Keeping Their Secrets

, originally uploaded by farmboyz.

Yesterday at the gym,I bumped into a friend who has booked his time in Fire Island. One of four bedrooms in a house of strangers.

His announcement made me look at this painting when I got home, remembering our garden in Provincetown and one week in which our three house guests went their separate ways, brightly chatting each other up at moments of intersection, keeping mindful of shared bathrooms, conspiratorially winking while quietly passing in and out of their bedrooms at odd hours, relentlessly pursueing distinctly private agendae.

I'd gather them together for the grilling of dinner in the garden after which each would spin away into a night visible perhaps to the neighbor's cat, but not to us.

During the day, they'd spend some time with me in that garden, speculating about whomever was absent at the moment, and receiving tending among the old roses that flowered that week. Tool in hand, I would indicate a set of trussed canes heavy with bloom, and I would announce the name of each one as if it were my rather brilliant child just returned from a Swiss boarding school. Dorothy Perkins, Fantin-LaTour and the Alchemist.

Stepping into the center of the patio, I would look up into the full sun and then back at my friends, now seeing only the golden outline of their flashing coronae as they announced their plans for the day before heading off to beach, book or bar. In the silence of their departure, I would again fill my eyes with sunlight, and looking back at the roses, I would find them drained of color and rocking thoughtlessly in the breeze.

The Expeditrix

In New York City, there is a layer of resident that facilitates the lives of those too busy to actually live their own lives. This layer is larger and its owners more successful than one might suppose.

Rarely, for instance, do we enter or exit our building without finding an interchangeably short young Mexican with a bag of warm edible studying the intercom for a name that matches what is scrawled on his delivery receipt. The dispatchers who prepare those receipts have worse handwriting than doctors, a fact that furthers my belief that the delivery business is lucrative. The Mexican boys never wear glasses. The buttoned roster of the intercom is two feet above their heads. The listing of its seventy-five names is as random as the sequenced selection made by C’s ipod. (“Did you hear that? The ipod felt that Good Morning Baltimore should follow Ella’s Love For Sale which followed Ramblin Man. I so get it.”)

I flinch at the sight of delivered food. Even the prospect of sitting in a restaurant makes me itchy with guilt. The only reason I can countenance going to Jiffy-Lube for an oil change is the watching of the outrageously attractive crew of young black mechanics through the glass of the waiting room. Someday, I’ll be last in line at 5PM, and they’ll yank down the overhead doors and walking toward me as they unzip their greasy jump suits, they will say “We got your car covered, but you look like you might need some work”.

I am just the kind of guy who doesn’t like to spend money on services that I can perform myself. When my grandparents would describe the extreme tactics needed on 164th Street to scrape by during the Depression, I, a pre-schooler, made rapturous mental notes.

This has led me into some disasters, and maybe into some savings, and constitutes an energy that C, who mostly accepts the premise of the service sector, finds curious.

I once decided, after receiving a quote for sanding and urethaning five rooms of old oak floors, that I could save thousands by renting the sander and doing the job myself. We lived for years with the resultant bucolic hills and valleys of that floor, and I accepted, as the price of thrift, a two-month back injury and two lungs aspirated with dust from Depression era varnish.

There was the time I rented a roto-tiller with tines powerful enough to loosen the clay in front of our 1925 row house, allowing us to improve the soil and plant a perennial parterre. The neighbors were amused. More months of back pain. Nothing grew.

In that same house, rather than spend six hundred dollars for a skylight, I hacked a hole in the ceiling with a borrowed Sawz-All right up through the roof tar, and hammered together a plywood box topped with two layers of Plexiglas and silicon caulk. This cost one hundred and forty dollars. It may have leaked a bit, but only during rain.

Before installing that skylight, I thought it might be a good idea to insulate the ceiling while the gash was open. We discovered that the flat roof was composed of the original oak stretchers and a second set that ran a foot and a half above them. I learned that some dollars might be saved by blowing loose insulation into that space rather than rolling out the usual pink fiberglass batting. I rented the blower and got dozens of bags of the loose fluff. Oddly, the hose supplied with the blower might have been long enough to reach the roof of a hamster cage but it demanded the hauling of the goatish machine up onto the stepladder beneath our newly carved opening. C was assigned the task of squeezing between the rafters tangled in the hose while I steadied the ladder, and tore open bags of the sneezable grey shredding, feeding it into the howling machine while grumbling irritably and shouting things like “Be sure you reach all the way into the corners” and, “Are you finding any antique jewelry up there?” or, “Hurry it up. We are about to lose sunlight and we don’t have any more extension cords for the work lamp.”

