Monthly Archives:

August 2013

Silly or Soul-saving?

Disclaimer: I’ve never been a big Kelly Clarkson fan. Nothing personal, and I enjoyed a song or two, but she always seemed a little too aww-shucks-goody-two-shoes for me. Didn’t she also say ‘Cool beans!’ ad nauseum? But this song – it’s pretty cool. It reminds me of the pop songs of the 80’s – big melody, dramatic beat, melodramatic sentiment – and the magic that a pop song could conjure with a few select chords and the right message, aimed straight at the object of affection, or, in this case, lost affection.

Some pop songs can change the world – or at least my little world – in the way they help you get through something. They strike a chord that resonates on a deeper plane of shared pain, and shared understanding. There is solace, sometimes, in company, in someone that gets what you’re going through, someone who’s been there before. It’s not enough to express condolences – you need someone who knows where you’ve been, what it’s like to be so broken, what it’s like to miss someone so badly that you can’t catch your breath for fear of crying.

Part of me thinks songs like this are silly, disposable, trifling bits of ear candy, forgotten in a few months and left off any greatest hits album. But another part of me, the part that remembers what it’s like to let someone go – well, that part of me thinks a song like this could save someone’s soul. No matter how strong we think we are, a little disposable pop music therapy goes a long way to easing a rough day.

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Shamelessly Shirtless Ben Cohen Pose

There is already extensive Ben Cohen coverage (and uncoverage) throughout the archives on this site. Not much more to be said… other than to get shirtless, and get searching.

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Tom Ford’s Amber Spritz

How could I resist something that the nice young lady at the fragrance counter described as a roller-coaster? It was one of Tom Ford’s new Private Blends, from the Atelier d’Orient series that has held me rapt since its release last month. Initial reviews said the two to watch (err, sniff) were the ‘Plum Japonais’ and the ‘Rive d’Ambre’, so when the Rive was described as a roller-coaster, I strapped myself in and sprayed away. She said to give it twenty minutes, but I was sold after one.

Tom Ford’s Private Blends tend to vacillate between very heavy (Italian Cypress, Tuscan Leather, Amber Absolute) to very floral (Champaca Absolute, Black Orchid, Santal Blush, Neroli Portofino), and though they’re technically uni-sex, they usually fall distinctively into a traditionally masculine or feminine vibe. Rive d’Ambre comes somewhere between the two, a brilliant merging of the best of both worlds, and it is, at least currently, my favorite TF Private Blend. So much so that I bought a bottle myself when last in Boston (usually I wait until Christmas or a birthday and rely on the kindness of Andy or family to deliver). This time around I simply couldn’t wait, and took advantage of the tax-free weekend for a pre-birthday splurge.

It’s the perfect fragrance for the tricky transition from summer into fall. Light enough to lift the hot days in store, but heady enough to withstand the morning chill, Rive d’Ambre works on every level. Opening with a bright fruity splash shot through with notes of citrus and bergamot (two of my faves), it soon ripens into a rich amber hue, redolent of sunsets and early evening ablutions in preparation of a night out. There is just the slightest sense of smokiness to it, a trademark in some of Ford’s darker work, that balances out the lighter aspects. It’s not heavy enough to stick around forever, which is nice on the hotter days that September and October still afford.

Far more than a song or a taste, one of the strongest memory-triggers is said to be fragrance. It will be interesting to one day see what Rive d’Ambre recalls of this pocket of time ~ what adventures it brings to mind, what emotions it releases, what memories are being created at the moment I write this. It is, I think, a very special time.

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Verdi Cries

The man in 119 takes his tea all alone.
Mornings we all rise to wireless Verdi cries.
I’m hearing opera through the door.
The souls of men and women, impassioned all.
Their voices climb and fall; battle trumpets call.
I fill the bath and climb inside, singing…

A girl who loved me more than I could love her once made me a mix-tape with this song on it. Yes, I’m of the generation that made mix-tapes. I was reminded of this having just seen ‘The Perks of Being a Wallflower’ for the first time this week. It was gorgeously done, with a soundtrack to match. (No doubt some of them will inform future posts here.) For now, we have Ms. Merchant with her plaintive coo of ‘Verdi Cries’ – a song that brings me back to the end of my high school hijinks and early college mishaps.

He will not touch their pastry
but every day they bring him more.
Gold from the breakfast tray, I steal them all away
and then go and eat them on the shore.

It’s interesting the way a good song like this changes when you revisit it twenty years later. Back then I was mostly entranced by the sad piano melody, barely able to make out some of the lyrics, not caring enough to try to decipher the poetry contained within. Today, I’m slightly better to make sense of things, and to appreciate the stories of others. Growing up for me has been the arduous job of finding value in other people, of opening up to others, of risking pain and love and trusting that even the hurt will be enriching.

To see the seas and shores of someone else, to get a glimpse of how they see the world, and knowing that we each have our quirks, some loved, some lamented – it makes me ache in the best way. We remain so separate, even when connected, but once in a while we manage to break through, to touch one another and become something else, something more than two. Back in high school and college, I thought it was all about finding a perfect match, a person who would complete and fill in everything that I lacked, some wondrously complemental component keeping us together. So desperately did I want that, I gave my heart away, tossing it out like a message in a bottle, bobbing aimlessly in the sea, waiting for the nudge of waves, the terrible storms, the carelessly-passing ships.

I draw a jackal-headed woman in the sand,
sing of a lover’s fate sealed by jealous hate
then wash my hand in the sea.
With just three days more I’d have just about learned the entire score to Aida.

Sometimes I wonder if I did it all to see what I could still feel, whether my heart was still capable of such passion, such treacherous emotional heights and dips, and it’s both glorious and ruinous to find I can. At each end, for there were many ends, I thought the same thing: I will recover from this, but I will never be the same. I wish I’d hung onto some of them. No one can rend a soul like that and not mean anything. At least, I’d like to think so.

Holidays must end as you know.
All is memory taken home with me:
the opera, the stolen tea, the sand drawing, the verging sea, all years ago.
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This Blog Makes It So Hard

Someone recently asked where they could find a post I wrote a few days ago. Initially I told them to scroll down to the bottom of the page and enter some keywords into the ‘Search’ box and see if the post came up. Then I realized that for anyone coming back here after some time away (you know you all need it) it’s rather difficult to find things from just two or three days ago (given the fact that the blog gets updated three times a day and only the four most recent posts get displayed on the front page). So for those who are good enough to not want to miss out on a moment of the madness, there is a way to slowly scroll back, post by painful post, if you follow these difficult directions. (This is the hard part of the post title.)

If you’ve reached the last featured post, go to the bottom left of the post and click on the ‘Continue reading’ option. It will bring you to what looks like the same page you were on, but if you scroll down on this page you should see another option for ‘Older posts’. I’m not sure why there’s that middle-man moment, but I’m too lazy to try to figure it out or change it up. Besides, only a select few will really feel the need to go scrolling back like that, but every once in a while a new visitor will come along, and want to see a bit more. If that’s you, welcome aboard, and scroll away! (And please don’t be a stranger.)

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Mid-August Recap

We are sailing all-too-quickly through this month, and I want only to slow things down, to savor the moment, to be present for the light when it is this beautiful. Looking back can do that, somewhat. It can stall, or at least prolong, if only in our heads, what has just come before. While it’s never safe to look back too often, once in a while I’ll indulge, as we do on Monday mornings, especially after weekends you wish didn’t have to come to an end. It’s a coping mechanism. So let’s cope, together.

Much of last week was spent in Boston, where beauty reigned, gardens glowed, and we said good-bye… for now.

Last week proved slim pickings on the Hunk of the Day front, but to male models maintained the sizzle factor of this site, so many thanks to Allen Clippinger and Elijah Johnston for taking their shirts off and keeping things hot.

We battled the groundhog, with no clear-cut winner (only clear-cut sweet potato vines).

August is proving a good month for birthdays, as evidenced by Madonna, and myself.

There is nothing better than a poem to ward off insomnia or heal heartache.

