Our annual summer gathering, this year christened The Last Word Lavender Party, takes place tonight. While many of our friends are lucky enough to be out of town and soaking up the sun on a Provincetown beach, we’ll be hosting a poolside escape right in our backyard, weather-permitting. We are notorious for having it rain on our party parade, so after over a decade of rain-outs, we just count on the wet stuff, and if the sun deigns to peek out, it’ll be a bonus. Bring a bathing suit just in case. Someone usually ends up in the pool, rain or not.
{For this event, I will be wearing my treasured sample of Tom Ford’s ‘Lavender Palm’ cologne.}
The Last Word Cocktail
3/4 oz. gin
3/4 oz. chartreuse
3/4 oz. fresh lime juice
3/4 oz. maraschino liqeurÂ
These are a couple of promotional stills from Daniel Radcliffe’s first Broadway treading a few years back, in Equus. Someone recently asked to see them again, and who am I to deny a glimpse of Mr. Radcliffe’s butt in this final summer of Harry Potter glory?
A few years ago I found the recipe for this – called a Sun cocktail – in the Style Section of the New York Times. Since then, it has become a summer staple – for its refreshing seasonal charm and ease of assembly. It’s a grapefruit-based concoction that gets some of its sparkle from the addition of a dry sparkling white wine.
The original recipe is buried somewhere in my files, but I usually just wing it because with the ingredients involved it’s tough to wreck it irreparably. Here’s a rough estimate of what goes into it:
Sun Cocktail
3 parts pink grapefruit juice
1 part citrus vodka
1/2 part blackberry Schnapps
1 part dry sparkling white wine
You can adjust the proportions to suit your own taste. Combine all ingredients in a large pitcher, add a decent helping of ice, and stir. Garnish the drink with fresh blackberries or grapefruit slices.
Isn’t it neat? Wouldn’t you think my collection’s complete? Wouldn’t you think I’m the girl The girl who has everything?
Let me preface this post by acknowledging that I don’t come off very well in it. Some might even call me a little scary, and see echoes of ‘Fatal Attraction’ in my behavior. But screw it, I think it’s hilarious, and I’m big enough to poke fun at my past now and then. This is the tale of the summer that I stalked a guy in my Abnormal Psychology class. The jokes write themselves.
It must have been 1995 or 1996. I was home for the summer and taking a course at the local college in order to graduate early. It was Abnormal Psychology and I could have written the damn textbook. Our teacher was a big, brawny bearded guy with a motorcycle and chaps, a somewhat gruff voice, a mane of hair that was slowly moving backward, but a generally sweet countenance ~ a veritable bear’s wet-dream. But I was not hunting bears; my gaze rested squarely on the cute guy in the front row, with the goatee and a bit of a slight frame – the dorky type of guy I often fell for. He wore a baseball cap and long basketball shorts. Yup, I knew how to pick them. Hey, in the corn-field stretches of upstate New York in summer, the pickings were slim.
The class was dreadfully dull, and I’m always wary of teachers who use Hollywood films to illustrate real-life conditions. (In this case ‘Ordinary People’ with Mary Tyler Moore.) Anyway, my focus was on the kid in the front row, whose name, oddly enough and yet fittingly, escapes me. He was, looking back, far from anything special. Most of the guys I’ve had crushes on have proven remarkably unremarkable. There was just something about each one of them that endeared them to me. Sometimes it was a simple act of random kindness, usually not directed at me for any specific reason, to which I attached unreasonable significance. Sometimes it was more direct – a knowing glance and smile, a subtle but definite arm around a shoulder. In this case, it was a poster of ‘The Little Mermaid’ in his bedroom.
Look at this trove Treasures untold How many wonders can one cavern hold? Looking around here you think Sure, she’s got everything…
How I came to see his bedroom is where the embarrassing part comes in… well, a few of the embarrassing parts, because there are many. In class I listened intently to discover his name, peering over his shoulder to see it, to no avail. I think I finally obtained it by returning early from a break and rifling through his bag. Yeah, that was me. And that was just the beginning. If you think that is the least bit intrusive and wrong, stop reading now because you’re not going to like anything that follows.
