November 2013
Art in Washington, DC is not confined to the National Art Gallery. In fact, in most places that’s the case. One just has to be aware and open to the surroundings. A subway station. An electrical box. A garbage can. An underpass. An alley. All can become little make-shift galleries, thanks to law-bending artistic citizens.
Last year, at around this time, Kira and I made our second holiday stroll, whereby we dedicate a day to a leisurely walk through a holiday-bedecked Boston without any definite plan or holiday shopping to-do list. We might take a peek into the antique-laden rooms of Charles Street, buy wool gloves from a Tibetan store to keep out the cold, or take in a lunch of dim sum in Chinatown. We might stop at Jacques for a drink with a drag queen or warm ourselves by the fireside of Cuffs. We may parade past the towering tree at Faneuil Hall and then its smaller sister at Copley Place, then find our way back to the condo for a candle-lit night-cap.
There is no rhyme or reason to the path we take, or the stops we make. We travel by wish and whim (which leads us to transitory treats, like the pop-up market we found last year at Downtown Crossing), guided by the shifting light of the day, or forced indoors by an unyielding wind.
This weekend tentatively marks our third year of carrying on this tradition. Beginning at The Liberty hotel, I’m not sure where the day and night will take us – I only know that it will be filled with the warmth of a dear friend, the good sentiment of the season, and the luxury of being in my favorite city at this most wonderful time of the year.
 Next week marks the official start to our long-awaited kitchen renovation. I think it deserves its own category, but for now we’ll lump it into the Home Design section. (At least until I can bring myself to create a ‘Disaster’ category.) Trust me, I’m just as frightened of this whole situation as you are – probably more-so, but the end result will hopefully justify a few weeks (months?) of inconvenience. (Please God let it be so.)
In anticipatory preparation, I’ve set in place a few escape plans should this prove to be too much stress, too much disruption, or too much dust. As Andy seems unconcerned by things (with a blind faith that it will be done on time and on budget, despite my admonitions and pleas for a buffer zone on both accounts), I’ve not included him on these, though he’s always welcome join.
Option #1: Boston. And this is really where I intend to be on weekends and days off, as much as possible. When we lost heat for three days a few winters ago, after a tree came through our roof, I high-tailed it to the condo and had heat and hot water and a warm respite. This construction will prove no different.
Option #2: Amsterdam. Despite the encroachment of the twins, and my brother’s increasing destruction of my bathroom, I’ll still lay claim to my childhood bedroom (even if I won’t be living there full-time like him). It would also be nice to be home again at holiday time.
Option #3: Your place. Yes, that’s right, you. And you know who I’m talking to. If you’ve been to my home for the weekend you owe me. Payback’s a bitch. And so is your new guest. Roll out the red carpet, stock the bar, and pray for it to be quick.
A lot of complaining goes on here. A bit of whining. Some negative commenting, some cutting quips, some hateful attitude. Hey, it’s my blog and I’ll bitch if I want to. But some days should be free from such nonsense, and today is one of those days. I shall refrain from bitching about the Crocs and the Uggs and the Vera Bradley and focus on all those things for which I am thankful.
First and foremost is my family ~ Andy, Mom, Dad, Paul, and Emi & Noah. Without them, I’d be lost, and any sense of loyalty, goodness, and honor I owe in large part to my parents and how I was raised.
Second, but just as important, are my lifelong friends – the ones who have been around for most of my adult life (and some even longer) ~ Suzie, Chris, JoAnn, Missy & Kira. They had taught me to be to be kind, and sensitive, and aware that not everyone is as lucky as me.
Third, yes – I am thankful for my Tom Ford Private Blend collection. Sue me.
You want to cry aloud for your
mistakes. But to tell the truth the world
doesn’t need any more of that sound.
So if you’re going to do it and can’t
stop yourself, if your pretty mouth can’t
hold it in, at least go by yourself across
the forty fields and the forty dark inclines
of rocks and water to the place where
the falls are flinging out their white sheets
like crazy, and there is a cave behind all that
jubilation and water-fun and you can
stand there, under it, and roar all you
want and nothing will be disturbed; you can
drip with despair all afternoon and still,
on a green branch, its wings just lightly touched
by the passing foil of the water, the thrush,
puffing out its spotted breast, will sing
of the perfect, stone-hard beauty of everything.
~ Mary Oliver
[Sigh.]
Is there anything this man sells that I don’t want to buy? I’d put a down payment of my life’s savings on a burning building if he asked. Luckily, no such product exists at the moment, so I can safely make-do with his new line of men’s grooming products. As high-maintenance as some might think me to be, the truth is I’m rather easy in the shower. Shampoo, soap, and a little Neutrogena for my face and I’m good to go. No elaborate moisturizer routine, no special facial mask, no delicate eye serum – the only indulgence (and, granted, it’s a big one) is fragrance. But now Mr. Ford is releasing his line of skin care products for men and suddenly it’s all I can think about.
