Ladies, would you like to know what men are really thinking? To know what really lurks behind their incomprehensible, often hurtful behavior? Would you like to know “what makes guys tick?”

Guy is a 38-year-old man living in New York City who has had several successful long-term relationships. Here, he offers what he’s learned. You may send your questions in to DearGuy@observer.com.

Dear Guy,

I met this man on the L train and he looked very nice, and wasn’t creepy at all, he was carrying a Kurt Vonnegut novel. He asked, so I gave him my number. He called that afternoon and we went to dinner the next night, had a really nice time, spent hours getting to know each other and laughing, he told me he was happy he met me, and he put his hand on the small of my back when we walked out of the restaurant. All signs were looking good! He asked me out for that weekend and we went to a party a friend of mine was having. He was very sweet, brought a bottle of wine, was charming with my friends and was very attentive to me during the party. He walked me home and we spent the night together. But he hasn’t called since. What should I do?

L Train Lass

Dear Lass,

You’re crazy!

Sincerely,

Guy

Dear Guy,

My boyfriend and I have been dating for eight months. Recently, whenever we have sex, I hear a clicking noise, which turns out to be the remote for the VCR—he turns on a porn tape and watches it over my shoulder. It makes me feel ill, but when I complain, he says his last girlfriend always watched porn with him and loved it.

Any suggestions on how I can confront him without ruining the relationship?

G-Rated in Greenpoint

Dear G-rated,

You’re crazy!

Sincerely,

Guy

Dear Guy,

I’m 36 and my boyfriend is 35; we’ve been dating for two years. I notice sometimes that he sort of glazes over when he’s watching television. When the De Beers eternity-ring commercial comes on (you know the one, where they’re standing on the steps and the really good-looking guy tells his wife he wants to marry her all over again, and then the birds all sort of flutter up into the sky and it turns out her whole family is on the steps?), it’s like he doesn’t even notice. Do you think he’s trying to throw me off by seeming indifferent?

Ring-less in Red Hook

Dear Ring-less

You’re crazy!

Sincerely,

Guy

Dear Guy,

Sometimes on the weekends, all my live-in boyfriend likes to do is lie on the couch and watch TV. When I tell him that I want to get away for the weekend, for some quality time, he always says, “What are we doing here every day? Isn’t this quality time? It is for me. Maybe you don’t feel the same way about us, as I do.” He acts like I’m asking for the world, when all I want is to walk on a beach or in the woods together and hold hands. Any advice on how I can make him see things the way I do?

Bunkered-Down in Battery Park

Dear Bunkered-Down,

You’re crazy!

Sincerely,

Guy

Dear Guy,

I’m a 39-year-old who keeps herself in pretty good shape. I’ve been living with my boyfriend, who is 44, for three years. When I ask him where we’re going as a couple, he always shuts down and doesn’t answer. He says he loves kids, but isn’t quite ready to be a father because he needs some more therapy. I know I give him enough space—he actually spends a few nights a week at his old studio apartment that he’s trying to sell. I’m worried that I’m wasting the best years of my life with him, and he’ll never want to take the next step. What do you think?

Concerned in Cobble Hill

Dear Concerned,

You’re crazy!

Sincerely,

Guy

Dear Guy,

Sometimes when my boyfriend and I are in bed, I’ll try to snuggle up against him while he’s sleeping and he’ll push me away. Do you think this is some unconscious way of him telling me he’s losing interest in me sexually?

Miffed in Murray Hill

Dear Miffed,

You’re crazy!

Sincerely,

Guy

My Summer Sucks; How’s Yours?

Last Saturday night at Siberia at 4 a.m, a curvy, really short young woman was dancing my way. First she asked me if I was gay, then if I wanted to make out with her. I said, “Sure!” Then she said, “Just kidding,” and walked away. Then she smushed her boobies in my face. I froze, and she walked away. It completely killed my buzz, destroyed the evening. But in retrospect it was probably the highlight of my summer.

