Oh Gronk, how envious we were of you, and how envious we still are.
Rob Gronkowski of the New England Patriots officially announced his retirement today. Don’t bother doing the math on how old he is, because the math just makes me mad. I mean, so happy for him and everything… blah, blah, blah. (No word yet on how Tom Brady is taking this news.) The Gronk has been very popular on this website, thanks to his penchant for removing his shirt at no provocation whatsoever. We appreciate such things, so let’s take a quick look back at everyone’s favorite footballer.
DESPERADO, WHY DON’T YOU COME TO YOUR SENSES?
YOU BEEN OUT RIDIN’ FENCES FOR SO LONG NOW
OH, YOU’RE A HARD ONE
BUT I KNOW THAT YOU GOT YOUR REASONS
THESE THINGS THAT ARE PLEASIN’ YOU
CAN HURT YOU SOMEHOW
Long before there was YouTube, Instagram, and Twitter – long before there were blogs and websites and other outlets for anyone to visit, there was Public Access television – those local channels where a person would sit in a little make-shift studio, often accompanied by a sad, fake ficus and an equally-dismal backdrop curtain. My hometown of Amsterdam had a couple of these shows (when they weren’t showing the latest polka party) where brave folks could sit for half an hour and field phone calls or talk about whatever was on their mind. Production values notwithstanding, it was interesting to see how well they dealt with prank callers, but also to see how people presented themselves. I’ve always enjoyed being an unobserved observer. This allowed for such viewing at a time in our history when such glimpses were not as ubiquitous as they are now.
One of the older kids in our high school had his own show. I knew of him, but we weren’t close. He was one of those rare kids who was popular with just about everybody. His presence was big, his smile ever-ready, and he always had something to say, which made for a perfect one-man talk show. I don’t recall what he discussed – I only remember his earnestness, and the fact that he was trying. It’s hard to find fault with someone if they are trying. He always closed his show with ‘Desperado’ – a song I didn’t know that well, but one which I searched and sought for meaning, desperately trying to figure out how he had such confidence, such power, such ease, and how I didn’t.
DON’T YOU DRAW THE QUEEN OF DIAMONDS, BOY
SHE’LL BEAT YOU IF SHE’S ABLE
YOU KNOW THE QUEEN OF HEARTS IS ALWAYS YOUR BEST BET
NOW, IT SEEMS TO ME SOME FINE THINGS
HAVE BEEN LAID UPON YOUR TABLE
BUT YOU ONLY WANT THE ONES THAT YOU CAN’T GET
In school, he was much the same. Gregarious and outgoing, with a popularity that somehow cut across all of the complicated circles of friendship and cliques that seemed to so densely populate Amsterdam High School. What a remarkable trick: to win acceptance and adoration from everyone, yet remain so staunchly down-to-earth. Maybe that was his appeal. Because he was a year or two older we would never be friends. (It was hard enough to step out of one’s own gender to be friends with another – stepping over the age barrier was almost impossible.) Yet we shared a physical education class for one year, and as we all waited on the gym bleachers for the teacher to begin, he would often stand in front of us all, bouncing a ball carelessly or just shifting his standing from one foot to the other, and talking and asking questions of everyone in the class.
He asked me how I was once, using my name, and I wondered if that was the key to his charm – to pay just enough attention to people so it sounded like he knew them. It has been documented that the sound of one’s own name is one of the most pleasing things a human being hears. It certainly worked for me. My distrust of anyone so openly vulnerable – because that’s what he was when he was so friendly to everyone – was instantly disarmed when he said my name and asked me how I was doing. My response was genuine, not my typical surly jab, but I’m not sure he took it as such, and he was already on to asking about someone else’s day so that was that.