Having procured his name by whatever means necessary, I began some old-school investigation. This was the mid-90’s and we didn’t even have an internet connection at home, nor was there FaceBook or Twitter or extensive electronic trails to follow. I used a phone book. An actual yellow-paged phone book. I found him in Mayfield. Prior to this, I didn’t know there was a Mayfield, or how close, or far, it might be to Amsterdam. But there he was, or at least his family was, so I had my friend Ann come over to do a little *67 action and give him a call. The first step was finding out whether he was gay, and these things had to be done delicately.
Ann has always been a hoot. She took to the task with drill-like precision and dedication. I crack up to this day when I picture her dialing the number and putting on a serious face as she began her spiel, “Hi, this is a reporter from ‘US News and World Report’ and we’re doing a little survey. Would you mind answering a few questions for me?”
I was on the floor in hysterics. Where the hell did ‘US News and World Report’ come from, and so quickly and easily?! Was that even a real thing? She then went on to ask three general questions before getting to the heart of the matter:
What is your age?
Where are you located?
What is your occupation?
Would you consider yourself gay or straight?
And then she finished, “Thank you for participating in this survey. Good-bye!”
I don’t know what we were thinking. And I can’t believe the guy stayed on the phone and answered. Oh, the answer was straight. Not that it mattered. I reasoned that if he was gay he probably wouldn’t say it over to the phone to a random reporter from ‘US News and World Report’. (Which begs the question of why we even called, but that would make too much sense for my frame of mind.)
The next step was checking out his home. Don’t ask me why. I got a map of Amsterdam and the outlying areas from the local gas station. Is that as ridiculous as it sounds? I think so. (Again, we were pre-internet, and part of the fun in these things was the act of having to work for an outcome- the journey was just as important as the destination.) There was a summer mission now, and I threw myself into it with crazed determination.
I suppose I could have followed him home from class one night to see where he went, but that seemed a bit extreme. (I’d save it for later…) Instead, I followed the map, plotted a course, and prepared for an evening of surveillance. Donning an outfit of black, and a hooded cloak that flowed about me (What? You don’t keep a hooded cloak on hand?) I got into my parents’ Blazer and headed off into the country.
On the dusty road where he lived there were no street lamps. This boded well for the task at hand. With the cloak of darkness, from the night and on my back, I could slip in and out of the shadows unseen. The house was on the left, and I drove a good length past it and parked on the side of the road. After the long drive, over which I grew immune to the roar of the engine and the blaring Madonna music, the silence was striking. I sat there for a moment, adjusting to the darkness and the quiet, and then I made my move. There were one or two other houses around, but no one seemed aware of my presence.
I was quick and deft, like a cat – no, a panther – with prey in sight. I ducked below the first windows in front of the house and went around to the side. I peered into the bedroom – his bedroom. An unmade bed with childhood sports sheets was pushed against the wall. A few trophies stood on a chest. And a hand-painted poster from a local production of ‘The Little Mermaid’ hung on the wall.
What would I give To live where you are? What would I pay To stay here beside you? What would I do to see you Smiling at me?
That’s all it took. My mind raced wondering who he might have played – Sebastian? Eric? Flounder? And how in the hell do I even know these characters? The words and the melody of ‘Part of Your World’ came into my head. It was a phantasmagoric Disney moment, as visions of fairy tale wonder paraded before me. I felt like a princess about to be swept into the arms of my goateed prince. He’d take me in his arms and set me down on his basketball sheets and… well, I was getting ahead of myself. And I was still outside of a strange house in the middle of the night, somewhere in Mayfield.
I made my way around to the back. The fluttering light of a television was coming out of a pair of sliding glass doors. I edged up to the side of the door and peered in, pulling my hood back a little. The object of my sudden desire was lying on a couch, languidly watching the TV. The screen threw wavering bands of light across his face. I was enraptured.