Truth be told, unless Santa works his magic and works it quickly, I’m probably not going to get anything featured here, particularly if the price points are aligned with those of his fragrances. But I’ll definitely be browsing. Perusing. Contemplating. And imagining a better world than Dove soap.
It’s not a real book but it should be.
(I especially like her previous work.)
Hello winter weather, and thar she blows! The wind was whipping up something fierce last night, and… hold up, why am I talking like someone on ‘Hee Haw’? It must be the onslaught of holiday insanity, arriving just in time. This is the week of Thanksgiving – there’s no pretending we’re not in the season anymore, so rather than fight it, I’m embracing it, as I always try to do (and often fail). It’s a different sort of year, given that our kitchen will be (literally) tore up from the floor up starting next week (that’s right – next week – and I’m just as interested in you as to how the kitchen will be emptied by that time). On with the recap!
Warning: Graphic images!
Some fierce fun with Kira, with whom I could let my hair down (no word on whether my pants followed suit).
Update: my pants came down.
Washington loved this coat.
Henry Cavill worked it all out. Shirtlessly, of course.
Steve Grand worked it shirtlessly too.
Chord Overstreet… yup, shirtless.
Give it up for a naked Liev Schreiber too.
I covered back up with the most important outfit of the year. And here’s a better view.
There’s something about a red room.
For all those who have wanted to make me cry, here’s the no-longer-secret way.
But there’s always a thing or two of beauty to act as balm for the soul.
Finally, my favorite holiday tradition is intact, and Andy and I saw this on the big screen in Saratoga for the first time ever, followed by a frigid and wind-whipped stroll on Broadway after the show.
It must have been 1996 or 1997 – and Suzie was at the Braddock Park condo in Boston for a holiday party. The walls then were an unabashed bordello red. A fringed lamp glowed low in a corner. Leopard-print curtains were held in place by floating gold cherubs, and a panel of purple velvet separated the red living room from the green kitchen. Over-sized Christmas ornaments hung from the ceiling, and colorful Christmas lights twinkled in the window. The atmosphere was cozy and quaint, even if it was the day after the party. I’d cleaned up the sticky floor earlier in the day – always the first task after a party, and things were finally getting back in shape. I opened up the early gift that Suzie left me – a VHS cassette of ‘Auntie Mame’ – and collapsed on the couch. The opening Technicolor glory and swelling orchestra music took me to another world.
I watched rapt – transfixed by the magic of Rosalind Russell and this over-the-top force-of-nature known as Auntie Mame – and the message of living life to the fullest, feeling not just okay with being different but embracing it, hit my heart in a way that would resonate forever after. Leave it to Suzie to find another movie that changed my life (after the darker foot-steps of ‘Harold & Maude’).
From that point on, ‘Auntie Mame’ was the movie I played before each and every holiday party, to calm the nerves and put me – and whomever else happened to be around – in a festive spirit. Mame’s exuberance and love of life was infectious – it was impossible not to be swept up in her enthusiasm. She was knocked around a bit (going broke, losing a husband) but she always buoyed back to the surface, spirits somehow held high by a supporting cast of off-beat characters that she considered family – because she had to: she only had her nephew.
Can we take a moment to pay homage to the fashion too? Auntie Mame is a thorough-bred clothes-horse. The hats/fascinators alone are a wonder to behold. The garments that go with them are just as head-turning. Even her robe – an extravagant ostrich-feather-lined (lined, not bordered – LINED!) defines luxurious lounge-wear. Velvets, silk taffeta, and crystal beading combine for one eye-popping outfit after another. With her ever-changing hairstyles and colors, she was one of the original chameleons, morphing from one look to another as her living room transformed with her current obsession. Such shape-shifting was an inspiration, but the core of who she was – a champion for the outsider – remained intact. That’s my idea of a role model.
Loosely inspired by Cate Blanchett’s 2011 Oscar dress and the Lucky Charms leprechaun, this year’s outfit for the AIDS Council’s Beaujolais Nouveau Wine Celebration was all about the green. After thinking over previous ensembles, I realized that many were heavy on black or red, with little to no green – so I went lime-balls-to-the-wall and came up with this grassy pom-pom encrusted concoction. It came together at the last minute, but it’s one of my favorites. While I thought of sticking to Tom Ford and his Private Blends with a few spritzes of ‘Azure Lime’, I decided to try something by Jo Malone instead, and the fragrance of the evening ended up being the Lime, Basil & Mandarin cologne. It worked well with the outfit – and the hat. Because it all comes down to the hat.
As for next year’s outfit, I’m already on it. Planning ahead is what a Virgo does best.
As a former Art Gallery Manager, and a sometimes-artist in some ways, it’s practically heretical that I hadn’t been to the National Art Gallery until last weekend, but such was the state of affairs when there were always more pressing matters like cocktails at The Jefferson. In truth, I’ve been to the Portrait Gallery, but that’s it. This time around I only managed a quick walk-through of the West Building of the National Art Gallery, but it was more than enough to soothe the soul, as beauty always does.
The common spaces and in-between places are just as beautiful as the art upon the walls – and sometimes more-so, as they immerse you completely in the experience, rather than forcing you to peer into a single-windowed world.