DESPERADO, OH, YOU AIN’T GETTIN’ NO YOUNGER
YOUR PAIN AND YOUR HUNGER, THEY’RE DRIVIN’ YOU HOME
AND FREEDOM, OH FREEDOM, WELL THAT’S JUST SOME PEOPLE TALKIN’
YOUR PRISON IS WALKING THROUGH THIS WORLD ALL ALONE
I wondered at his popularity. I sometimes found it difficult to talk to my closest friends, I didn’t dream of talking much to my family, and it was terrifying to have to speak to strangers. How did he do it? How had he escaped the chains of social anxiety, and how wonderful might it feel to be so free? I envied him, like I envied everyone who seemed to have such an easy time of so many simple things. But what if his freedom came with its own prison? There was something about his broad appeal, and that expansive popularity, that left me feeling my quiet and shy manner, and my ocasionally-off-putting way with the world, might be a more sure path toward love. With prickly deliberateness and an intentionally aloof attitude, I’d made sure that anyone who entered my orbit was carefully vetted and tested – they were not casual acquaintances, not masses of genial, well-meaning peers who were made happy and content with a smile or a friendly word of encouragement. Such empty platitudes would not leave my lips.
DON’T YOUR FEET GET COLD IN THE WINTER TIME?
THE SKY WON’T SNOW AND THE SUN WON’T SHINE
IT’S HARD TO TELL THE NIGHT TIME FROM THE DAY
YOU’RE LOSIN’ ALL YOUR HIGHS AND LOWS
AIN’T IT FUNNY HOW THE FEELING GOES AWAY?
Two different boys.
Two different paths.
We live in such different worlds even when we think we don’t.
I wish I knew better how to bridge those worlds.
I also wish I knew how happy he was. Then and now.
Looking back on what little I saw and knew of him, and the lot of what I see and know of myself, I wonder if maybe we weren’t that different after all. In our own ways, maybe we walked alone a little too long. The most popular people I know are also the most lonely. And some of us who love nothing more than being left alone have managed to become surprisingly popular. Maybe we were, and are, somewhere in-between.
DESPERADO, WHY DON’T YOU COME TO YOUR SENSES?
COME DOWN FROM YOUR FENCES, OPEN THE GATE
IT MAY BE RAININ’, BUT THERE’S A RAINBOW ABOVE YOU
YOU BETTER LET SOMEBODY LOVE YOU (LET SOMEBODY LOVE YOU)
YOU BETTER LET SOMEBODY LOVE YOU
BEFORE IT’S TOO LATE.
At this early stage of spring, it’s a little silly to start planning for summer, but that’s not stopping me. If I stopped doing things, or wearing things, or saying things, just because they were silly, I’d have stopped everything years ago. Bring on the silly, and bring on the summer planning. There’s a floral party on the horizon, to go with the upcoming project, but it’s a quieter, more intimate event – and family-friendly too, meaning the kids are all invited. The pool should be open by then, so that will work. (It’s much easier to host children when they have the run of the outside.)
In addition to the usual spring cleaning (dusting and polishing everything in sight, including the far reaches of the floor) there are more seasonal duties to fulfill, such as bringing the attic-bound banana and angel’s trumpet trees back from the brink of hibernation. This was actually started a while ago, when I re-introduced water into their pots. Since October, they’ve been occupying the unheated, but insulated, side of the attic near a small window. Stripped of most of their leaves by fall, they have since put out a few straggling shoots, none of which will likely survive a move outside into any sort of wind. Luckily, the rest of the stems and roots have survived, and once the warm weather begins in earnest, their growth should be quick and impressive. I’m especially looking forward to seeing what the banana tree will do in its second year here. It’s due for an even larger pot, which typically means even larger growth. I’m planning on getting a second one, since they lend an easy tropical feel to the yard.
As for other plans, summer music is another way of creating atmosphere and memories. Last year, it wastes little collection of songs that brought to mind the sunny season:
Now I’m obsessed with the 60’s moogarific themes of the ‘Ocean’s 8’ soundtrack, so that may play a part. It goes well with the ‘Four Rooms’ lounge vibe I’ve used for years. All bring to mind happy days putting the patio awning back up and assembling the potted plants. This is my favorite moment. Anticipation. Hope. The whole of the season spread out before us.
