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December 2013

Snowy Recap

Buried in a foot of white stuff, I’ve had my fill of winter and it hasn’t even technically arrived yet. That does not bode well. I’ve also had my fill of being without  kitchen, and that’s only just begun. We have at least five or six more weeks of it, and that’s a groundhog message that needs to be retracted before I beat it to death. For today, though, let’s look back at a week that brought about Dallas recollections, disparate music selections, and only a few hunks to heat up the night.

My adventures in Dallas were chronicled in posts that described (or showed) this amazing hotel room view, a cold visit to Neiman Marcus, a not-so-narrow escape from a fire, one rather disturbing museum, a freak ice storm, and an extra day. A few more Dallas posts are on the way, so stay tuned…

The wildly varied musical taste that makes any mix from me such a schizophrenic treat was on display in this gorgeous song by Norah Jones, this holiday chestnut by Mariah Carey, and a wondrous seasonal offering by Sarah McLachlan.

Shirtless males were in short supply this week, and viewers had to make do with the scantily-clad offerings of Masiano Di Vaio and one lone shirtless Santa.

The penultimate entry for my ’13’ project went up here. (Yes, that means there’s one more… I couldn’t very well call a project ’13’ and then stop at 12, could I?)

A quick bit of lead-up hype to the release of this year’s holiday card began here, and continued with this fun retrospective of almost every racy thing that came before.

And then it was time.

Finally, forget sugar plums and Turkish delight, I want chocolate.

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The Holiday Card 2013

This year’s Holiday Card was shot on a Christmas morning in the very early 80’s, by my Mom, as my brother and I opened up our gifts. My fashionable ‘sleeper’ was likely by Carter’s, and my hair was by the grace of God. Our smiles were by innocence, and our happiness was by family. It was a simpler time, caught by a genuine old-fashioned shot not needing the vintage filters of Instagram.

 

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Ghosts of Holiday Cards Past

The big reveal for this year’s holiday card is right around the corner, but before we get into that, check out this linky look back at former photos that made the Christmas Card Cut. As is befitting a chameleon-in-motion, I don’t like traditional Christmas scenes, and I don’t like repeating myself, so there’s a wide-ranging slew of themes that weaves its way through these cards, and to look for any rhyme or reason or even seasonal appropriateness is to wage a losing enterprise. Instead, enjoy them at face value, and imagine them on the fridges of my braver friends.

From 1995 until 2004, I used old-fashioned film for my holiday photo cards, which I’ll have to scan at some point – but not this year. The first digital shots came late in the digital game – around 2004 – when this Snow Queen/Ice Princess was birthed.

In 2005, I reverted to the racy stance of the very first 1995 card (which featured lots of latex and bondage garb). This one topped that one, I think, and everyone loves a mirrored jock cup.

For 2006, a change for the milder was expected, but not delivered, as this crucifixion scene proved.

Far from learning the evil of my sinful ways, 2007 saw this exemplification of bad Santa behavior.

By this point, people were salivating at what naughtiness 2008 might bring, so I shot this low-key surprise on location in Maine.

A softer, if still slightly cheeky, look was on display with the wings of an angel for 2009.

A rare shot of my wedding coat, and the first time I shared a card with anyone, seemed fitting for the year of my wedding, 2010.

One of the more surprising cards was the second time I shared photo-space, and with children no less – my niece and nephew in 2011.

And most recently, after a string of kinder, gentler scenes, last year marked a return to edgy, cheeky, naughty fun -in the Christmas massacre of 2012.

What will 2013 bring? Stay tuned…

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Heal Me

The brilliant Casey Stratton brought this beautiful piece to my attention tonight, when I needed it most. It’s by Sleeping At Last. It’s amazing the power that a proper piece of music can have to transform, and heal, and help. And maybe tonight I will… sleep at last.

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What’s More Shocking Than This?

Perhaps you recall last year’s Holiday Card, and the bloody, disturbing visage of a cut-out heart seen below – or maybe you remember the drunken, chain-smoking Santa of several years ago – or the icy snow queen with white hair and blue glitter. Whatever your recollection of my holiday cards might be, I’m not sure it can prepare you for this year’s version. Up until now, the most shocking photo card may have been 2011’s shared billing with my niece and nephew, whereby I was pulling them in a wagon over a grassy lawn. That took most of my friends by shock and several family members as well. Last year’s was one of my personal faves, in the incongruous blood-bath that accompanied Santa season – but it was also one of my most reviled (which only served to make me like it more). Eat your heart out, indeed.