Where would we walk? Where would we run? If we could stay all day in the sun? Just you and me And I could be Part of your world.
Lost in my revelry, I forgot the surroundings for a moment. I backed away from the glass to remind myself of where I was and looked around in the darkness. It was still warm out. There was no breeze. A light scent of freshly-mowed grass hung in the air. In some small way, I was sharing a summer night with him. Our first. I peered in on him again. It was enough just to look. A low rumbling sounded from below. Was this the stirring of my heart, the wild beating of a passion in full bloom? The thunderous sound grew and I looked down to see an enormous black dog resting against the inside of the glass door. It leapt to its feet and began barking and clawing at the glass. Oh shit.
I reeled back and started to run, the cloak streaming wildly behind me. He must have jumped off the couch and ran to the door, because he was suddenly looking out into the darkness and trying vainly to see me, but he did not give chase, nor did he make me out as far as I could tell. (See, the cloak worked.)
Back in the car I regained my bearings. I stripped out of the cloak and long-sleeved black shirt in the heat, turned the AC on and slowly drove away as if nothing had happened. It was time to set the next phase of the mission into motion.
I thought if I could just get him to notice me, if I could jump-start some sort of interaction, he’d seen what a ball of fun I was and be unable to resist my charms. I thought a tight T-shirt and linen pants would do the trick. I thought suspenders might catch his eye. I thought brown highlights… well, you get the picture. And I thought wrong. It would take something more overt, like seeing me in his rear view mirror following him home after class one night.
Don’t judge me. I only followed him down the road until he pulled over into a gas station. I chickened out, turned around, and headed home, but I was hopeful he had seen me – that he knew I had followed. That week I set about to doing what I do when I like someone – friend or paramour: I made a tape mix. I’m a loser, baby, so why don’t you kill me…
Along with the tape, a short note:
Surely whoever speaks to me in the right voice, Him or her I shall followâ. ~ Walt Whitman, by way of Madonna.
It’s your turn… Follow.
Such was what I had written on the track-listing of the mix that I made for him and left on his car the next time we had class. Take a moment to digest all of that and judge all you want – it’s deserved now. I watched him – glimmers of Glenn Close wielding a knife danced through my head – as he found the tape and looked around. I pulled in front of him so he had to follow me out of the parking lot. I turned to go in the direction of my house, and he turned… the other way. Did the dummy even know what was going on? Did he even realize the note was meant for him? Did I really put Samantha Fox on a mix tape? I could not answer these questions – not then, and not now.
There were only a few more classes left. Time was running out and we hadn’t even spoken a single word to one another. I was getting – or rather, I continued to be – extremely desperate. Like super-short cut-off jeans and a tank-top, it wasn’t a good look for me, but I was helpless over it. After the next class, I decided I couldn’t wait another moment longer. I was going to ask him out.
Now, the wise thing to do would have been to hold off one more week until class was over, in the event that he was uninterested, right? I mean, that’s the sensible schedule to follow, the logical, reasonable course of action, and it would guarantee that I wouldn’t have to see him again should his reaction prove less than positive. Such a simple idea, and it makes so much sense. So of course I didn’t follow it.
That night, after a quick shot or two of whiskey, I dialed up his number. No *67, no faux news survey, just the honest truth of what I wanted. A guy asking another guy out. He answered and I introduced myself, explaining that I sat behind him in class. Amazingly, he knew who I was, and asked how I was doing. For whatever reason, I am slightly taken aback when someone I don’t think has noticed me has, in fact, noticed me. It will always be that way.
I don’t know when I don’t know how But I know something’s starting right now Watch and you’ll see Some day I’ll be Part of your world…
I then said something like, “I don’t know if you’re into guys or anything, but I was wondering if you wanted to go out sometime?” Awkward beginning notwithstanding, it was simple and direct and to the point – and it was the hardest thing to say to someone. The worst thing that can happen when you open yourself up like that is a polite declination – but that’s the whole point – it is the absolute worst thing that can happen. And it is the exact thing that did happen.