In that same house, I scored, steamed and removed old wallpaper. Most of it. Some of it. The remains gave the dining room a postmodern palimpsest that no guest at our table was clever enough to praise. As Scripture says, a decorator is never appreciated in his own house.

In that same house, I tried to replace an old toilet.

When we sold the place, I triumphantly explained to C the concept of sweat equity and why this buy/fix/sell pattern might have to be repeated many times over the next several decades. We developed a script: I would propose a strenuous money-saving activity and rent the appropriate contraption. I would turn it on and within a few minutes injure my back. C would finish the job. Sometimes I would injure my back just getting the thing into my car. C got wise.

By the time we had acquired a top floor condo in Montreal with exclusive rights to the roof, C raised a brow without looking up from his Gazette and coffee when I announced that I could see no reason why we couldn’t build our own roof deck.

Two months later, with sketches in hand, at a lumber yard on the far side of Rosemont, I surrendered to the possibility that building anything in a foreign country, other than a reputation, might not be easy. Is that board ten feet or ten kilometers? C was visibly relieved when I asked one of those scruffy types who are always carrying things about such places with cigarettes clamped in their lip corners threatening sawdust if he could recommend someone who might want to build our rooftop deck. That is how we acquired the phone number of, and soon made the acquaintance of Monsieur Adelard Deslauriers, a stocky man in his late 50s (early 60s?) whose thick calloused hands had built lots of stuff and were now working a pencil stub as we stood in front of our building. This seemed to have been his first visit to this part of the city since it had become the Gay Village. He spoke no English and held his opinion of us in check, but the estimate he wrote on a scrap of paper and now handed to me made it clear that he saw accessible gold in the pockets of these two Americans.

He did not know with whom he was dealing, but one wordless and withering glance from me after I had seen his estimate made him snatch back the paper and express surprise over the extra zero he had mistakenly affixed to the number. We swiftly came to terms, and during the first week of July, Adelard and his crew of gorgeous Frenchmen fashioned hoists out of thick long rope and drew lumber up onto the roof for the construction of a fabulous deck while we slept from sun-up to noon just below the sound of their boots on the roof. Getting out of bed, and stumbling naked into the kitchen for coffee, made our sordid bourgeois lives transparent, as the toolbelted men peeked inside while passing by the sliders that led from kitchen to terrace to the stairs they had built to the deck. I heard one of them mumble “Ah, la vie en rose”, as we left the building dressed just like them but ready to promenade Ste Catherine Street, in search of more sociable “viande rose” indeed.

Those years (C laughs when I call them the hungry ones) are over, and as we begin a total renovation of our New York City pied-a-terre, I am watching with horror as money gushes out of my pockets, like blood from the wounds of a suspended savior or berserk water besting a southern levee.

Because we are there only on weekends, the project demands management that does not come cheaply, but really, given my convictions, I would protest forking over even a nickel for this Doing-by-Others. Here, I have no choice, and I have particular guilt over the fact of having to pay somebody for the demolition part of the project. Is there anything easier than the tearing down of stuff? Shame on me.

I protested the latest demand for cash, which came in the form of an email from a lady referred to us by our architect. Her name, which sounds like a rodeo cheer or like the sound kids make when their parents announce a trip to Orlando, is composed of two parts with no clues as to which one, if any, is the familiar half. She will expedite the approval of our application to the city building department. Apparently, without her service, an application might languish for months. What she does, in a nutshell, is walk the package through some offices, collecting the required rubber stamps. For this, she proposes the payment of exactly $1,000.

I am outraged, but feel impotently distanced from those offices during their weekday hours of operation. I jump on the net in search of others who provide this service, convinced that her price is inflated. I find them listed under either admissible spelling of “Expeditor” and “Expediter”, one fellow using both versions in his ad. I contact a few of them, but none of them return my call. These guys must be very busy, have ample work, be careless entrepreneurs, or, only take clients through architects’ referrals.

I call our architect to complain. He offers a justification.