This year is something I’ve never done before, and since it’s being sent out this week, here are a few hints as to what is to come:

-       It was shot at my childhood home in Amsterdam, NY.

-       I am in the card, AND fully clothed.

-       Someone else took the photo.

-       There is an unlikely co-star, but it is neither a baby nor an animal.

-       My favorite Christmas ornament is featured.

-       It’s Zap Zap Zapping good!

 

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A Song for Winter

When the world turns quiet, and there’s a pause in the holiday hustle bustle, this is when I feel it. Like the grief that reveals itself in times of calm and contemplation, the memory rises to the surface ~ a memory of happiness and wholeness ~ a memory of you. Sunset rooms and summer songs always appear preferable, but winter holds her own charms, in a plaintive voice over a simple piano. The musical companion to falling snow. A song for the season.

 

The lake is frozen over

The trees are white with snow
And all around
Reminders of you
Are everywhere I go

The soft folds of white sheets form a different winter landscape. Feather-filled pillows, cool white light from the window, and the cradled warmth of the morning bed. Then, the jagged icy flow of memories, of the warmth made by two – so much more enveloping than the solitary heat of a single body. I miss it already, the heaviness of the heart like some stranger in a foreign city, walking alone and watched curiously by the locals. I pull into myself, tucking the blanket under my chin, bringing my knees up to my chest, and holding on tightly. In this fetal position, another winter is born.

It’s late and morning’s in no hurry
But sleep won’t set me free
I lie awake and try to recall
How your body felt beside me
When silence gets too hard to handle
And the night too long

A fireside perch. A cup of tea. A way to quell the cold of winter. And Christmas, coming as it always does to light up the shortest days, somehow making things sadder, more melancholy. So I think of something happy, of summer walks and lavender fields, of laughter and mirth and the merriment of a meal with a friend. I think of beginnings and firsts and starts of new journeys, the time when all is laid out ahead, when all has yet to happen ~ the endless and glorious thrill of possibility. Then I think of you, and of people at their happiest. You can’t be angry with the world when you think of people in their most genuinely happy moments – the light in the eyes of a parent watching their child walk for the first time, the wonder of a child bounding towards the tree on Christmas morning, the tender look of a person gazing through tears at another, at the moment two souls touch.

 

And this is how I see you
In the snow on Christmas morning
Love and happiness surround you
As you throw your arms up to the sky
I keep this moment by and by

In the deepest, darkest corner of night, somewhere in the dimmest hours before dawn, I finally feel warm again. At least, there is the echo of warmth from all that came before. Somehow my solitary body made its own heat, carved its own niche into the universe, whether or not you wanted it here. I stay in bed longer than I usually would, turning over onto my side, gazing at another empty pillow. A day or a year or a decade has gone by, and when I try to find you again, when I foolishly roll over and smell the place where your head would have rested, of course it no longer carried your scent. Somewhere in the night that slipped away too.

Oh I miss you now, my love
Merry Christmas, merry Christmas,
Merry Christmas, my love
Sense of joy fills the air
And I daydream and I stare
Up at the tree and I see
Your star up there

I am trying to hang onto this. It’s too easy for these things to recede and fade away. I hold myself in the way I held you ~ tightly, desperately, close to my chest ~ like it was the last bastion of whatever was going to save us from sadness, from solitude.

And then something new, something less selfish, something I’d never wished for anyone without first wishing it for myself ~ the wish of happiness. With or without me, it’s all I want for you. In your smile and your laugh, in your contented sighs and relieved breaths, the thought of you at your happiest makes it all okay. Is that what true love is? Learning to let go…

 

And this is how I see you
In the snow on Christmas morning
Love and happiness surround you
As you throw your arms up to the sky
I keep this moment by and by.

Blankets of snow, showers of kisses, layers of laughter, wishes of cheer. The ever-revolving toy top, spinning infinitely while the rest of the world watches and waits for it to topple. Love twirling wildly, charged by some centrifugal force of the heart holding it all together. Dizzy, I fall back into bed, groggily trying to determine whether it really happened, or whether it was a winter dream. Outside the snow begins to fall again.

Christmas is coming, and all I can do is cry.

 

 

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Another Shirtless Santa

Ho ho ho! This is Dan Osborne. Because we need a little Christmas. And nothing says Christmas like a guy in his underwear and bad, cheesy backdrops.