He said he was flattered, but that he was straight. I thanked him for being so nice, because his tone was one of understanding and gentleness. He said it again, that he really was flattered and sorry, but that’s the way it was. I will say this: I’ve been rejected a few times – and no one was ever unkind or cruel about it. For that I am grateful. For that I held onto the tiny light of hope that people – often strangers – lit in me just when I was giving up on the world.
[Side-note: this does not break my history of never having crushed on a straight guy, as I honestly believed him to be gay. Hello, he was in ‘The Little Fucking Mermaid’ for Christ’s sake, or at least designed the damn poster – both equally damning in the eyes of outing. I’m being mostly facetious, but come ON.]
It made no matter – whether straight or not, he did not want me. That he chalked it up to being heterosexual was a sweet, and probably truthful, reason for it. There was nothing left to say or do. After two more awkward classes with him, where I avoided and pretended, and he gratefully accepted the act, it was done. I never saw him again.
A few more weeks of summer laid ahead before I had to return to Brandeis. In the ennui of those stultifying nights, I thought of him, and slowly, I got over it. My dreams of a summer fling would have to wait.
{PS – After some of the Madonna Timelines and this entry, the perception of my romantic past must be sketchy at best. One day I’ll write a sweet post about a decent relationship I’ve had, because there were a few, and maybe an anecdote or two about some of the nice guys I’ve met over the years. They do exist. It did get better.}
About half-way through my last babysitting excursion with my niece and nephew, I looked down at Noah and recognized a glint of mischief in his eyes. For a quick moment I thought of my Uncle Roberto looking back at me. Noah looked up, gave a slight smile, and I saw the end of a stone he had put into his mouth. After wrestling that away from him (and recovering from a mini-heart-attack), I thought back to my Uncle, and whether this was karmic retribution. I always assumed it was my brother who would now be paying for a wild childhood of incessantly-active and occasionally-crazy behavior – it never dawned on me that I had my own karma to overcome. And as an Uncle – with the same sometimes-ornery disposition as my own Uncle Roberto – I have a niece and nephew who may prove to be his last act of vengeance upon me.
I was a hellacious nephew. At times I was awful. My brother and I wreaked so much havoc with our Uncle that it’s amazing he even spoke to us. We couldn’t help it. We were kids, and all we wanted was his undivided attention. Sometimes you have to resort to bad behavior to get it. Above all of that though, we loved him – dearly and obsessively, perhaps because he was always so elusive, and lived so far away. For the first ten years of my life, my Uncle was separated from us by oceans – first the Pacific, then the Atlantic – as he moved from the Philippines to Israel before coming to the United States.
The twins have known me from birth. There will be no mystery, no distance of years or many miles, and for that it will prove different in ways both good and bad. Meeting my Uncle for the first time, on that snowy day at the Albany Airport – the first time he had ever seen snow in his life – was an event. It was magical for all those reasons, but now that he is gone, I wish we’d had more time together. I wish he had lived closer, that we could have visited him on our own, that he was there for the simple uneventful days instead of just holidays or weddings.
That’s what I have with Emi and Noah. Yes, I’ve been there for the big events – birthdays and holidays – but it’s the in-between moments that matter more and make up a childhood. Like a mid-morning summer stroll or a ride in their Radio Flyer. There will be time for magic too, and I’m pretty good at creating an event out of nothing, so these twins will have their own special moments with their Uncle Al. I’ve already had a few with them – it’s not every day I meet a little man with a stone in his mouth and a twinkle in his eye, or a little lady with as much interest in shoes and jewelry as me.
Somewhere my Uncle is smiling, I’m sure of it. Maybe he knows what’s in store for me, maybe he doesn’t – but he’s definitely getting as much of a kick out of his great niece and nephew as I am.