“She’s really very good. She’s the only one I’ve used for years. You may find somebody a couple hundred dollars cheaper, but a lot of them just drop off the package and make excuses for the delays. She actually gets your approval in two days.”

His words make me feel confident about her delivery but inflame my resentment about paying a huge sum of money for a brief and mindless task. I calculate her potential annual income, figuring in the cost of kick back to architect and lunch for the rubber stamp guys, and I resolve that within a year, once we are full time in New York, I will become the fastest, most sought after Expediteur in the city.

So I knuckle under, but am buoyed when C comes home and tells me that he had spoken with her and that she had no problem knocking a hundred dollars off her price. I recalculate her annual income and it is still fantastic. Even better when you realize that she can carry more than one package at the same time. I'll start out as her apprentice.

Once this final approval is granted, the work will begin. The project management company we have selected is fine-tuning its proposal after a series of meetings at our place in which the project components are outlined.

“Please take out that section about painting the walls. If there’s one thing I know I can manage, it’s paint. And the metal clad doors? I’m going to want all their layers of paint removed, but it’s really something I can do myself with a can of Zip-Strip and some steel wool, so could you delete that as well, please? Same with the radiator covers. Why sell us new ones when I can take down the old ones to what is probably the original chrome finish.”

C gave me a look he has perfected over the years. I got up, opened a drawer and tossed him the checkbook, as I walked out of the apartment.

“I can’t watch this. I’ll be at Starbucks. Meet me there when you’re done spending Ourbucks.”

chumatz?

chumatz?, originally uploaded by farmboyz.

I am familiar with the Jewish prohibition of work during certain hours, but what is chumatz? I'll look forward to googling it when I get to the office where I maintain my own perpetual prohibition of work.

What I look at when I blog

What I look at when I blog, originally uploaded by farmboyz.

Cheap, Easy and no Flashlights

Boston, March, 2006, originally uploaded by farmboyz.

From the left, you have C, me (I didn't get the "light-blue jeans memo"), Dieter and Rog, our Boston friends who brought us out to a notorious and well established bar near the Fens, assuming that we wouldn't be happy with our weekend unless provided with local dick. (Actually, we were in Boston to see the "David Hockney Portraits" show at the MFA and to visit D & R who have settled into their mighty spectacular new condo.)
The bar is really a complex of many bars on two floors., all of it quite crowded. Some of the rooms are not leather-oriented, and feature dancing, with the attendees wearing colorful rugby shirts and white cross-trainers.
The leather/levi rooms were loaded with talent. I get us drinks. Two vanilla vodkas with diet coke (yeech) for D & R, and two Blue Moons for C and me. The bar tender explains that it would be to our financial advantage to buy a pitcher of Blue Moon if we intend to drink more of it, and that he would hold it at the bar for our refills. This we do, and the whole charge came to $14! Now I know we are not in NYC.
We enter the large backroom which is about fifteen minutes away from peak time, and is filling up rapidly. The furniture motif is "black painted oil drum", stacked and arranged to create piggy areas with limited access. Walking to the rear of one of these cul-de-blacks, I am pursued by three men brandishing poppers and dicks. The usual piles-up evolve and multiply, and much beer is lost or tumbled. I reconnoiter with C and we make the identical observation about Boston guys. They get busy, but not in a playful way. They are the same guilt-ridden men we remember doing at The Safari Club (sadly closed down a few years back). However, the place gets gridlocked with a couple hundred moderately attractive men who are not shy, and there is no flashlight wielding monitor to slap their hands.
That was Friday. On Saturday, we went to Club Cafe. Extremely crowded. Younger. Hot. Friendly. Not sleazy. Well lit. No visible dick. We bump into a guy we had met at Alibi in Fort Lauderdale. He is freshly without his partner who had been developing a secret Manhunt life. (Manhunt lives are OK, but don't keep them a secret from your partner.) The guy yanks up his tee shirt,inviting me to stroke his chest which is dense with soft fur. We discuss his stalker, a mutual acquaintance from Ptown. We make plans for the Black party weekend. Dieter hands me one of the vanilla vodka diet coke drinks they like and I make the mistake of actually drinking it. Things grow fuzzy. There was mouth on mouth contact while D & G speak into my ear their plans to walk home and to watch Crash on DVD. They give us keys.

Oh right. the Hockney show. You didn't really think I'd be talking about that, did you?