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12:13

He stands in the cold, hidden by the dark. In the early dusk near the end of the year the outside vanishes. His realm, his home, fades into obscurity, because when you have no home the outside is all that’s left. He also knows that inside is not as warm as it looks, not so inviting, and the coldness found there, in a place you are neither welcome nor wanted, is far more cruel than a life of kind strangers.

The ground crackles beneath his feet. Christmas is coming. At odds with the rest of the year, at odds with the rest of the world, it is an incongruous season that finally, after long being hinted at, is sadder and more upsetting than originally imagined.

He moves away from the house, away from the home, and realizes there is no home, not anywhere, not where there is safety. It is a freeing notion, but frightening to be so unleashed, like a floating balloon let go by the careless hand of a child. They always think you can get it back.

You always think you can get it back.

Once upon a time someone else’s balloon floated into his backyard, back when he considered it such. It was a Mylar birthday balloon, sparkling and bright, reflecting the sunlight on its impossibly shiny surface. He held it in his hands, ever-enchanted by the glittering flashiness of certain objects. It was limp, and barely floated along, caught by a trampled rusty fence, too weak to fly any further. He untangled the ribbon and carried it with him for a while. It was probably far from home, just where he would one day end up. He knew it then. He sensed it in the way things were changing, the way he was changing ~ the light gone from the house, the love gone from the eyes, and it would be that way with almost everyone. Almost. And he would be blamed for it. He knew that too.

In fact, he knew too much.

Maybe that’s what scared people. Maybe that’s what made him unlovable. Maybe it wasn’t who he became, but what he represented, and what he made them feel.

He walked around the house, circling, because he had nowhere else to go. Every home he thought he knew had been taken – they weren’t ever his from the start – and the realization stung and burned his eyes. It began to snow.

{See also 1:132:133:134:135:136:137:138:139:1310:13 & 11:13.}

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The Extra Day

A siren sounds dimly in the distance. A corner of condensation obscures the lower part of the window. A city still sleeps, frozen in time. I was scheduled to depart today, but the ice storm cancelled my flight. Now I stand looking out over the city of Dallas. An extra day is a luxury, often better shared with another, but I must make do with myself. The hotel has reserved my room for me for an extra night. I have nothing but hours to explore. I’m glad I hadn’t taken the time to peruse the many hallways of the place – it will give me something to do in the afternoon. Transportation is still sketchy, so I make no moves to go outside. It’s only in the twenties anyway. The lobby alone is too chilly unless one is lucky enough to get a spot by the fire. For now, I remain alone, in a high room, as the day begins its slow slide into night.

An arsenal of blank letters sits on the desk. A book lies on the bedside table. A description of the acclaimed steakhouse in the hotel sits on a cardboard stand. Together, they comprise the plan for the day, and an early evening. If I’m to brave the perilous ice-ridden trek to the airport the next day, and a possibly chaotic scene upon arrival, I’ll need an early night. But again, this is all in the future. I want to stop for a moment, to slow down and commemorate this extra day. I am so often alone, by choice, but this time it feels different. It feels, and I don’t often feel this, lonely.

I pace in front of the window, like some caged creature still hoping for a way out. I twist one hand in the other, taking deep breaths, walking and walking and going nowhere. Hurriedly, I gather my book, a pad of paper, some letters, and a pen, then quickly exit that suddenly-suffocating room. I need to be where other people have been. My time in Dallas has come to a close.

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Dallas on Ice

The ice storm arrives that night. Against my hotel window, little pellets of ice perform the lightest percussive touches, a late-night soundtrack to lull one off to sleep. Before that though – and before it gets too slick – a dinner at Oak. Sparsely-populated and quiet (the way I like a restaurant to be), I sit at the bar and watch the world go around.

Couples sit at tufted booths, staring into each other’s eyes. Businessmen sit across from each other alternately serious and jovial. The wait-staff outnumbers the diners on this dismal night, but those who have made the trek seem happy to be here.

The food does not disappoint either – and in the land where the deer and the antelope roam, I accept the recommendation for the latter. It arrives on a bone, tender and not the least bit gamey. It is a cozy dish for a frightening night, and after digesting it I just make it back to the hotel intact. It will need to sustain, for the next morning it proves impossible to go anywhere. An inch or two of solid ice has crippled the entire city. Everything from schools and churches to the zoo is closed beneath the thick sheet of frozen water. Somehow, though, wrapped in the sheets and blankets of a large bed, I do not mind it in the least. High above the city, I look over an icy world, safely warm and embraced by the sweet folds of sleep, gently cradled in a lazy morning of having nothing to do and nowhere to go, and a breakfast tray arriving at any moment.