In Tibetan meditations on the sound of water, the adept unites the fluidity within his or her own body-mind with the waters of the external environment. The same process applies to qualities of earth, fire, air, and space. If brought to completion, this form of meditation is believed to lead to a state in which the boundaries of the individual ego are replaced by a deep, transparent empathy with the phenomenal world.
~ Ian Baker
From The Heart of the World: A Journey to Tibet’s Lost Paradise
It’s summer, and time for meals that don’t involve the oven or stove-top. In this instance, I made a Waldorf chicken salad. (If you buy a rotisserie chicken there’s no need to heat up anything.)
Here’s the recipe – I will follow it with my variations:
Ingredients:
2-4 cups rotisserie chicken, shredded
1 cup chopped Granny Smith apple
1/2 cup celery, chopped
1 cup green seedless grapes, halved
1/2 cup walnuts, chopped
2 tablespoons mayonnaise
2 tablespoons sour cream
1 teaspoon lemon juice
Salt & pepper to taste
Directions:
1. Mix all fruits and vegetables together
2. Toss lightly with lemon juice
3. Stir in walnuts, chicken, mayo and sour cream.
4. Add salt and pepper to taste.
5. Cover and refrigerate at least two hours to meld flavors.
It’s really a recipe that involves chopping and assembling, no culinary expertise needed. I substituted plain yogurt for the sour cream and used a bit more than two tablespoons. (Which allowed me to use less mayo as we were down to the bottom of the container.)
I also added the fresh lemon juice earlier, sprinkling it onto the apple as soon as it was chopped (it will prevent the apple from turning brown – which happens sooner than you think). A small sprig of mint from the garden works well as a garnish. This is the quintessential summer dish, but because of the mayo be sure to keep it cool.
There were days when lying in the grass and counting clover leaves were all we had to do in the summer. The sweet smell of the clover blossoms drew the bees, but their buzzing was a reassuring sign of the season, not a warning, and certainly not a danger. The grass was soft, and just the slightest bit wet with the last of the morning dew. The sun traveled overhead – the shadow of the house retracted – and by high noon it was hazy and hot. It was summer, and it was glorious, and it was never-ending.
Every once in a while I’ll return to that moment, that feeling. A carefree childhood, bereft of adult worries – the wonder of a day, of a moment, stretched out in the endless path of the sun – the promise of a four-leaf clover, hidden somewhere, maybe many somewheres, in the expanse of a lawn.
It’s too soon for the cry of the cicadas – though this is the heat in which they like to sing. In the forest, in the distance, they will sound their buzzing – starting slowly, then growing into a shrill siren call. I will remember the summers gone by, in the midst of the summer at hand.
{Note: The Madonna Timeline is an ongoing feature, where I put the iPod on shuffle, and write a little anecdote on whatever was going on in my life when that Madonna song was released and/or came to prominence in my mind.}
It was a tradition that started with ‘La Isla Bonita’ and the ‘True Blue’ album. From that moment on, in every studio record until 1992, Madonna had featured one Spanish/Latin-influenced track. The tradition continued with ‘Pray for Spanish Eyes’ on ‘Like A Prayer’, and reached its nadir with ‘I’m Going Bananas’ on ‘I’m Breathless’. Even ‘Deeper and Deeper’ from ‘Erotica’ had a tinge of Flamenco guitar in it, but since that infamous album, Madonna has kept the kitschy Spanish numbers off her studio albums.
From 1998 through 2007, she left the Spanish lullabies to Ricky Martin and Shakira, as she recharged with electronica and dance music. That changed with her last studio album, ‘Hard Candy’. Suddenly it was 1986 all over again, as ‘Spanish Lesson’ found her back in the Spanglish department, loosely translating common phrases (not exactly accurately – “Mucho gusto means I’m welcome to you” – umm, it does?) and turning up the silly factor: “If you do your homework, maybe I will give you more/ When you do your homework, get up on the dance-floor.” Yeah, it’s pretty painful. I won’t prolong the agony, and I won’t re-print any more of the inane lyrics.
