Istanbul, not Constantinople

Rolf and I have been together for over 24 years. We bought our second house three years ago. Slowly, we’re getting it furnished and decorated. Behind our house there is a park and a mud-puddle named Lake Accotink. We’ve had our dog, d’Ohgy, for eight years. A retired racing greyhound; she turned 10 just last week. We have a couple of room-mates, although they hardly ever seem to be there. Dr. Joe is actually moving out this weekend, so we’ll get our guest room back. And Bemmy, who has been my friend for 26 years, is doing hair for a national tour until this summer. At which time, he will be surprised to learn, I am sure, that he has to find other lodging. Familiarity breeds contempt; he’s gotta go.

And a few people know it too, because I’m a drunk who spouts things that shouldn’t be said. I announced loudly at the Ruthless people party, that his rent was going up by a $100 when he got back from tour, which was the first he’d heard of it. And just after he left, over too many drinks at Puck and Memae's house, I told how we don't even want a roommate; we just offered our house because we thought it could be a platform from which he could launch himself into fame and fortune. But he can't do it. I've stopped believing that he ever will. So, then, why would I have him living with us?

We’ve been cleaning up the basement, showing it off a bit more and telling a few people our plans to put an exercise room or a pool table in Bemmy’s bedroom, and a bar where his desk is. . . Now I’ve just got to get around to telling him, before he hears it from elsewhere. And I really should, before he fritters away every cent he's made. (Don't get me started on his two-week vacation this summer, to meet a chat-room friend who thinks he's sexy, in Istanbul. Oh, but I am started; he weighs nearly 500lbs., so he has to fly first class because he takes up three regular sized seats.) What a waste. He should be singing on an international stage, he should be bigger than Pavarotti . . . of course, he is bigger than Pavarotti, but not in the awe inspiring sense.

Istanbul, my god.