Monthly Archives:

April 2012

30
April
2012
Tags: Cologne
No comments

The Unsniffed Scent ~ My New Cologne

No, it’s not some mash-up of the Spicegirls and Tom Jones – ‘Spicebomb’ is the new cologne by Viktor & Rolf – a sort of male counterpart to their successful ‘Flowerbomb’ perfume. When the reviews first started trickling in, it sounded like something I would love – bergamot, a bit of grapefruit, and pink pepper to begin with – then a base of tobacco with a touch of leather. However, I’ve read of fragrances that included all my favorite scents, only to be disappointed, if not outright horrified by the end result (hello Prada).

On my last trip to Boston (and, I will admit, procuring Spicebomb was part of the impetus for that visit) I hit up Saks Fifth Avenue, which I had read was offering it for sale. The salesperson there crushed my dreams with one fell swoop when she said it would not in stock in Boston until August. I didn’t think it would be at Neiman Marcus, but I tried, and I even made a feeble, half-hearted stop at Barney’s on the off-chance they had something… all to no avail. The city of Boston did not have Spicebomb, and it didn’t look they were getting it anytime soon.

Now, here comes the ‘Do as I say, not as I do’ part of the blog. Normally, I strongly advise against buying cologne scent unsniffed. First off, because you will never really know what it smells like no matter how many fanciful terms of description they can conjure. Second, even if you have smelled it in a magazine or a sample, it will smell slightly different on your own skin, and everyone’s body chemistry produces varying olfactory reactions. Third, it is far too easy to fall prey to advertising (and yes, I’m talking about the debacle of the naked guy for Zino by Davidoff, the worst fragrance I ever bought and never used).

Still, when all the reviews sound like the perfect concoction of what I most want in a cologne, and the fact that I was not averse to Flowerbomb, I took a chance and ordered a bottle online. I know, I know… but it’s only good advice if I don’t take it. When it arrived from Nordstrom, I pulled the pin of the grenade bottle and prepared for the worst. Happily, luckily, and giddily, I loved what I smelled.

But don’t ever do what I just did. Because I said so.
Continue reading ...
29
April
2012
Tags: General, Madonna, Music
No comments

The Madonna Timeline: Song #68 ~ ‘Fever’ – Late Winter/Early Spring 1993

{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.}

Never know how much I love you…
Never know how much I care…

Ahh, Fever. Like so many pop references, I only know Peggy Lee’s ‘Fever’ thanks to Madonna, and after hearing the original (and countless other covers), I really have no preference. Madonna’s version came out as the B-side to ‘Bad Girl’ in the first half of 1993, and at a time when the ‘Sex/Erotica’ backlash was at its worst. As such, an ‘Us’ magazine story recounted the tale of a gym whose patrons only got into the groove when they played the instrumental version of Madonna’s ‘Fever’ – a joke in and of itself.

While I remember the song when ‘Erotica’ first came out in the fall of 1992, and then a brief resurgence when she performed it on ‘Saturday Night Live’ and the Arsenio Hall Show in early 1993, my main memories came in the early spring of that year, when the CD Maxi-Single of ‘Bad Girl’ was on perpetual play, and much of it occupied by the ‘Fever’ remixes.

Catchy as hell, with vocals as dry as my favorite martini, this was not a landmark moment in Madonna’s career, but I do view it favorably, and as covers go she could have done a lot worse (bye bye Miss American Pie indeed). Still, it was mostly filler for the otherwise-brilliant ‘Erotica’ album – and totally unnecessary at that.

Of more import was the video, which went uncharacteristically ignored ~ a pitiful shame, as it stands as a stylist’s dream-stash of images. Jittery, hot, and soaked in flaming color, it set the stage for the brilliant cool-down of ‘Rain’.

What a lovely way to burn.