About the only personal memory I have of this song is hitting the ‘Next’ button in the car or on the stereo. I assume it made it into the iPod in the first exciting flush of a new album (2008). I really need to update this thing. And Madonna really needs to get back into the studio… oh wait – she just did! The world has been waiting…
God, you don’t know how long I’ve been wanting to use that post title and mean it… Yes, I officially babysat my niece and nephew on Friday. (Full disclosure before anyone calls the child abuse hotline: my parents were in and out of the house, so there was back-up in the event of a diaper disaster, but more on that later.)
I’ve been left alone with them before, while my brother ran a few errands, but they mostly slept through it, so I really thought it was going to be a cakewalk. I had babysitting visions of sitting idly on the couch finishing a book, writing a few letters, lazily changing the TV channel, throwing a few Cheerios their way and calling it a day. That’s not the way it works.
At fifteen months they can walk. And they do. Especially where they’re not supposed to walk. They can also see. Everything – especially what you’re trying to hide from drool-spewed hands, i.e. a camera. Whatever happened to the rumor that babies couldn’t see beyond ten feet or something? Didn’t I read that somewhere? Anyway, total bullshit.
And speaking of shit, let’s just get the diaper issue out of the way. I thought I might be able to get out of it. 9 AM to 2 PM is, granted, a decent amount of time, but I figured if they were changed right before I got there, and if we could limit the intake of food and drink, then maybe I could get away without one. Go ahead and laugh.
I’d seen my brother change Noah before – but he was only wet. At first I honestly thought it would be all right, but then everyone started to warn me about ‘surprises’, and God knows I don’t like being surprised, so I started to worry. I had a genius idea of partaking in some outside summer fun when and if the diaper-change moment came up – simply hosing them down and not getting near the disaster area – but other parents I spoke to poo-pooed that idea (thank you Sherri and Skip). Apparently babies don’t like icy water shot at them with a garden hose. I thought it could be a fun summer-splash kind of moment, but no one agreed. Fine.
My Mom helped out with the first one. (Yes, by ‘first’ I mean to imply that there would be a second…) She showed me how to lay the new diaper out under the old one, then quickly take the old one off, wipe everything down and fasten the new one. It all went so fast I was mildly disoriented. The fact that babies don’t sit still didn’t help. So, the clock is ticking, the baby is squirming, and my Mom is mentioning something about a ‘surprise’ again. She finishes with Emi before I can even undo Noah’s belt buckle.
Now, I love my nephew, but at this point I am just praying that he knows how much I don’t like surprises. He must have, because I swear at that moment he gave me a mischievous little smile, and when I unfastened his diaper ‘Surprise!!’
I’m not going to lie. I’m not going to paint myself as the diaper-changing champ some people thought I would be. And it pains me to say it because I can do just about anything I set my mind on doing. This just wasn’t it. Not yet. I reared my head back and told Mom there was a surprise. She quickly started wiping and just had me hold his legs up. And I have to say, it wasn’t that bad. But again, no cakewalk.
I thought for sure that was it. We were halfway through the day, I got through a diaper change, I took the twins out for a ride in their Radio Flyer, and they finally settled in for a long nap.
I don’t know about you, but when I wake up the first thing I do is hit the snooze button. About ten times. Then I slowly begin to adjust my eyes to the world around me, taking the time to reacclimate myself to what is going on, letting things register bit by bit. I might even go back to sleep if the day allows. These babies weren’t like that. As soon as Noah opened his eyes he was back to climbing up on the couch to find the remote control I didn’t even realize was there. As soon as Emi opened her eyes she started crying. It was like there was a switch that went on – at the same time – and there was no need for a gradual adjustment. It was as if there wasn’t a nap at all, and we jumped right back into the races without a skipped beat. Which meant another diaper change.