Is announcing the length of the next commercial the new thing? I’ve seen on several channels now an announcement of exactly how many seconds are left until the show returns. I find it helpful, but also surprising. I never knew how much I could get done in 90 seconds – piss-pot stop, hand-washing, pouring a cup of tea, slicing an apple, and running upstairs to find a coat for work the next day – all in a single commercial break. The 30-second ones are slightly more limiting…
Our trip to Savannah is quickly approaching (I just had our itinerary printed out on the cutest peach-blossom stationary) and so the day warrants a look back at my last visit to that magical city of the South. With its Spanish moss, beautifully-manicured squares, and historic ghosts, Savannah is a land of delicious enchantment. Like many people, I first succumbed to its siren call after reading John Berendt’s ‘Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil’ – simply known as ‘The Book’ to locals. This was back in the 90’s, and Lady Chablis was still holding court at her club. Sadly, I never made it to one of her shows, and now she is no longer with us, but her legacy endures, and she has not been forgotten. As much as I enjoyed the novel, it was the city that ultimately captured my fancy, seducing with its charm and character, bending perception and experience with its beguiling ways. From the food and drink to the convivial atmosphere and friendly denizens, Savannah was like an eccentric old friend who welcomes one without outward judgment.
Last time around we booked our accommodations at the Mansion on Forsyth; this time we’ll be staying at the DeSoto Hotel, a little closer to the action. I’ve also booked dinners at The Grey and Elizabeth’s on 37th, because so much of Savannah’s allure is in its culinary sorcery. The libations on offer are pretty nifty too. This marks Andy’s first trip to Georgia, so I’m hoping it’s extra-special; Savannah can’t help but work her magic on the most winter-weary visitor.
I searched the world over (ok, the malls of upstate New York) to find that rope of beads so beautifully dangling from her open button-fly denims, all to no avail. Years later I eventually fashioned my own set so I could pay proper homage to this incredible album. I don’t quite have her killer abs, but I’ve amassed a solid collection of rings to at least evoke the mood. Sometimes an evocation – the merest echo of the original clarion – will have to suffice.
Arguably her second greatest album (after ‘Ray of Light‘), ‘‘Like A Prayer‘ was released exactly thirty years ago on this date in 1989. I would rank it second based on its first two singles alone, but the remaining tracks are equally brilliant (give or take an eccentric Prince contribution and the often-problematic final track of a Madonna album).
In March of 1989, I was thirteen years old.
Tricky time of life, thirteen.
In some cultures that’s considered the point of life when your soul solidifies into what it’s going to be for life. For me, it was roughly the time of adult cognizance, the point at which I can start remembering most of what happens in a day rather than have it obscured by the murky half-remembrances of childhood (and the murky non-remembrances of the past decade, when memory stopped being made).
It was my last year at Wilbur H. Lynch Middle School ~ that quick two-year experience between elementary and high school ~ and as the winter neared its completion that year, we were all a little antsy. And bored. Raised on NBC’s daytime line-up, I hungered for drama and intrigue, for something more exciting than Social Studies or band. In the hallway outside the auditorium of the school, an expansive marble staircase wound its way up to the second floor. In mottled shades of gray, the marble was a glimpse of something beautiful in the midst of so much mediocrity. So too was Madonna’s new album in the pop landscape in 1989.
‘Like A Prayer’ shocked many, surprised some, and scared the hell out of me once the whispered beginnings and backward choir of ‘Act of Contrition’ kicked in. So entrenched in the Catholic dogma was I that one spring evening I found myself in the backyard holding a heavy stone over my head, about to smash it down on the cassette version of ‘Like A Prayer’ in an act of divine loyalty. It still wasn’t enough to keep ‘Like A Prayer’ from instantly searing itself into my memory bank. But I digress…
On those mornings, after I was dressed and about to depart for school, I’d sneak a peek at whatever was on MTV in my parents room. Dad had been at the hospital working for an hour already, while mom was downstairs waiting for my brother. Over their bed hung a large, graphic crucifix. The crown of thorns was slightly dusty. Cobwebs draped the arms of Jesus. His sorrowful expression, eyes closed in death or impending death, gave no hint or knowledge of any future resurrection. The blood pouring forth from his nailed hands must have made knowledge like that incredibly useless.
The dark early morning and the drawn shades meant that only the television was lighting the room. Flames of burning crosses lit up the crucifix and surrounding walls as Madonna danced to ‘Like A Prayer’ and I shuddered at whether this crossed the borderline into something blasphemous or sinful. Would God punish me for this? Would he punish my family? Guilt, loyalty, reverence and impudence crossed my mind and took up battle with one another. Religion clashed with nature clashed with spirituality clashed with gleeful demonic possession. A statue of a black saint bled ruby blood from his eyes while Madonna’s own palms were suddenly inflicted with stigmata ostensibly from a dropped knife. All the while, the music raged and the choir sang and the whole thing was so rapturous I thought I might die right there on the bed.