Song #68 ~ ‘Fever’ – Late Winter/Early Spring 1993

 

Continue reading ...
29
April
2012
Tags: Boston
No comments

Naked, Wet, and a Mess

The erratic drumming of falling water beads, pounding incessantly on the aluminum shell of a window air conditioner and reverberating throughout the high-ceilinged room – this is the sound of a war waged by the rain, against my senses, and has been the bane and boon of a night in my Boston bedroom.
At first it is jarring, especially if the rain has been fine, or more of a mist, where the rivulets of water don’t begin running for hours after the overcast haze has begun. Then the first few attacks are startling and obnoxious, as a bit of disbelief gives rise to anger at the relentlessness of the random yet steady assault of drops. It would be torturous to some, but I’ve grown accustomed to it, and it comes with the territory of a rainy patch.
As the night wears on, and the rain refuses to let up, the tapping takes on a different tone, moving from agitated annoyance to reassuring comfort. The din becomes a buffer, especially when the silence has become overbearing. Disruption can be a welcome distraction from thought, the way those recordings of oceans or rainforests provide background noise to aid in sleep.
At the start of the irregular cadence of drips and pops and snare beats, I always think I’ll go crazy. I toss and turn a bit if sleep doesn’t come soon, half-cursing, half-muttering at the uninvited noise. I work out strategies of clever invention, cone-shaped objects designed to gently absorb the pitter-patter, or a simple tray where the first minute of rain pounds upon it, but eventually softens its own blow. In the end, the mind is distracted enough to allow for sleep to sneak in, and by the middle of the night it has become a comforting drone.
Then, upon waking to find a glass of water or padding across the hardwood to use the bathroom, the sound is a friend I didn’t realize I had, a balm on the scary silence the night usually affords.
A reminder that we are not in control of this world. A gentle tap on the shoulder that someone else – God or the universe or some other power – is still in command. An echo of every rainstorm that came before, a foreshadowing of every rainstorm to come.
Continue reading ...
18
April
2012
Tags: Boston
No comments

A Virgin Massage Voyage

My first massage, courtesy of the Mandarin Oriental in Boston, was beyond anything I could have imagined. The only thing to which I can liken it is the last ten minutes of a really great yoga session, where all you have to do is to lay there and feel the peace and relaxation – only this goes on for as long as the massage lasts, and you don’t need to do any sort of strenuous exertion beforehand.

In fact, the only thing I had to do before the session was to enjoy the thermal experience that the Mandarin offers – in the form of a crystal steam room, vitality pool, and a rain shower that washed away any and all worries. But before that, there was the welcoming ceremony of herbal tea and a scented hot towel. Beside a peaceful waterfall, I removed my shoes and slipped on a pair of slippers. An attendant brought me back to the spa area and set me up with a locker and a tour of the facilities.

With its soothing lighting (tranquil and soft), sumptuous bathrobes (they knew the way to my heart), and insanely sensual offerings (the showers alone, with their intoxicating selection of body wash, shampoo and conditioner, were a revelation) the Spa at the Mandarin is an expert study in the art of rejuvenation and relaxation. Advised to arrive 45 minutes before my scheduled massage time, I immediately realized the benefits of this as I took a quick shower than immersed myself in the vitality pool. Warm water swirled amid a pulsating stream of hot bubbles, and for this alone the experience was worth it. After a glorious period of decompression, I headed into the crystal steam room for a spell before one final dip in the pool, and another shower (the body wash was just that good). For the last fifteen minutes before the massage, I stretched out in the relaxation room – and a more aptly-named space must not exist.

When my masseuse appeared – a soft-spoken smiling gentleman named Kenny who would prove to be my portal to nirvana – I was already in a state of calm, but I had no idea how much calmer things could get. He went over the process, offered me another cup of tea, and then it was time.

Now, I’m not one who enjoys the touch of strangers. I don’t like the accidental brush in the elevator, and I am adamantly opposed to social touching unless I’m three sheets to the wind (in which case I’m slightly more at ease with hugs and the like). But during the daytime hours, I recoil at contact, and even have a problem with people being remotely within my ‘personal space’. However, for a massage at the Mandarin, I was willing to suspend my issues, let go of my inhibitions, and simply enjoy the experience for what it was. Well, apparently the wrong people have been touching me all my life because this was the single more enjoyable thing I’ve done in a long time (and I’m selfish enough to partake in a lot of enjoyable things – hello Tom Ford Private Blends).