It came out of the blue, and my Mom was so nonchalant about it she just started changing Emi and said I could change Noah. At first I was confused – we just did this, didn’t we? But then I thought it should be easy – at the worst there might be a little wetness. All they were doing was napping. The pants came down a little easier this time, the diaper unfastened without a hitch, and – as is karmic retribution for things I didn’t even knew I did – there it was – SURPRISE!
Who takes a shit in their sleep? I mean, who does that? This is the stuff of out-of-control drug-and-alcohol-ravaged rock stars. This is the stuff of Charlie Sheen. And apparently it’s the stuff of my nephew. But this time I didn’t have help. Someone threw a wipe in my direction and that was it. I went to work. Again, it went so fast that it was all kind of a blur – but it really wasn’t that bad. (And Paul and Erin, I apologize if at the next diaper change you wonder what kind of animal put that one on – it was me.) But I did it, and as soon as his pants were back on he was off and running, so at least it didn’t fall off.
That was it – my first attempt at babysitting. We all survived. I’m a little bit wiser now, and they got to know their Uncle a little better. I learned that babysitting wasn’t a cakewalk. I learned that twins are relentless. I learned that you have to watch them ALL THE TIME. I learned you have to be quick. Above all else, I learned that I loved it and can’t wait to do it again.
{Note: The Madonna Timeline is an ongoing feature, where I put the iPod on shuffle, and write a little anecdote on whatever was going on in my life when that Madonna song was released and/or came to prominence in my mind.}
It turns out I already wrote the entry for this song last year, before the timeline took shape, but it still holds true, so I’m going to step back into the sun, dip back into the pool, and re-hash what I already wrote, word for word.
It was July 1992. I had just returned from a trip to Finland for a wedding, leaving the extended European trip early to attend a summer course at Brown University. I thought it would be a good thing to pad my high school resume for college (well, my parents thought it would be – I personally didn’t really care either way). It was a biology course, with some hands-on study at the Roger Williams Park Zoo.
Upon arriving at Brown, I experienced my first and only real bout of homesickness (well, after the age of ten at least) – I didn’t even feel it when I went away to college. This time I was searching for a private place to cry and remembering how I used to look up into the fluorescent lights of my first grade class hoping that they would dry my tears faster. The crying part was over by the second day, and when I found myself with the time and private place to do it again I didn’t even need to. Still, I missed my family, and to assuage the pit in my stomach I spent my free time searching the library at the University for genealogy books. Not that I ever expected to find any Ilagans there, it just felt good to look and make plans in my mind of when I would see them again.
My chosen project at the zoo was a study on the lemurs. I had noticed that one of them sat quietly, while the others ran circles around him, occasionally chasing him out of the way. It was my ‘hypothesis’ that this lemur was more or less being hounded into submission, and was therefore not exhibiting all of his natural behavior. Looking back, it was probably the least scientific hypothesis ever almost-proven, but somehow I pulled it off and garnered an ‘A’ on it (which was the whole grade of the course).
By choosing the lemurs, which were off the beaten path of the zoo and not as exciting or awe-inspiring as the elephants or Tamarin monkeys, I could be alone, watching their antics and taking notes on behavior. I didn’t want to be around the other students, whom I suspected of intelligence greater than mine, but who displayed too many signs of immaturity. The ones I did find interesting – like the girl who wore a billion strands of tiny beads that she had strung herself – had ostracized themselves with their quirky fashion choices or frowned-upon habits of sleeping with each other.
I also had other concerns, in the form of one psycho red-headed roommate. He had written out a ten-plus page treatise on how he planned to join forces with Satan, take over the world, then double-cross Satan and have the power to himself. Not kidding. When he left for the day, I promptly took a huge risk, stole the papers, ran to the library and made a Xerox copy, then hid it in my luggage in the event that my body was found slaughtered under the bed at the end of the two weeks. Luckily he left me alone, as I must have seemed a non-threat in his quest for universal domination.