My soon-to-be-no-longer-under-the-radar-project had its latest unheralded installment.

And, finally, if you’ve never been slapped by a brownie, you need to be.

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BOS Departure

By the time you read this, another weekend in Boston will be coming to its close. Since I’m writing this in anticipation of that, who can say what turns the time will take? At the moment of this writing, all is hope and possibility, perched precariously on the winds of chance, and fate. The best weekends are like that – without plan or agenda or expectation – and Boston has never let me down. Especially Boston at night.

 

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Shopping at Neiman Marcus

Make all the ‘Needless Mark-up’ jokes you want – if it costs a little extra to get impeccable customer service, I’d rather drop it at Neiman Marcus than anywhere else. Though I’ve occasionally gotten the wary eye when I haven’t been decked out, it’s nowhere near the bitchy third-degree I get at the Barneys at Copley Place. The fragrance reps at Neiman Marcus are also the best in the business, particularly when it comes to representing Tom Ford. When I wanted to sample his new Private Blends, I wrote to the fragrance counter and soon received several vials of the intoxicating elixirs, with personal hand-written notes recommending favorites. That’s the sort of customer service you don’t often see today.

I know I tend to complain about poor service and shoddy customer treatment (hello Starbucks), and the truth is we really only hear about the bad experiences instead of the good, so I’m making an effort to balance things out. To that end, this is a little shout-out to those folks who make shopping a joyful experience, to those who go out of their way to personally respond to queries, and to those who make the effort to be friendly. Having worked in retail for a few years, I understand that it’s not always easy when the customer is always right (especially when they’re dead-wrong), so for those who still put on a smile and help out the hapless public, I offer this small bit of gratitude. When shopping is a favorite past-time, it makes all the difference.

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Sunday Poem

The best part of a book of poems is the fact that you can pick up and leave off at any time. Unlike prose, which I tend to like to devour at long, deliberate stretches, a poetry collection can be opened and read in bits and pieces, from a few lines to a few poems. It’s especially nice at night, when you may only need a few pages to lull you into sleep, or on a Sunday morning, when you want a bit of beauty to open the day. This is another of Mary Oliver’s gems, from her 1986 collection ‘Dream Work’. It spoke to me for some reason.

The Journey

One day you finally knew

what you had to do, and began,

thouh the voices around you

kept shouting

their bad advice –

though the whole house

began to tremble

and you felt the old tug

at your ankles.

“Mend my life!”

each voice cried.

But you didn’t stop.

You knew what you had to do,

though the wind pried

with its stiff fingers

at the very foundations –

though their melancholy

was terrible.

It was already late

enough, and a wild night,

and the road full of fallen

branches and stones.

But little by little,

as you left their voices behind,

the stars began to burn

through the sheets of clouds,

and there was a new voice,

which you slowly

recognized as your own,

that kept you company

as you strode deeper and deeper

into the world,

determined to do

the only thing you could do –

determined to save

the only life you could save.

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Night View from the Garden

Boston, as seen from the Public Garden, at midnight.

 

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From ‘Love in a Cold Climate’

I thought how lucky I was to be enjoying such a beautiful moment with so exactly the right person and that this was something I should remember all my life. ~ Nancy Mitford

It is always interesting, and usually irritating, to hear what people have to say about somebody whom they do not know but we do. ~  Nancy Mitford

The success or failure of all human relationships lies in the atmosphere each person is aware of creating for the other. ~  Nancy Mitford

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Birthday Prep

You have exactly one week before my birthday arrives. Hopefully you’ve already picked out your gifts. (And remember, the Tom Ford Rive d’Ambre has already been procured, and I’ve excised the two Hermes selections from the list as they were not quite what I expected. In fact, there’s only one Tom Ford scent I want (and I want it really badly): Plum Japonais. As for birthday plans, I finally have one. Initially, I wanted to fly West – it’s been a few years since I’ve been to San Francisco, so that was my first choice. I also considered San Diego and Seattle, since I haven’t been to either since the 90’s. In the end, though, costs proved prohibitive. And since we did the Boston/Provincetown trip for last year’s birthday, I’m keeping it simple and close to home. Not every year can be a banner year, and quiet birthdays are sometimes more sweet. Especially when Tom Ford is involved.