Between the invigorating essence of the Quintessence oil that was used, the expert maneuvering of the masseuse’s hands, and the over-riding calm of the whole atmosphere, I felt the closest to heaven that humans could hope to reach. I was an instant massage convert, and when it was over it felt like I had done the most addictive and pleasurable drug in the world. Floating back to the showers and vitality pool for one final round, I didn’t want it to end.

Many thanks to the incredible staff at the Mandarin Oriental, and a word/link of advice for anyone wondering what to get me ever again: see this Mandarin Oriental Spa Brochure. (It may have knocked the Tom Ford Private Blend collection down a notch or two on my gift wish-list.)
Continue reading ...
15
April
2012
Tags: Bulge
No comments

From Beard to Pornstache


Last week, in a deliberate act of pre-meditation and long-thought-out determination, I shaved my beard. I had been itching to do so for weeks, but it just didn’t feel like the right time – or the right weather – until last Wednesday night. Even though I’m such an image shifter, it was more fun that I thought it would be (a quick dramatic change isn’t as easy to pull off as one might imagine, even with years of practice), and this was a joyously instant turnabout.

I left a mustache (pornstache) for a brief bit and took some fun Tom of Finland/Freddie Mercury shots that probably verged closer to the Village People, but you can decide for yourself if and when I make up my mind to shred that last bit of good judgment and post them here. (One is already up on FaceBook and Twitter, so if you’re not friends or following me respectively, what are you waiting for?)

On the beard removal – it was also a bit more emotional than I had foreseen. Being that this was the first proper beard I’d ever grown, and that I’d become rather attached and protective of it (a barrage of insults will do that), I realized that I’d been delaying the shearing process because I was genuinely afraid to let it go. There is definitely some truth to the notion of beards being used as barriers, as well as something behind which one can hide.

Growing a beard made me feel both older and more distinguished, and instantly took me out of the gay guy’s impossible quest to maintain twinkhood. Now, I realize I haven’t been a twink in twenty years, no matter how tight the jeans or flattering the light, but it’s a dream we all keep in the back of our heads, admitted or not. Having a beard immediately allowed (forced) me to give up that ghost, and what followed was an exhilarating feeling of freedom. The shackles of trying to be forever-young were heavier than I realized, so used to them had I become over thirty-six years.

When it came off, I didn’t really see or feel the change right away. Sometimes you only get that in the reactions of others (and my husband is one of the least reactive people I know). It wasn’t until I went into work the next day that I realized what a change had been effected.

I did not feel naked, as some men claim. (Please, you don’t know from naked. I do.) I felt a little cleaner and lighter, less cluttered and hidden, and it was a change I needed. The beard may be back next Fall, but for now it’s going to be smooth sailing.

(The one drawback was that two days later I realized I’d have to shave again. And again. And again. And that, frankly, is a pain in the neck and the jawline.)

Continue reading ...
14
April
2012
Tags: Gay Marriage, General, Madonna, Music
No comments

The Madonna Timeline: Song #67 ~ ‘X-Static Process’ – Spring 2003

{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.}

I’m not myself when you’re around
I’m not myself standing in a crowd
I’m not myself and I don’t know how
I’m not myself, myself right now…

“If you’re afraid of loneliness, don’t marry.” ~ Chekhov

The quiet plucking of a guitar begins this folk-like piece from Madonna’s over-maligned American Life album, and ‘X-Static Process’ is an ambivalent love song, under-laid with tones of melancholy and resignation, hints of despair and slivers of hope. It came at a time when she was supposedly-happily-married to Guy Ritchie, yet it stings of a disconcerting lack of fulfillment, and questions of self-identity. A whisper of a song, it is imbued with ambiguity, concerns of love and dependence, and the notion of self versus couple.