Pausing, may I say that

I always appreciate the email I receive about matters Pergemodoular, but yesterday I opened three delectables in a row, all worthy of a word of thanks.

The first, discovered on my site meter, which overnight seemed to have become that house invaded by Gremlins, was from ErosBlog regarding my help for the writer who wanted to become a shooter rather than a dribbler.

The second, a comment from a Californian Gordon, deposited on "A True Vocation" (which I posted last December) was refreshingly mitigated at its onset:

gordon baldwin said...

What a briliantlly organized dialogue (!) even if the underlying placement/disposition (placement in its French sense) of the characters is perhaps a little too good to be true. The writing, the plot is so seductive and so lethal as the reader, in this case me, is torqued into a vortex.
This and the four earlier months of your blog, that I've read this early evening in California, have given me great pleasure, much laughter, some envy, and deep respect, that you're managing to get it all into words and available to the collective consciousness, shoulod there be one. Bravissimo!

And finally, one of my favorite bloggers (and someone I've probably never met), after a few insomniac hours spent rummaging through my archives, sent me a photograph of his statuesque dick as a "token of thanks". Token, indeed. It is the sort of thing that would make a trawler full of Japanese tuna fishermen drop their nets and run for their Nikons. I've never posted a dick shot herein, but if I were looking for a first, this'd be it. Maybe I'll ask his permission to post it in sections. Y'all could collect him over the span of a week and then reassemble the parts, making the veins meet and the neatly partitioned halves of the underside of the glans match up. A sort of Cracker Jack/Ovaltine approach to dick.

Anyway, thanks, Bacchus, Gordon and XXXXXXXXX.

I see the Priest coming.

, originally uploaded by farmboyz.

Right, be polite, but don't leave his room without a C-Note and a good DNA sample.

Mr. Parker

Al Parker (from BJ's collection), originally uploaded by farmboyz.

A couple of weeks ago, on a Sunday evening, I'm in a booth at the second floor Sri Lankan speakeasy on 80th, with this black muscle number who pauses and says "You know who you look like? I just figured it out. You look just like Al Parker. You ever see him?" Now I've seen plenty of Al Parker, and the compliment startles me, so later in the week, I email The Expert who sends me this pic and says that maybe the eyes are what moved him to make the comparison. Anyway, the guy gets back into gear, and he can't seem to go fast enough, so I say "Whoa! Hold the Acela, fella. What's your hurry." He checks his watch and says "Gotta get home in time for Desperate Houswives".

The Wraft of God?

The Wraft of God?, originally uploaded by farmboyz.

Near the Staten Island Ferry Station

DSC03898, originally uploaded by farmboyz.

C took this rather perfect picture last week while we were wandering lower Manhattan.

Color. Composition. Texture.

What's not to like?

My Jesus and I

my jesus, originally uploaded by farmboyz.

That's me in the overalls with one strap lowered as was the fashion in 1981.

Lesbians, Ty-ers and Bears, Oh My!

Well there really weren’t any lesbians, but on Saturday night, We went downtown to see the blizzard, the wonderful blizzard of Blarg.

Earlier in the day, we had brunch at DeMarcheliers with Joe and this Fascinator. When I suggested that he fall in with us for the evening’s procession, RJ laughed and said, “Oh no thanks. Been there.”

“Well you’ll be able to peruse the reviews in about a dozen different blogs.”

“Please. I could write it right now.”

And he could have.

At exactly 10PM, the snow and the wind, arriving as predicted, swept us into Pieces, the first blarg depot. This is a pleasant place peopled with men who seem to be dreaming of a better world but are happy to turn some scraps of color into a warm and functioning engine of a Saturday night. The Blarg doubles their ranks, and we meet a really cute young guy with shiny wavy long black hair to whom the concept of blog must be explained. He’s a first grade teacher, and while he compares professional notes with Glenn, I wonder how school would have been different had I been taught by two hot men like these.

Also at Pieces, Mark-O-Cane's limber boyfriend and I get into a Catholic conversation that is of interest to only the two of us. Rule: if you want to clear a room, get me started on Church.

Joe interrupts us with protocol. “We’ve got a tight schedule, my tender butterflies.” I contribute the first of many half finished beers that will form a 40 blarger wake of debris along this nostalgic canal of tumbleweedy watering holes.

I recall odd moments of conversation.