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A Grassy Knoll, A Haunting Museum

Dealey Plaza, the site of the assassination of John F. Kennedy, 35th President of the United States. If there was one place in Dallas that I wanted to see, other than Neiman Marcus, it was this. The warehouse from which Lee Harvey Oswald shot the President has been turned into The Sixth Floor Museum – a disturbing and somewhat morbid commemoration of the events that took the life of a young President.

My mother was fascinated by the Kennedys, and I was raised with an active interest in the history and story of JFK’s assassination. She had books on the subject, and even a bust of the President that should still be somewhere in their attic. Each November 22 we would go over the sad events, and as I walked through the museum it brought back a childhood of learning, and a fascination of what could never be fully explained.

The museum does an excellent job of presenting the historical background of the time period, and then an excruciating follow-through of the shooting and the various theories and evidence behind it. Questions still linger, doubts remain, and in the end all I was left with was a feeling of profound sadness for what can never be understood – the senseless end of a promising life. I think it was the image of Mrs. Kennedy in her pink suit, climbing over the back of the car, helpless and alone, that struck me the most.

Then there were the boxes ~ the storage boxes that Oswald hid behind while staking out his striking point from the 6th floor window. They stood, piled high, disguising the small space of a murderer – and it was such a small space, such a small life, that still somehow managed to snuff out such a large one.

Afterward, in the cold, I walked across the street and took these photos of Dealey Plaza. Sometimes nothing makes sense. Sometimes all is forlorn.

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A Hotel Lobby, Before the Fire

If you ask me where I’m most comfortable, chances are my answer will be at a hotel bar. If it doubles as the lobby, so much the better. The Joule in downtown Dallas has such a set-up, and while it was too early for a cocktail, I sat in close enough proximity to the bartender to have him smile and ask what I wanted. After a polite declination, I took out a book and read a little, raising my eyes to watch a few people check-in, and hotel employees welcome them to Dallas. Families and couples met in the lobby to start their day. Luggage and bags were taken by porters and whisked upwards once the elevator doors closed. Large bouquets of white peonies accented by white twigs made an incongruously spring-like winter wonderland, while a large industrial gear spun slowly in the center of the room.

Biding time until lunch, I unwrapped my scarves. The bartender polished some glasses as a few seats began to fill. This was the in-between time ~ the moment before and after some clearly demarcated event ~ whether that be lunch or a meeting or dinner or a play. Life is about the in-between times. We think it’s the opposite, but it’s not.

My in-between time was almost over, as my stomach called, and the cold demanded a bowl of pho. That night, an electrical fire would rage in front of the Joule, forcing the hotel to be evacuated. But I escaped before then, bundling back up before crossing the street to a Vietnamese restaurant.

The cold had deepened, and the brief walk sucked all the warmth out of me in minutes. The ice storm was in the air ~ gray and foreboding ~ and the damp chill drained any holiday cheer. Yet salvation was on the way, in a bowl of hot pho ~ a bowl of sustenance, a bowl of love, a bowl to warm from the inside out. It was the only way to get warm.

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A Frigid Pilgrimage to Neiman Marcus

Thursday opened with a shudder. A 25 degree shudder. If I’d wanted temperatures like that, I’d never have left upstate New York. But I came prepared with a winter coat, and a pair of scarves I wrapped tightly around my neck as I ventured forth to the main destination: the Neiman Marcus flagship store located a few long blocks from my hotel. It was the original location, the place where it all began. While small by today’s gargantuan standards, it retained the charm and luxury of long ago, with its golden escalators and charming exterior.

Fighting a brutal wind, I arrived just as it opened, taking in the splendor of its Christmas decorations, walking slowly down a red carpet soft to the footfalls and bright to the eyes. A large glass tree stood in the front window, illuminated by an ever-changing double-row of LED lights, changing through every shade of the spectrum. A small café was just opening up as I rode the first escalator to the second floor, and then again to the men’s floor, where a small cologne stand stood before me. I held off, containing my Tom Ford-inspired excitement, perusing the rest of the floor and picking up some gifts for Andy. I took my time, for once luxuriating in the act of shopping, not focused and intent as is my usual stance. This was a moment to savor and enjoy. I listened to some local weather talk by some of the sales staff, then inquired as to a good lunch spot in the area. I asked specifically about a Vietnamese place I’d passed on the way that was featuring pho. Two gentlemen highly recommended it, so I thanked them and moved on to the cologne counter.