When I first heard it, I thought back to the beginning of every relationship I’ve ever been in ~ the first few days and weeks of hazy make-believe, when you pretend to be everything you think the other person wants, sacrificing a bit of yourself before making all the less-than-desirable parts apparent. It’s almost a trick of those fabled Victorian girls on the hunt for a husband, when all is the illusion of perfection, the notion of compliance ~ the perfumed entrapment of an insect-enticing flower before the wilting of disenchantment. And it’s always slightly deceptive, both to the suitors, and to oneself.

Jesus Christ will you look at me
Don’t know who I’m supposed to be
Don’t really know if I should give a damn
When you’re around, I don’t know who I am…

Back in the spring of 2003, Andy and I were one year into our current home. Settled, but still new, it was a spring of happiness and hope. Madonna sang this lullaby, harmonizing sweetly into the nights, as Andy slid into the bed beside me and we slumbered until the morning. That was back when he came to bed at a decent hour, back when we fell asleep together, back before his back fell apart again. It seems so long ago.

I’m not myself when you go quiet
I’m not myself all alone at night
I’m not myself, don’t know who to call
I’m not myself at all…

Nine years later – has it been that long? – I go to sleep alone. He says good-night, and then goes off into his own time. Partly due to back pain, partly due to I dont know what else. If I awaken at two or three in the morning, I will roll over, reach for him, and find cold empty blankets. At first, and for a long time, I couldn’t get to sleep for hours without him. It’s like the parent who’s waiting for their college-age kid, home for the summer, to come in for the night. It’s different when they’re away, but if they’re there, you wait. It’s a subconscious anxiety that’s both less and more, and for me it often doubled up on itself, knotting the nights into worry and fret, inducing restlessness and fucking up any idea of a normal schedule.

Jesus Christ will you look at me
Don’t know who I’m supposed to be
Don’t really know if I should give a damn
When you’re around, I don’t know who I am…

Some nights I would try to wait up for him. If I didn’t have work the next day, I’d stay up for a bit, watching television, hoping he’d tire sooner rather than later, but after too long of this it wore me down, and I would succumb to exhaustion or sickness. I’ll still do that on weekends, trying to join in the game like a lonely puppy, trying to keep up with the adults even when I can’t.

I always wished that I could find someone as beautiful as you
But in the process I forgot that I was special too…

It is lonely sleeping alone. Even if he joins me later, I’m still the one who goes to sleep on my own every night. It would seem the anti-thesis of a marriage, of a relationship. It used to bother me more, and part of me wonders if it’s bad that itâ’s slowly starting not to. How far is it from not sleeping in the same room, or the same city? This is the conundrum of marriage – together always, forever apart.

I can make the most beautiful bedroom in the world – paint it in soothing colors, choose the linens and pillows for ample comfort, find the perfectly-tufted head-board, and put on the softest silk pajamas – but it is only for myself. I go to bed alone. Whether here or in Boston – always alone. And if I think about it, that’s the way it’s always been. Back and forth the mind wrestles, a push and pull of mental fatigue, and still the clock ticks ~ 2 AM, 3 AM, 4 AM… How long until madness?

I’m not myself when you’re around
I’m not myself when you go quiet
I’m not myself all alone at night
I’m not myself standing in a crowd
I’m not myself and I don’t know how
I’m not myself, myself right now
Don’t know what I believe…

And then I think back to when we first met, and the way I’d stop in late at night and find him sitting quietly on his couch, in the dim glow of a candle or two, meditating and grounding himself. In a way, maybe this is who he is – a night owl – and my “normal” hours are against his natural rhythm. Maybe he’s simply returning to who he was before he met me. Maybe I’ve been wrong all along.

Jesus Christ will you look at me
Don’t know who I’m supposed to be
Don’t really know if I should give a damn
When you’re around, I don’t know who I am
I always wished that I could find someone as beautiful as you
But in the process I forgot that I was special too

I wonder if other marriages have these doubts. I wonder if I’m a bad husband. I wonder if this is not a big deal at all. I wonder if I’m just the fool who talks about it. But that’s what this sort of song is for. It posits the question, it provokes the thought, it settles nothing. That’s what makes it good, that’s what makes it last. Like a marriage ~ bending, accommodating, giving ~ it yields, it goes back and forth, and it returns, if we’re lucky, to love, to ourselves, to the only people we know how to be. It is, at its best, an ecstatic process after all ~ one without an end or a definitive happily-ever-after, and all the more joyous because of it.

I always wished that I could find someone as talented as you
But in the process I forgot that I was just as good as you

Song #67: ‘X-Static Process’ – Spring 2003

Continue reading ...
06
April
2012
Tags: Brandeis
No comments

The Passing of a Poet ~ The Power of a Poem

Poet Adrienne Rich passed away last month. I only know a few of her poems, but one of them made a huge impact on my artistic view of the world. It was my junior year of college, second semester – right about this time of the year actually. I was enrolled in my first poetry course, and like so many other misinformed kids I thought it would be a breeze. Little did I know that poetry was one of the most difficult forms of writing to both execute and understand. The deceptively happy work of Emily Dickinson was revealed as a masked portal into the darkest psyche of a woman’s heart. The Rape of the Lock was seen as both frivolous and ruinous. And an ancient Grecian urn contained the key to an entire world of artistic understanding.

That poetry course illuminated the power of words, the intricacies of a single letter, the way a single comma or period could change everything that followed. It also showed me that I could and would never be a proper poet. There was too much going on, too much space for disaster, too many opportunities to fuck it up beyond all recognition. But I gained a greater appreciation for the art form, and for one poem in particular.

On a dismal early Spring day, not unlike the ones we’ve had this week, I made my way from the dorm to the small building that housed the poetry class. It was an early course, the way I liked it, and the campus was quiet. A few birds chirped in the misty upper-reaches of a barely-sprouting maple. Wet pavement and moss lined the short walk, echoes of a Grecian urn offering solace before the real warmth of Spring took hold, the solace of finding beauty in words.

Our professor, in his smoky, cigarette-stained voice, at once seductive and on the verge of ragged, read Adrienne Rich’s ‘The Ninth Symphony of Beethoven Understood At Last As a Sexual Message’:

A man in terror of impotence
or infertility, not knowing the difference
a man trying to tell something
howling from the climacteric
music of the entirely
isolated soul
yelling at Joy from the tunnel of the ego
music without the ghost
of another person in it, music
trying to tell something the man
does not want out, would keep if he could
gagged and bound and flogged with chords of Joy
where everything is silence and the
beating of a bloody fist upon
a splintered table

from Diving into the Wreck: Poems 1971-1972

Listening as he read, I had a visceral reaction to it. Having heard Beethoven’s ‘Ode to Joy’ symphony in church every Easter, having played it on the piano, and having a childhood idea of what it meant, I was not prepared for how the poem turned everything I thought I knew upside down. This wasn’t joy, this wasn’t celebration, this wasn’t happiness – this was rage, pent-up and released. This was a pounding, a thrashing, a violent explosion. This was fear and terror and a strident, desperate crashing of pain. Rich’s words rent me from the inside out, her voice channeling Beethoven, and anyone who had felt such fear in a secret, silent world.

It was a lesson in how art ~ true, everlasting art ~ survives and changes according to the time. Rich gave her own voice, and her own ears, to a man who couldn’t hear, who was no longer even alive, transforming his music into hers, reaching someone like me, who would have gone through life utterly unaware of any other sort of ‘Joy’ ~ assuming the superficial happiness otherwise attributed to Beethoven’s Ode, or even Emily Dickinson’s poems. It was my first experience with how one artist could reach out and respond to another, traversing time and space and boundaries, and connect in a way that culminated with another work of art.

As I neared my final year at Brandeis, it showed me how much I had yet to learn.
Continue reading ...