At the Monster, C, and someone who will remain nameless, had a serious discussion about the bathroom door at Urge and its need for restoration.

At the Duplex, C and Helen have an astoundingly serious conversation about midget sex. Here, also, we make the first of several toasts to the absent Dagon.

At Ty’s, Circle (who got the evening’s Congeniality award for spending quality time with absolutely everyone) receives instruction from Glennalicious about how to produce the Funny Voice by inhaling the contents of a helium balloon. Here, we also examine the “John Deere green” of WeLike Sheep's tee shirt, and are reminded by C that corporate colors are not uncommon in the pantone world. Pepsi blue is an example.

As we leave Chi-Chiz, a rueful bystander says “They told us there’d be more of you here”. I’m not sure what he meant. I don’t think he was referring to “bloggers”. I have an idea it might have been a statement of racial/ethnic expectation.

At the Hangar, Joe is restrained from taking photos while Glennalicious announces “I can so look at any girl and tell exactly what her bra size is.” Helen is the only opportunity for verification, and Glenn nails it.

There is only one conclusion to be derived from this anthropological tour: bloggers may have off-switches, but they are rarely used. Marinate them in bad beer and wind-driven snow for a few hours and they will remain lively. I kept thinking that this is the exact group with whom I’ve always dreamed of taking a bus trip to Cleveland. The driver has a medical/dental condition that causes a detour to Akron, the only food on the bus is a five pound Yugoslavian salami hidden in Aaron's backpack, and, well, RJ, you can just write the rest from here, can’t you?

Blarg moment

Helen gets #, originally uploaded by farmboyz.

Helendamnation, with the aire of a middle eastern seductress, displays evidence that there is at least one straight man in NYC who recognizes a fine woman. This attainment happened at either The Hangar or Chi-Chiz. Clear memory is lost under 26.9 inches of snow that night.

Blarg Moment

Blarg Moment, originally uploaded by farmboyz.

Helendamnation, Circleinasquare and Bouncer Brendan formed this disconsolate, wistful, melancholic and slightly irritated (Brendan) group whose pose deserved John Singer Sargent.
This was at Boots and Saddles which had once been a venerable bar, but has been brutally gutted and redecorated by a taxidermist. It was our fourth stop of the night. (Circle requested I take out the "red eye", but I think leaving it in more fully captures the entire evening.)

Central Park Studioigloo

igloo, originally uploaded by farmboyz.

New construction. Excellent location. Southern exposure. Superb amenities. Many bathrooms. Terrace. Professional landscaping. Body heated. Pets OK. Expansion/addition possible. Act fast. This one won't last.

Four Bitches

“Hi Bart. Can I pick up my case of Shiraz Mourvedre or have you sold it like last time.”

I put on the exaggeratedly sour and suspicious face that is designed to signify humor to someone who does not know me well enough to be sure that I am only joking. Although. Although last year he did break open his last case and sell it off rather than hold it for me, so there is precedent for worry.

While he is calling downstairs for someone named Aleef to locate the case, I wonder if I really need to use the big “cartoon face” to signify sardony when I am in New York. God knows I need it in Connecticut where ordinary conversations must be accompanied by hammer blows to the skull and 90 decibel laugh tracks before anyone actually gets you. Here perhaps, just maybe, may I actually relax and assume that the guy who sells me wine can swallow the nuances of his customers without choking? What a luxury. (Fort Lauderdale offers social relief that is the flip side of this coin: there is no such thing as subtlety, so no one tries it, and no one expects it. Traffic is loud. Men are drunk, and the sun sits on your face like a fat whore smoking a cigarette on your dime.)

While Bart makes the call, I lean on the counter and look at the other three customers who seem to have convened at exactly the same time, and may be wondering who ought to be served next. They are three Typical Upper West Side Women. Thin, spectral, with cheekbones of defiance, and straight hair streaked in a way that makes me think that a pipe must have burst at their salons, drenching their dos mid-tint and ruining the intended color. They are dressed in ski garb of teal and plum and lime. Ms. Teal holds a bottle of George DeBeouf Beaujolais Nouveau. Ms. Plum holds a bottle of Red Truck, and Ms. Lime is grinding her teeth into her cell phone. They are impatiently chewing gum, and when they see that I am looking at them, they each perform an almost imperceptible adjustment of carriage that throws forward their well-tended breasts. I smile with amusement. They read appreciation.