Sometimes when I see a picture of Liv Tyler, I wonder if that big rabbity smile has less to do with her new baby or thriving movie career, and everything to do with just being superfucking rich, being able to spend a month in Tuscany or Mustique for no reason and just laughing her ass off the whole time. I’m sure she’s always thinking, Wow, life just keeps getting better and better for me—every single day, another surprise. More money, more fame, one fun thing after another. I’m so ridiculously lucky, I think I’ll take a dump on $10,000 in cash right now then set it on fire. Why not?

Jerry Seinfeld’s always got that “Yeah, I sure hit the jackpot, didn’t I? You caught me, guilty as charged!” look, too. He’s like, Wow, gulp, I really did it and now I don’t have to do anything for the rest of my life. I got my health. My sports cars. Hot wife and kids. Huge triplex in the Beresford; $50 million country house. The future’s looking real good, just wide open and I’m only 45. Think I’ll buy another Porsche today, take a dump inside, then blow it up.

It’s not your fault my summer’s sucking, Jerry and Liv. Odds are, you’re probably having a pretty miserable one, too.

I want to drown those spoiled brats on Upper West Side screaming “le-mon-ade!”, which they didn’t even make—their South American maids did. I’m also getting tired of the chipper health-club guys at Reebok Sports Club who say “Enjoy!” when they hand me my locker-room key.

My cat shat on my brand new white couch the other day.

This summer I hear all these people yapping about “friends” and “old friends.” Friends, friends, friends, friends. That guy on his cell phone at Blockbuster saying he was going to “visit friends in Amherst.” I yelled at him, “You think anyone wants to hear your conversation? If I get a call in here, you know what I do? I go outside, O.K., maybe you should do that! Idiot!” Felt so good.

I also loathe this new breed of flier distributor: young good-looking Colorado-looking blondes. Lower than crack hookers if you ask me.

And what’s with all the perfectly lovely lady butts destroyed by huge hideous green tattoos on the top of the ass-crack? Fast-forward 20 years from now, honey. Ain’t gonna be pretty.

Just got one of those e-mails from someone who says he’s got a new job and here’s his new contact info. I might hit reply all and say, “Hope you get fired again!”

And please, no more wedding invitations. Funerals are infinitely much more meaningful than the union of two kids who’ve been screwing each other for a while and want to get paid for it now, before they get divorced in five years.

This morning I realized I have a much worse noise problem on my hands now than I did when I had a fat bald Irish jackass living below me, who threw loud alcoholic idiot parties in his backyard. He’s gone, thank God, but in his place is a Great Dane which has been barking nonstop. Been fantasizing about poisoning it. There will be quiet here one way or another.

Burial at sea sounds better than sprinkling my ashes all over some peaceful “scenic view” type of spot.

What else sucks? Sandals and flip-flops and the dudes who wear them. Actually, dudes in general are bothering me lately—just get out of my sight, O.K.? With your haircuts and skinny jeans and dumb-ass Che Guevara T-shirts. Steer clear, don’t talk to me, no offense but I prefer the company of women and my cat Scoopie.

Working out hard for two weeks straight and going from 203 to 209—that sucks. Being part of the mob at Whole Foods sucks—all pleased with myself that my avocado roll and tuna fish and chicken wings cost only $18. Wheee, what a deal, having a great day now—thanks, Whole Foods.

Not having a huge spread in Mustique and getting to scuba dive with a couple of skinny browned Mustiquian babes every afternoon sucks. Then drinking fruity drinks with Keith Richards, Bowie, Iman, Felix Dennis, European royalty. No, I bet that’d suck, too.

It sure sucks that all the people I disliked growing up are now phantoms. I have no idea where they are, barely remember their last names, so I couldn’t even hunt them down. And they’d probably be all nice and friendly—they’ve grown, evolved. So have I.

