinforcing that if Woodsy loved Nicely, to work it out.
The 'work it out' portion of my e-mail was glossed over. Smokey and Woodsy heartily agreed with my comments that Nicely Nice Guy was Fatal Attraction nuts-especially when a bit airborne. Woodsy so very much agreed with my thoughts, Smokey said, that Woodsy had forwarded my e-mail onward to Nicely. With no explanation or comments.
While I was adjusting to the shock of learning I was being used by the bastardly half of America's Sweethearts, Justice intervened. Smokey got another call. His Native American friend, Nokomis, was to pick him up at Woodsy's. Nokomis had stopped by Nicely's to pick up one peanut butter and one cherry pie to be entered in the Wisconsin State Fair. Nokomis casually mentioned having to then go over to Woodsy's to collect Smokey.
Woodsy it seems, told Nicely he was staying home-alone-that night. After all, he'd just gotten out of the hospital. What a crummy way to treat Nicely...and punctuating it by using my words!
To learn someone is not who you thought they were is a death beyond all deaths. For a couple of days, I did nothing but sit and think. Had Woodsy changed, had I misread him, or had I blinded myself to the real person? I thought of how he disliked drama, emotional outbursts and conflict. Yet he caused the conflicts, the drama, and his and my heated exchanges were diplomatic compared to his treatment of Nicely. Did he care nothing for the feelings of others?
A week went by and I pulled out of the numbness. I wrote to Nicely expressing my sorrow as to the assumptions I'd written, and ended there. He showed a lot more class by accepting my apology. He wrote that he plans to move on. If they love each other, and I thought Woodsy did, I hope they work it out. Really.
Woodsy once told me that should I ever write my memoirs, to speak of him with humor and kindness, not tragedy and sorrow. Perhaps he foresaw this unhappy ending. The night he expressed a desire to take us
Woodsy is off scot-free. Meanwhile, I have a serious drug problem to deal with. And this is where my situation becomes worrisome.
I don't care anymore.
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