When Bart puts down the phone, I turn around to face him.

“Do you have any organic Sardinian wine?”

He comes around from behind the counter and brings me to a rack just a few feet away.

“I don’t have any organic, but it’s funny you should mention it because I was thinking of ordering some. I do have these four from Sardinia. This one’s fine, oh, but this one, the Cannonau di Sardegna, now that is one big, great big mouthful of good wine.” He taps the bottle and raises his eyebrows.

“OK. I’ll try that one.”

While Bart returns to the counter to ring up the sale, I turn to face Teal, Plum and Lime who have been intently listening to every word of my transaction.

I look at the bottle of Red Truck that Plum has placed on the counter.

“Oh. Red Truck. Pretty color. The label, I mean.”

I look at the bottle of Beaujolais Nouveau, and then I look up into Teal’s face, hoping for an explanation. Finding none, I let the smile wordlessly fall off my face.

And now for the hat trick.

Lime wags a finger at Bart and at the bottle of Sardinian wine on the counter, and says into her cell, “Gimme one of those.”

“Sorry. He’s taking our last one.”

I turn to face her with a big Bette Davis cartoon face.

“I’d love ta invitcha over for a sip but my husband just washed his hair.”

Blarg Hopping

I'm not sure why we are announcing this, as it may result in what something like the arrival of a plague of locusts, but here's the news, lifted straight out of Joe.My.God, and we will all feel free to ignore the one cocktail per bar rule, as that is exactly what did me in during the Proto-Blarg-Hop of two weeks ago:

Event: Blarg Hop (blog + bar hop = blarg hop)
Date: Saturday, February 11th
Place: Christopher Street
Time: 10PM (22:00 hrs if you are Eric)
What: An old school bar crawl down Christopher Street
Who: A veritable cavalcade of gay bloggers and friends, including: Blather And Bosh, CircleInASquare, Diary Of A Dandy, Glennalicious, Ham & Cheese On Wry, Joe.My.God., Perge Modo, Plastic Music, PogueGO, Robocub, Someone In A Tree, The Ninth Circle Of Helen, Tin Man, The Mark Of Kane, VelleityNYC, We Like Sheep and doubtlessly some others. Bloggers interested in joining us, email me to add your name here.
Itinerary: (We start at Pieces at 10pm. The bars will be visited in the following order, at least one cocktail per bar, but we allocate no specific duration to any venue in case they like, suck and stuff.)
1. Pieces - 8 Christopher Street
2. Stonewall - 53 Christopher Street
3. Duplex - 61 Christopher Street
4. The Monster - 80 Grove Street*
5. Boots & Saddles - 76 Christopher Street
6. Ty's - 114 Christopher Street
7. The Hangar - 115 Christopher Street
8. Chi-Chiz - 135 Christopher Street
9. Dugout - 185 Christopher Street
Feel free to join us. Mike P of Blather & Bosh will be audioblogging the event for his podcast, and there will be copious photographic records made of the entire, sure to be sordid, affair. And of course, we will all post hungover recaps on Sunday. But probably not too early.
* Yes, we know that The Monster is not on Christopher, but it's close enough and too legendary to ignore. Marie's Crisis gets no such dispensation.

new fl

new fl, originally uploaded by farmboyz.

Just before the downpour, we stood on our terrace wondering who would own a boat this big and why. How much do these things cost, and how many people are required as crew? Pointing out the largest of them, C guesses twenty million. I guess lower. Maybe five million. We have no clue, and we have no desire for it. Something smaller and inflatable maybe. Once, on a lake in the Bershires, C and I had sex in an inflatable raft as the yellow plastic paddles floated away from us.

You'd miss this. We will all miss this.

old fl, originally uploaded by farmboyz.

Old Fort Lauderdale was composed of exactly this sort of visual moment. New development is obliterating all traces of the past as parcels are assembled to allow for glass towers. Walking or driving across the draw bridge on East Sunrise, you'd barely notice this place down twenty feet at the level of the old road before the bridge was built. Oh well.

shadow face

shadow face, originally uploaded by farmboyz.

Here's another photo C got last Saturday while I was still asleep. It's Central Park West, a block or two up from us. The shadow of the street light does form a sort of animal face. Sort of conjures the Pink Panther, I think.