My mother’s voice breaks the reverie. My brother rushes by in the hall and thunders down the stairs. As the day goes by, I walk the hallways of school and think of Madonna’s song. Hearing it play in my mind, I envision the marble and the columns and the grandiosity of the school architecture rising to majestic heights and magnificence as if they were transforming into an iconic church. Echoes of children bounced off the stone, rose into the air, and collided with other voices. Angelic innocence smothered by devilish treachery. We were all just animals struggling to survive.
At such a young age ~ and yes, once upon a long time ago the age of thirteen was incredibly young and relatively innocent ~ I was not yet interested in girls. Little did I understand or even realize then, beyond a stirring I did my best to keep quiet and still, that I would never be interested in girls. Something like ‘Love Song’ was lost on entirely on me, as the stuff of crushes and infatuations would not come into play for several years. Of more immediate concern was the idea of parental abandonment and strife as portrayed in ‘Oh Father‘ and ‘Promise To Try‘ ~ on the cusp of adolescence, my issues with my parents were about to become as understandably strained as those of any young gay guy being raised in a strict, Catholic, half-Filipino household. I simply didn’t know it then, and was not ready to confront anyone or anything. Madonna sang for me, whether I realized it or not, and we began building an irrevocable bond that no one would ever fully understand.
Other songs sounded good, even if I didn’t have a clue about the pain that was being conveyed. I was happily light years away from understanding anything about ‘Til Death Do Us Part‘ ~ but the warning was implicit, not that there was any magic trick to avoiding falling in love. If there was, I’m sure I wouldn’t follow it. Most thirteen-year-olds won’t be bothered with such warnings, unless it’s to explicitly defy them. I wasn’t that difficult, yet, and so I listened from the safe vantage point of a bystander, enthralled and transfixed by the woman whose music always brought such exuberant joy and happiness. To that end, ‘Like A Prayer’ was distinctly different from the confections of ‘True Blue’ and ‘Like A Virgin‘ (even if there was ‘Cherish’).
Mostly this album was the start of a somber time. There was maybe one more year of carefree youth before things started to really change, before we took the irretrievable steps beyond childhood, when ‘Keep it Together‘ became the real prayer. The lament of ‘Pray for Spanish Eyes‘ and the lost enchantment of ‘Dear Jessie‘ hinted at darker days to come. The marble halls of my middle school days were already receding into memory, dissolving like some smoky sleight of hand, mere wisps of fragmented sounds and scents, faded evocations of a time that had no end and no beginning…
The ‘Like A Prayer’ album would be with me for the rest of my life, evolving and meaning different things to me as the years passed. I would come to understand all the songs that I could only feel the surface of back then, and the songs that I thought I knew so well would eventually reveal layers of meaning and a resonance that would continually inform my journey. (‘Express Yourself’ indeed.)
That’s the mark of a great music album.
It’s also the mark of a great musician.
Madonna proved herself with ‘Like A Prayer’ – and that was no mystery.
Rising like the big JC Himself, today heralds the return of spring! Amen and Halleluh!! (That’s the extent of my Drag Race references, and I know it was several seasons ago but I just can’t be bothered to keep up anymore.) Coming in the midst of Mercury’s Retrograde madness, spring has the onerous distinction of arriving while things are crazy and hectic. Only through deliberate determination to remain calm and not ruffle feathers have I maintained some semblance of sanity these past few weeks, and I’ll grant that it is the merest resemblance. Thankfully, it hasn’t been that difficult. Laying low is an art form, and I intend to make some serious art in the next few weeks.
My new project is practically completed – a month before I anticipated or hoped – which means I can begin planning a little promotional push for late spring/early summer. (Relax, it won’t be nearly as extensive or naked as the last one.) This is a smaller project – a little personal gift to those who mean the most to me. It’s also a completely new realm of work for me, so it’s amateurish and unpolished, but it was so fun to do I don’t care.
That’s the breath of fresh air that this spring, and this website, needs – so welcome to the new season. See the pretty flowers and smell their happy perfume. Pet the furry bunnies and hold the baby goats. