September 2013
Some days, and especially some nights, I don’t feel like writing a new blog post.
Some nights, at the very start of fall for instance, I’m just too tired,
saddled with thoughts of everything that is to come.
Another fall, another winter.
A dismal prospect.
And so I go away, keep quietly to myself, unbeknownst to you, and try to find the stillness again.
This week, September comes to its glorious close, and it seems to be going out in a beautiful blaze. For all of our complaining and whining about the end of summer, the start of fall offers more than compensatory beauty as a balm for what will inevitably come.
One of my favorite cocktails for fall is the negroni (which I prefer straight-up).
Nothing beats a cozy fall night in Boston with a dear friend, unless it’s a cozy fall night in Boston with a book (and no clothes). (And speaking of no clothes…)
Keeping things hot as we slide into cooler weather were the ongoing collection of Hunks of the Day. Shirtlessly strutting their stuff were the chiseled physical forms of Filipino television star Piolo Pascual, American television star Julian Morris, super-plucked footballer Cristiano Ronaldo, and the bouncing buttocks of Jude Law.
A kitchen renovation is in the preliminary planning stages, and though I’ve already made a number of major compromises (big ones, too), I predict a stressful few months ahead. Thank God none of my favorite cocktails require running water.
Sometimes even the most fashionable among us need a little reassurance.
No matter how far you run, or how hard you try, you cannot escape your childhood. Be ready for the journey.
Finally, the new season of the Cohoes Music Hall just opened with this stellar production of ‘Les Miserables’, so be sure to check it out before it ends its run on October 13.
We started this Sunday off with a lively jazz rendition of ‘Autumn Leaves’, and we shall close it with this slow-burn wind-down of the amazing Lizz Wright and her rendition of ‘When I Fall’. After all, it is, well, fall – and this is the perfect song for ending a simple, quiet weekend at home. A final few moments of relaxation, and letting go. I need to learn to do that better.
I invite you to pull up a chair, or lean back on the couch, play this music, and unwind with me. There is solace in company, especially when a song like this is playing. (Or one like this.)
Until I met Andy, I had a habit of falling in love in the fall. Somehow, without fail, that’s when it usually happened. It was as if after a summer of building myself up, I let my guard down for a moment, and by October the deed was done, and the die had been cast. Often, these feelings were not returned, and had they been I honestly don’t know what I would have done. For the time, it was enough just to have the chase, the longing, the need ~ and without a result I just ended up trying harder.
If you don’t know that yearning, consider yourself lucky. It’s not something that has ever come to good, save a few phrases I wrote that still touch my heart but will not be repeated here. See, if you love and love and get nothing in return, there is something that dies in you. You can’t help but lose a bit of yourself. Some think it noble, some think it madness, some think nothing of it at all (those are the ones that hurt the most) – but I wouldn’t take any of it back, nor do any of it differently. I would fall time and time again, willingly, happily, honestly, and not regret one of those times. Even the painful ones. Especially the painful ones.
The water may be cold, but it’s proof that you’re alive. That you are here. That you still feel something.
Don’t be afraid to fall.
A little bit of ‘Autumn Leaves’ for your Sunday brunch background by the Bill Evans Trio. Fall is here, and will be for a while. Best to settle in and enjoy it, reconcile ourselves to the season, and to not looking back. The summer will be ahead of us again, but at the moment it’s the last Sunday in September, and soon it will be October, rushing in on the night wind, no other way around it.
The sun in September is sometimes the prettiest the sun ever gets to be. The brilliance of the sky backs it up, and the leaves mirror its glory. It will not go down without a fight – a gorgeous, flaming, beautiful fight. But for now, put down the September sword. Set your tea upon this coaster. Take up your New York Times, being careful of the ink. Listen to the music, and watch for the falling leaves. The morning is young, and the show has just begun…
The movie version of ‘Into the Woods’ is currently being filmed, and while I was reserving excitement until closer to its planned release of December 2014, the teaser photo of Meryl Streep as the Witch was just too good to ignore. ‘Into the Woods’ is one of the first musicals that had a significant impact on my life. At the time I saw it – somewhere around 1988 at Proctor’s – I was just a kid, but on the verge of being a teenager. The music of Stephen Sondheim and the fairy-tale mash-up was what first captured my attention, but only upon repeated listening did I realize, over the years, how much deeply it struck a chord. Like much of Sondheim’s work, this goes deeper than a few bright melodies (arguably his happiest-sounding score), becoming a complex, and sometimes troubling, psychological take on family, romance, and that ever-encroaching threat of ‘giants in the sky’.
When I first saw the show, I was too young to realize how much loss was in it. Fortunately innocent of much of that, I didn’t see how terrible the loss of innocence, the loss of love, and the loss of parental protection could be – not just to children but to adults. As the years past, I grew to know such loss. The musical was turning darker, richer, and more frightening. When we came out of the show that first time, I remember excitedly asking my Mom if she liked it as much as I did. She seemed slightly reticent, hesitant to say much. I understand that reticence now. Was it guilt then, or simple resigned exhaustion at how fucked-up things might be?
Childhood can be such a muck of a fairy tale, and even when you get older it only gets muckier. Families don’t always grow up. Relationships don’t always get better. Children don’t always learn from their mistakes. Parents don’t either. And the truth can be… a terrible thing.
I was sitting at Stagecoach Coffee eating a macaroon and wearing purple pants but feeling decidedly less than fabulous, when she walked into the place, looked me up and down and said simply: “You’re fantastic. You’re just fantastic.â€
I crinkled my brow in amused wonderment, and asked why.
“The pants. The shoes. The whole outfit.â€
I didn’t have the power to muster anything beyond a smile and a heartfelt, ‘Thank you.’ But I’d like to say a little more to her here:
You couldn’t know how such a simple statement would move me so much, but I wanted to express that you were a bright spot in my otherwise-drab day. You couldn’t have known that when I walked into work that morning, I passed two people smoking outside the building, and as I strode by in my purple pants and orange coat I heard one of them whisper, under her breath, “Oh boy.†It wasn’t a good “Oh boyâ€, it was an “Oh God, what on earth is that?†kind of comment. I almost – almost – stopped to address the two of them, but I didn’t. At this point in my life I’m not unaccustomed to whispering, but some days I’m not up for it. Some days I’m too tired to stage a come-back.
And then you walked in and said what you said. Unprompted, out-of-the-blue, and to a complete stranger. You almost made me cry – it had been that bad of a day – and you turned it around for that moment. It was probably just another flippant compliment that you didn’t even think much about, but it meant the world to me. Not that you were impressed by my clothing, but that you so openly gave that little gift, as I imagine you give to others without a second thought.
Thank you for doing that.
Everybody wants to blame the goldenrod for their allergies this season. That’s because it’s the most visible supposed-offender, heralding its presence with those bright yellow blooms, crying out every time the sun reflects its golden light. But it’s not the goldenrod that’s making you sneeze, it’s most likely ragweed. Dispersing its sneeze-inducing pollen at the same time, only more unnoticeably, it gets away with the mischief and lets the goldenrod take the blame. The ragweed pollen flies on the slightest breeze – not so with the goldenrod. Yet it’s always the flashy ones that get the blame. I know what that’s like, and it’s never fair.
Being heralded as the world’s most popular musical comes with a certain cost. ‘Les Miserables’ – like ‘Phantom of the Opera’ and ‘Cats’ – has proven its worth worldwide since it first opened almost three decades ago, and also became a film that got a number of Oscar nods last year. As one of the British blockbusters of the 80’s, it was saddled with the reputation of the others as featuring spectacle and production cost over lasting substance. In the ensuing years, the musical proved the ‘lasting’ part, but the hum-drum lyrics and sometimes convoluted story-line never quite pushed it into the critically-lauded category. Those shortcomings, however, haven’t been able to touch the moving melodies of the music – and I’ve always contended that this is the real secret to the enduring appeal of the musical. That music remains intact here, taking pride of place in the production currently staging its glorious coup at the Cohoes Music Hall.
By this point in its decade-plus tenure, the Cohoes Music Hall has nothing left to prove. They have done old-fashioned traditional musicals to perfection (‘Hello Dolly!‘, ‘The Pirates of Penzance‘ and ‘Cabaret‘ ) and brought renewed vigor to the newer (now older) hits like ‘Cats‘ and ‘Sunset Boulevard‘. ‘Les Miserables’, with its voluminous cast and thundering ensemble numbers might have proved a formidable challenge, but under the direction of Jim Charles, cast and crew rise to the occasion.
Without a fifty-piece orchestra, or even amplification for that matter, the players here produce such powerful effect that it seems sometimes as if they are multiplying – so rich and full are the voices, so expansive the instrumentation. The musical direction of Charlotte Evans, and the addition of a few extra members in the orchestra pit, make such epic grandeur possible. Ms. Evans is the unsung star of this show, deftly keeping a steady pace of non-stop music, eliciting bombast when necessary and quieter jewels that still sparkle.
As for the cast, Austin Riley Green is an adequate Jean Valjean, but it’s his adversary Javert, as played by Jim Charles (doing double duty as leading player and director), who provided the stoic, yet emotional, heft of the show. This was my first time seeing Mr. Charles in a lead role at the theater (how is that even possible?) and he was a highlight of this production. As the noble-but-villain-by-default Javert, he’s saddled with the difficult role of being the unyielding, yet ultimately self-defeating, bearer of strict justice. Not once does he sway from his course, even in the face of convincing moral ambiguity, and the usually gregarious Mr. Charles never breaks stride in this convincingly powerful turn.
As I said, the power of this show lies within its music. All of its greatest and most well-known songs are represented well here, including ‘I Dreamed A Dream’ and ‘On My Own’, but it’s the ensemble pieces that rouse the most – from the inspiring ‘Do You Hear the People Sing’ to the ‘One Day More’ Act I closing montage that ties all the characters and their musical motifs together into one amazing production number.
A musical about the bloody French Revolution will always sound odd on paper, but when set to music like this – and put on with the professional panache of the players here – it works like magic.
‘Les Miserables’ runs at the Cohoes Music Hall through October 13, 2013.Â
For one of the first times ever, I was not extremely excited or wetting my pants over a new Madonna project. In fact, even after its premiere and the bootleg version showed up online, I was still underwhelmed. But like all Madonna projects, this one was more complex than originally assumed, more moving, more outrageous, and more intense. As a lifelong Madonna fan, it’s expected that I defend her, that I love every move she makes – but that’s never been the case. I will criticize her when warranted (I will never like those grillz!) but I’ll also give her a chance, which much of the world doesn’t seem capable of doing. While her new project, a 17-minute film she made with Steven Klein in the name of freedom of artistic expression, is putting her in the spotlight again, I still wasn’t completely impressed – though I was intrigued, and on repeat viewings it stands up much better than expected.
The best thing about Madonna is that she makes it all about herself while still being relatable to millions. We want our stars to be relatable, but we also want them to be stars – and no one does that tricky pose better than Madonna. The above clip is an addendum to her project, but I find it more powerful and impressive than the actual project itself – always a telling sign of the sheer star power that is Madonna. Oh, and check her out with first husband Sean Penn – almost three decades after they met. Yup, even he showed up at her premiere. That’s how it goes.
The first step of our kitchen renovation begins in earnest this weekend, as we meet with our designer to settle on a final layout, and decide on which contractor’s bid to accept. Our estimated completion time for this project is sometime in January, with the real work starting in November/December, just in time for the holiday season! As such, our holiday party will be a little different this year. Picture hard hats and construction tape. But it will (hopefully) be worth it. If for nothing else, for some great blog fodder, because you know it’s going to be disastrous at times. I’ve already toyed with the idea of taking a leave of absence and high-tailing it to Boston for the weeks of construction, but that would never be approved, so my co-workers are on high-alert that my normally-bitchy bearing will reach levels of unbearableness. Such is the price of a new kitchen.
As for how I’m going to get through a full kitchen reno with my new passion for cooking in full swing, I haven’t quite figured out yet. As I said, I anticipate being out of town for every weekend this takes place, if not staying at my parents full-time. Andy is welcome to come along, but he won’t, and I don’t want to hear any complaints. All I want is a granite peninsula and all will be right with the world. How we get to that point… well, fasten your seatbelts – it’s going to be a bumpy night.
Oh, no, not that way. I meant in the front window, and in the back window. You thought something else. You haven’t been coming here long, have you?
Every night my bed becomes something else. Sometimes it is a rocket, sometimes it is a plane, sometimes it is a hotel in London, and sometimes it is a desert in the Middle East. Lately, my bed has been a boat, sailing along the coast of British Columbia, skirting bears and whales and foraging food from the sea. I drift along, sometimes peacefully, sometimes violently, as storms and sun vie for coverage, all from the safety of this little ocean of cotton, bordered by banks of pillows and a cliff of cushioned-head-board.