As for the actual plans, I’m thinking of heading to a garden, an outlet, and a dinner – and I’ll have the details and photos after it’s done. In the meantime, have a look back at last year’s birthday fun in Boston and Provincetown.

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Sing Me To Sleep, Your Sweet Poetry

A friend turned me onto Mary Oliver’s poetry a while back, and since that time I’ve been obsessed – devouring her every word, salivating over every turn of phrase, and eating up her works in the frenzy of obsession that accompanies the discovery of a great artist. Ms. Oliver has a wonderful way of placing the human experience within the natural world, heightening it but keeping it a small part of the universe. Her take on the world is calming, her words are healing, and her passion for life – for living and loving and embracing each moment we have – is an inspiration. I need to be reminded of that. A lot of us do.

I’ve been taking her to bed with me to ease a recent bout with insomnia, and she never fails to elicit a sigh or a thrill or the simple recognition of a soul who has also tasted sometimes too much, but with absolutely no regrets. She makes me want to be present, to be kinder, to be better. More importantly, she makes me want to love more, no matter what. Some of us tend to hold that back because it can hurt. Yes, love can hurt. But I’d rather be ripped apart by love than safely unaware of it. I would do all of this again, over and over, to have known what I know.

When Death Comes

By Mary Oliver

When death comes

like the hungry bear in autumn;

when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse

 

to buy me, and snaps the purse shut;

when death comes

like the measle-pox;

 

when death comes

like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,

 

I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering:

what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?

 

And therefore I look upon everything

as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,

and I look upon time as no more than an idea,

and I consider eternity as another possibility,

 

and I think of each life as a flower, as common

as a field daisy, and as singular,

 

and each name a comfortable music in the mouth,

tending, as all music does, toward silence,

 

and each body a lion of courage, and something

precious to the earth.

 

When it’s over, I want to say: all my life

I was a bride married to amazement.

I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.

 

When it’s over, I don’t want to wonder

if I have made of my life something particular, and real.

I don’t want to find myself sighing and frightened,

or full of argument.

 

I don’t want to end up simply having visited this world.

 

From ‘New and Selected Poems: Volume One’

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The Birth of a Queen

It’s Madonna’s birthday, so I have to send some Happy Birthday wishes her way (even if she’ll never get them). She picked a good month in which to be born; August babies are special, as she has shown time and time again. While most of my strongest Madonna Timelines tend to deal with the darker, sadder memories, as this is a happy occasion I’m going to keep it light, focusing on some of the sillier, funny entries in that series. After all, it began with a simple call to ‘Dance and sing, get up and do your thing’, and until the end that will be one of the main things she’s brought to my life: unabashed joy, happy revelry, and a glorious bit of infectious escapism that makes every day feel like it’s your birthday.

Cherish – This 1989 track is redolent of the crux of August and September, that bit of late summer sun and sorrow that heralds the start of school and the end of vacation, but when love is in the air, and the sounds are this sweet, it looks like things will turn out all right in the end.

Love Makes the World Go Round – The stuff of bedroom dance routines and Saturday nights spent in front of the television. A child of the 80’s, I watched ‘The Facts of Life’ and dreamed of having a friendship like the one between Blair and Jo. (You don’t need to guess who’d be Blair.)

Ray of Light – At the very start of summer, I was flying through Copley Square, backed by a zephyr, propelled by a song, and screaming like a teenage girl.

True Blue – The happy heart of the matter will always come down to friendship – the kind that lasts longer than a summer, the kind that’s true.

Celebration – A party song that goes a little deeper, because sometimes the summer nights are the darkest.

Where’s the Party – A party song that doesn’t go deeper, because sometimes you have to make the party last all night.

Music – For those times when you just wanna dance with your baby.

Give Me All Your Luvin’ – L.U.V. Madonna – and Happy Birthday!!!

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