Whenever I find myself at odds with the universe, a glimpse of something beautiful realigns everything.
Yes, Chord Overstreet has been featured as a Hunk of the Day prior to this, but his lips have demanded another go-round with these photos. It’s been years since I looked at ‘Glee’ (have they graduated from high school yet or what?) so I’m not even sure if Mr. Overstreet still sings in the hallway and locker room. No matter – sometimes, as these pictures seem to support, it’s better to be seen and not heard.
It’s not necessarily the way it should be, but any visit to a different city is shaded indelibly by the hotel in which you are staying. Luckily for me, a recent stop in Washington, DC was shaded deliciously by the vibrant red of the Hotel Rouge. From the metal-studded leather entry doors to the sparkling red tile of the lobby, there’s nothing subtle about the Hotel Rouge, and it’s better that way. I needed every bit of funky style to offset the fact that I was in town for a baby shower.
Thanks to an early flight, I arrive a few hours before the listed check-in time, but the friendly and super-accommodating front desk finds a room already available. They also offer some helpful suggestions on where to find a bite to eat. When you fly in from another state, it’s always nice when a hotel has a room open. It’s even better when the service is genuinely gracious, and from beginning to end (as in most Kimpton properties) it’s the service that really puts the stay over-the-top.
Like the fabulous Lola says in ‘Kinky Boots’, “Red is the color of sex and fear and danger and signs that say, DO NOT ENTER. All my favorite things in life.” That sort of attitude defines the Hotel Rouge, even if the signs are saying quite the opposite. The tiger-print carpeting of the hallway leads to my room, where pixilated red walls and tufted red-leather headboards match the red bed-frames. The room itself is expansive, so even with its dramatically dark floors and accent walls it never feels closed in. Red velvet drapes are tied back in front of the windows, ready to be closed to keep out early morning sunlight, while a giant framed floor-to-ceiling mirror stands at a striking angle.
Of course, being the robe fetishist I am, my favorite part is seeking out the trademark animal print robes, and the Hotel Rouge offers one in leopard and one in zebra. Those quirky touches of the boutique hotels in the Kimpton line are what make travelers smile. It also keeps me coming back for me.
A nightly wine hour adds to the festive atmosphere, and the adjacent Bar Rouge offered night-time revelry and sophisticated ambience. For all the shiny bells and whistles, it remains the staff that is the highlight of a stay here, executing their jobs with panache and pleasure, taking obvious pride in their work and providing an enjoyable environment for anyone looking for a fashionable home away from home.
Flash mobs.
There, I said it.
My saddest little confession: flash mobs make me cry.
Every single time.
It all goes back to fifth grade at McNulty Elementary School. I had Miss Lampman, and we spent a good chunk of the year learning about the United States. To aid in our remembering them, we had to learn a song entitled ‘The Fifty Nifty United States’. It was simply a list of the states (in alphabetical order) set to music. [To this day, I can recite all fifty alphabetically thanks to this song. Try me.] The culmination of weeks of rehearsals was that we would go around to the other classrooms and sing it for them. This was before I became terrorized by performing or speaking in front of people, so I didn’t have any fear in my heart. Instead, I had the flu, and on the day we were set to perform, I had to stay home from school.
In truth, I totally forgot about missing the sing-along, even through most of the next day. But as we approached the last minutes of our final period, the teacher came up to me and said that everyone had been saying that they wished Alan had been there, so they recorded a video of one of the performances. Now, I’m always shocked that anyone thinks of me when I’m not around, much less talks about me. (Strange, but true.) So I was sort of thrown, and admittedly touched, that people even noticed. Then she started the video. Most of the class was concerned with finishing whatever projects they were working on, chattering on in end-of-the-school-day nonsense, but I leaned back against a desk and watched my classmates sing the song. The camera panned across the pool of faces, each person singing earnestly and unabashedly, and it felt for a moment like they were singing to me.
Now, I don’t cry in front of people. I barely cry when I’m not in front of people. And by the fifth grade, I was just as cold and stand-offish (in a lovable way) as I am today. So I was not prepared for what happened next.
About halfway through watching my classmates and friends and teacher, I started choking back tears. This immense wave of emotion at having been missed, a sign that surely I was part of something, came over me and my eyes welled up. I caught myself just in time, wiping away the first bit of salty water and willing myself to regain composure. I looked around at my classmates. A few looked back quizzically, then went on with what they were doing. A few smiled. I don’t think I’ve ever felt as much a part of something as I did at that moment.
And so, whenever I see a flash mob video it never fails to elicit a few tears, and a memory of the one day I felt like I belonged.
Here are a few of my favorites. You probably won’t cry at any of them (I have yet to meet someone who bawls like a baby at the sight of a flash mob), but for me each of these brought on some tears.
In this one, it’s the smiling spectator at 3:05 and 3:38.
This last one was all about the little girl conducting at 3:35 ~ along with the music, the faces, and the way people can still come together as one. How can you not be moved by that?