It was smaller than expected, and I only saw two of Mr. Ford’s mainstream bottles, and one Private Blend. Upon further inquiry, it turns out that the downtown location didn’t get all the Private Blends, and the two sales women hadn’t even heard of the new Oud Wood additions. They said it was probably the other NM location that had the line. No matter, I was not in the mood, or financial condition, to buy any more – I really just wanted to try them on.

As it was still a little early for lunch, I took the escalator back to the second floor, where I marveled over a rack of Oscar de la Renta dresses, and other holiday garb. Sparkling crystals, shimmering satin, and tons of tulle comprised fashion that doubled as art. In my next life, I shall be a designer, and I shall be fabulous at it.

Back on the first floor, I sat on a bench for a few minutes, taking in the scene at hand. The café had opened, and a few shoppers sat at tall tables for two, sipping their coffee drinks. A jewelry designer was hosting a trunk sale. Sales associates walked briskly by, but always with a smile and a Hello. Christmas lights twinkled in the distance, and my time at Neiman Marcus had come to a happy close. I picked up my shopping bag and braved the wind again, shuffling next door to the lobby of the Joule Hotel, to spend a little more time before the lunch hour…

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First Musings on Dallas

Everyone assumed I would hate Dallas. Apparently some Texans don’t take kindly to my kind. Yet I had a grand time – even in the midst of an ice storm that rendered the city completely shut-down. Originally, I planned the trip to coincide with the start of the kitchen renovation, but that was postponed, so I sort of went for nothing – ahh, sweet tragic irony of life. In truth, I’ve always wanted to visit Dallas, and I figured this would be a good time to head to a warmer clime. Another cosmic joke on me after the first day, but I’m getting ahead of myself.

On Wednesday, I arrived to blue skies and 75 degree sunny weather. It felt like heaven after the brutality of upstate New York. After traversing what seemed an endless expanse of rather tiresome and depressing highways and chains (hello Waffle House and Olive Garden, and a questionable billboard for a sexy lady lawyer named Coffey – “If you drink and drive at night, have Coffey in the morning”) the shuttle dropped me on the edge of downtown Dallas, which afforded a great view of the city skyline.

An impromptu dinner at Mesa Veracruz delivered some excellent guacamole and a sinfully scrumptious lobster enchilada. Coupled with a friendly waiter and a salt-rimmed margarita, it was an enchanting evening. Outside though, the temperature was dropping – quickly. Back in the hotel, a hot shower provided a coda to a relatively good travel day. The last good travel day, for a while…

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Carey On With Christmas

Forget ‘Vision of Love’. Forget ‘One Sweet Day’. Forget ‘Hero’. Mariah Carey’s greatest contribution to pop culture was, and remains, ‘All I Want For Christmas Is You’. It’s damn near impossible to write a modern-day Christmas song that will last the test of time, but this looks like it might be a plausible contender. Since it first came out in the 90’s, it’s been a seasonal staple, and with all the cover versions piling up, it seems in no danger of fading away. Plus, it’s catchy as hell and makes everyone feel a little bit better, no matter how Grinchy some of us want to be.

I don’t want a lot for Christmas
There is just one thing I need
I don’t care about the presents
Underneath the Christmas tree
I just want you for my own
More than you could ever know
Make my wish come true
All I want for Christmas is you.

From the opening bells and the bombast of the initial build-up, to the bouncing bass and timeless pop melody, it’s about as near to perfect as a Christmas song gets. Coupled with the romantic yearning that informs more holiday music than you realize, it’s one of those cozy and sweetly earnest songs, the kind that tugs at heartstrings and hope, leaving a giddy taste of love ~ a love made all the warmer during the holiday season.

All the lights are shining so brightly everywhere
And the sound of children’s laughter fills the air
And everyone is singing, I hear those sleigh bells ringing
Santa won’t you bring me the one I really need
Won’t you please bring my baby to me?

This song was the starting salvo of the Structure holiday music tape – something that played perpetually in all the long hours of holiday retail work I did in the 90’s. But as annoying as the “You mean you forgot cranberries too?” bullshit holiday songs could get, this one never got old. Even at the end of a long day of dealing with irate customers and even more irate managers, I felt reinvigorated when it started up again. It spoke to a lifelong search for the one – that person I wanted so badly – the only one I wanted beneath the mistletoe. Even if I didn’t know who that was then, I knew the longing, and I knew the want.

I just want to see my baby, standing right outside my door
I just want you for my own, more than you could ever know
Make my wish come true
Baby, all I want for Christmas is you.

 

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