I am reading ‘The Curve of Time’ by M. Wylie Blanchet, having the sort of mentally-immersive experience that only the written word can provide – something richer than what is found on the internet, something more tangible than reading off a computer screen – I can’t explain it, but a real book, held in my hands and contained in its entirety, somehow means more. Maybe it’s my secretly-Thoreau-like aversion to technology, or the cranky old man in me finally coming into his own, but I’ll always prefer a book to a Nook, paper to tablet, ink to pixels. It reminds me of the comfort of reading a book in bed.
In lonely falls and winters, I dive down beneath the sheets and blankets, until just my head and hands are left in the open air, and hold a book close to my face, reading the words, grateful for the escape. Reading has always been that sort of savior for me. In the darkest times, and at my most worried, I could slip into bed at the end of the day, and go somewhere – anywhere – else. If I fretted about wasting time, of not making the most out of every minute, I would stop and read. Reading was never a waste, and I always got something out of it. It calmed me. It stilled the raging rest of my life. Like a soft bed, it quietly and steadfastly worked its magic, chipping away at the worries of a day until the mind was occupied with a wondrous tale of far-off lands and adventures.
To this day, nothing can relax me like a bout of reading before going to sleep. If I’m fortunate enough to be home in the morning, there is nothing more enjoyable than staking out a comfy spot on the couch in which I can luxuriate in the waves of words, letting them wash over the wreckage strewn along the beach of my heart, raking away trouble and consternation, like the cleansing kiss of high tide.
When fall arrives, and the nights turn chilly, I don’t mind staying at the condo in Boston and cooking for a friend or two. This past weekend I had Kira over, and we had a tamarind fish curry dish (my new obsession), with steamed rice, and sautéed spinach in a black garlic bean sauce. We lit a few candles, opened a bottle of Riesling, and had more fun than had we gone out and spent the better part of a Franklin.
Time with Kira is always relaxing (you can tell – she’s the one who took the first photo here: one of the more unguarded photos taken of me in a moment of sheer giddiness). We talked of the past, of the future, of fun things and serious issues, and lots and lots of silly nonsense – the stuff that friends talk about that means nothing and everything at once.
This is one of my favorite cocktails, and it’s a classic stand-by that goes well with the new season. There’s no real reason for the negroni to be considered a fall cocktail, other than my own personal memories of the drink, a trio of times that started in the fall and ended before spring. The first was simply a fall afternoon in a New York hotel bar, high above the annoyance of Times Square, waiting for Suzie to arrive. The sun came in through the blinds and it must have been October or early November. In that pocket of time, sipping the first cocktail of the evening, I loved being in New York. The distinctive edge of Campari sharpened the appetite, while the gin and sweet vermouth grounded it with shades of a sweeter martini. We were headed to a burger joint prior to a Madonna concert – the usual routine.
The second time I distinctly recall sipping a negroni was around the holidays at the now-shuttered Brown Derby in downtown Albany. An Anthony Perkins film was on the television in the background. Shadows of California palm trees, echoed by the palms in the entryway, made an incongruous backdrop for my holiday cocktail, garnished with a proper orange twist. Citrus has always reminded me of Christmas – maybe because of the crates of oranges or grapefruits that we used to get in the mail, or a home-made clove-studded orange ornament that shrank as it hung on the Christmas tree. The orange twist is an integral part of the negroni, supplying the essential refreshing scent – and so much of eating and drinking depends on smell.
The third memory was of a homemade version I poured for myself in January, while visiting my brother at my parents’ home. The cold blue evening, and the expansive blanket of snow leading behind the house, framed the table on which the cocktail stood. Bathed in the amber light from an old brass-bottomed lamp, it glowed warmly in flaming hues of red and orange. I sat there, in the living room, trying to recall how exactly fall turned into winter, when the decaying leaves floated away, why the spring took so long to come.
1 part gin
1 part Campari
1 part Sweet vermouth
Â
Garnish with an orange twist (not negotiable)
Sometimes there is more excitement to be found in what is not seen.
And oh, if you could have only seen what you cannot see…