There really is no such thing as revenge, is there? However, no matter how friendly and repentant they are now, I bet I could find a way to injure both Bruce Tarbox (who in 1984 urinated into a Pringles can then poured it on me while I was asleep) and Kenny Mack (who in 1976 kidnapped me, forced me onto a baseball field and threatened to beat me up if I didn’t return fly balls all afternoon; sounds fun in retrospect but at the time, terrifying). Kenny, I hope you’re having a rotten summer. You too, Bruce. Numbskull.

I’ve decided that if I ever have six months to live and am suffering in a hospital, I’m not going to be the selfless strong one, inspiring everyone, full of wisdom. No, I’m going to be a royal pain in the ass.

—George Gurley

The first message one sees upon entering the Church of

St. Mary the Virgin, an opulent cathedral near John's Shanghai restaurant and

the Lazer Park video-game arcade in Times Square, is a command: "Sinners

Repaint." The words serve to help raise funds for a recent makeover. They also

characterize a church off-center enough to host a nine-hour concert of music

more knotted and scary than your typical church fare.

Starting at 1:30 p.m. on Saturday, April 24, a

congregation of music faithful filled the pews of St. Mary's for a nine-hour

marathon of Olivier Messiaen's complete organ works. A French composer who

coupled avant-garde leanings with his devout Christian faith, Messiaen wrote

music that addresses darkness and light on equal terms. Before he died in 1992,

he played a singular role in the drama of 20th-century music-he transcribed

birdsong into musical notation as a teenager, embraced electronic instruments

in their earliest stages, and wrote increasingly powerful compositions that

carried musty classicism into the modern age.

Channeling Messiaen's music at St. Mary's was Paul

Jacobs, an organist straight out of central casting: Sweet-faced and cherubic,

he wears those button-down shirts without collars, often in bright colors. He

says things like, "You're probably very astute in observing this …. " He's also

27, a tender age for someone recently appointed as incoming chairman of the

organ department at the Juilliard School.

Mr. Jacobs is no stranger to endurance tests. In 2000,

he performed an 18-hour concert of Bach's organ music in Pittsburgh. "I had nothing

more than a cup of chocolate pudding to sustain me," he said. "I didn't even

notice hunger and fatigue. When I was finished, it hit me like a ton of bricks.

But when adrenaline takes over and one is so into the moment, you don't think

about those things." During this performance, he would eat only a bowl of

raisin bran before he started and a banana while he played.

Giving

the marathon treatment to Messiaen presents unique challenges.

"Messiaen's

music has an element of terror to it," Mr. Jacobs acknowledged. "Even though

it's a good, radiant, bright terror, it's so powerful that it's almost a bit

frightening, which is very attractive to me."

Indeed,

the sounds at St. Mary's ran the gamut from swooning beauty to a dark, eerie

dissonance that could make the Transylvanian Top 40. Partial credit goes to the

St. Mary's organ, a grand instrument made up of more than 5,000 pipes measuring

up to 32 feet long. Finished in 1933, it's one of the biggest pipe organs in

New York. Suspended high above the heads below, a vertical mess of metal and

wood, the instrument looks like a city unto itself.

"Up

until the 19th century, the organ was perhaps the most complicated invention of

mankind," Mr. Jacobs said. "It's an incredibly complex machine. To play it, one

almost has to conduct an entire orchestra."

The space at St. Mary's is extravagantly ornate. Known

for its high liturgy and devotion to incense (hence the nickname "Smoky

Mary's"), the church proved amenable to sitting around and staring for long

spells. The audience-numbering between 100 and 300 at any given time, with a

core of die-hards there for the duration-was a gangly mix of young and old,

classical music fans and not. Two women knitted casually in their seats. A few

people read books. A guy in a jean jacket actually played air organ.

During the nine-hour program, the mind had a tendency to

wander. (It turns out that the painted ceiling of St. Mary's has 1,457 gold

stars visible from the third-row center pew.) Around 4 p.m., after Mr. Jacobs

announced he was heading into some of Messiaen's "most extreme" work, the

program grew notably more intense and urgent. Bristly chords rubbed against

each other in anxious ways, high notes piercing and low notes bellowing like

angry ocean liners. A friend with tickets later to see Einstürzende

Neubauten-an industrial-rock band known to play jet engines-jumped in her seat.