The noxious purple loosestrife was just beginning to show its bright color in the zoo’s natural wetlands, and staff warned us of how dangerous it was, in its propensity to take over the wetlands and choke out natives. Summer beat down upon the zoo paths, and I was grateful for the air-conditioned bus ride back to campus at the end of the day.
I didn’t explore Brown University as much as I perhaps should have. Part of me dreaded the idea of college so much that I shrank away from anything remotely connected to it, such as checking out what campus life was like, even if it was the doldrums of summer. I did walk around the small stretch of shops and cafes, and I explored some of the art shops that were there (being in proximity to the Rhode Island School of Design). On one such excursion I picked up an old Herb Ritts compilation – a beautiful pair of cloth-bound editions of some of his classic shots. In the black-and-white beauty found within its pages, I found a semi-solace from my loneliness, and a glimpse into a world so far and fully removed from my own.
On the radio I listened to Madonna’s ‘This Used To Be My Playground,’ a dirge-like lament on time gone by. It has not weathered the years well, and for quite a while I couldn’t even bring myself to listen to it because it was just so unspectacular. But it was part of my past, and part of that summer. A wistful look back on the season that used to be so carefree and celebratory. It was my last summer of innocence. The next Fall and Winter would bring my first girlfriend and last year of high school.
As for the song, it would prove to be Madonna’s last hit before the infamous ‘Sex/Erotica‘ years, though according to producer Shep Pettibone, it was one of the last songs written for those sessions. That’s a lot of ‘lasts’ for a season that never does.
Wishing you were here with me…
Song #46: ‘This Used To Be My Playground’ – Summer 1992
Lay a whisper on my pillow,
leave the winter on the ground.
I wake up lonely, there’s air of silence
in the bedroom and all around.
Touch me now, I close my eyes and dream away.
It must have been love but it’s over now.
It must have been good but I lost it somehow.
It must have been love but it’s over now.
From the moment we touched ’til the time had run out.
In the summer of 1990 I found myself on a People-to-People Exchange in what was then termed the Soviet Union. There were a few notable songs to that summer: ‘U Can’t Touch This’ by M.C. Hammer, ‘Nothing Compares 2 U’ by Sinead O’Connor, and ‘It Must Have Been Love’ by Roxette. Only the first (Can’t Touch This) could I relate to in any direct way (and even then it was merely in a superficial, sideways-dancing-in-skidz kind of way). The last two touched on heartbreak that I’d never known before, though I could sense in them a yearning for something, and a longing that would never quite go away. My heart had never been broken like that, but not for lack of trying. How I hoped to connect to someone, to get that close, to have just the chance of such pain – and how little did I know what was in store for me.
I was fourteen years old, surrounded by friends from home, and on a European adventure. At the start of summer, we flew from Washington, DC to Moscow. I was beginning to see the world. I was beginning to find myself. Letting go of a childhood spent mostly, and happily, in relative summer solitude, I felt the reassuring friendship and camaraderie of a group of friends – some of whom have remained in my life to this very day. We traveled by bus, plane, train, and boat – we shared sleeping quarters, questionable food, mildly-amused hosts, and the foreignness of a country on the other side of the world. In experiencing another culture, we looked back at our own, and at each other, with equal parts suspicion, love, disdain, and loyalty.
Make-believing we’re together,
that I’m sheltered by your heart.
But in and outside I’ve turned to water
like a teardrop in your palm.
And it’s a hard winter’s day, I dream away.
It must have been love but it’s over now,
it was all that I wanted, now I’m living without.
It must have been love but it’s over now,
it’s where the water flows, it’s where the wind blows
it’s where the wind blows…
When the trip was over I found myself home alone in the backyard again, watching the hollyhocks and picking off the Japanese beetles in the late morning sun. The doleful sounds of ‘It Must Have Been Love’ played on the radio. As I missed my friends, as I missed those moments we shared, I understood that longing, and my heart, experiencing a first bit of joyful regret, broke just a little.