"With Messiaen," Mr. Jacobs said, "what may strike the

ear as bizarre and harsh will soon change, if one is just willing to spend time

to listen with an open mind."

Notions

of time and its passing were central to Messiaen's artistic mode. As Mr. Jacobs

told the audience during one of his few 15-minute breaks, the eminently

quotable composer tried to realize the "banishment of temporality" in music

that can't help but begin and end.

Did it work? The echo certainly helped. As clanging

refrains spilled out during the finale, "Livre du Saint Sacrement" from 1984,

chords were left to dangle, reaching crests that swirled around the room for as

long as six seconds after air had left the organ. The only clear sign of time

inside came when the stained-glass windows faded to black as the sun went down.

The

next day, Mr. Jacobs said he was "pleasantly fatigued."

"To

see so many people interested was enormously uplifting," he added. "People do

have a longing for music of substance. I could tell the audience was listening,

aggressively."

10 Things I'll Say Before

Terrorists Cut My Throat

1) Dubya's gonna get you evildoers!

2)

My cat Scoopee, she likes a full bowl of Cat Chow 24-7; Dover Sole; Salmon

Caviar; a puddle of fresh cold water in the tub three times a day; a session

with the wire brush daily; and getting petted and talked to all the time. Don't

pick her up too much, she doesn't like that.

3)

Delete all my e-mails, burn all my letters, and I didn't purchase that Mia

Smiles porno movie, someone gave it to me.

4) I love you Mom, Dad, etc., Scoopee, Hilly, Sheri,

Jilly, Bedonna, Brigit, Meg, Molly, Lindsay, Amy and every other girl I was in

love with in college, especially the one who said, "If you call me again, I'm

calling the police!" Goodbye to Hippie Chick, Volleyball Head, Punk Rock Girl,

Lesbian Sasquatch, Sexy New Jersey Midget and all the wonderful boomies of the

world I'll never know.

5) I'm sorry for making fun of your accent, Martin, in

ninth grade at St. John's in Houston. You were a fine fellow and I'm very sorry

I did that. Same goes for my roommate at Choate summer school. Don't remember

your name, but I regret not standing up for you. If it's any consolation, I got

badly hazed in high school. Dude on the crew team, Bruce, urinated into a

Pringles can and poured it over me. Seniors walking down the boardwalk would

casually punch me, pick me up, carry me over to the pond and "pond" me.

6)

Hail Satan! Just kidding.

7) All things considered, I'd rather be here than having

to see that hideous MCI "What a Wonderful World" commercial again. Here's the

playlist for my memorial service at Siberia: George Jones' Cup of Loneliness ; Loretta Lynn's "Honky Tonk Girl"; the fourth

song off Komeda's The Genius of Komeda ;

Velvet Underground; the Jam; that Depeche Mode song I like; Barry Manilow's

"Weekend in New England"; Beatles' "Tomorrow Never Knows," "Savoy Truffle" and

"Get Back"; Neil Young's "Keep On Rocking in the Free World"; Minutemen's Double Nickels on the Dime ; stuff from The Who Sell Out and the Kinks' Animal Farm .

8) I'll go along with Tony Soprano listening to that

great but obscure Faces song in the last episode because he's got mommy issues,

but no Faces song has ever been played in a New Jersey strip bar, ever. So

let's please try to keep it real during those "Sorry, folks, no violence

tonight, we're keeping it real" episodes where nothing happens. Also, we don't

care if you TV writers know who Leon Wieseltier is. We know you know the $10

words. How about a spin-off starring Meadow?

9) Please, no, I don't wanna die, nooooo! Fuck Bush.

He's a retard! Fuck America. We had it coming! The Nation and the Michael's crowd were right! God is great! Yay,

Allah! Vote Kerry!

10)

Oh Jesus, please, please take the devil out of me.

-George Gurley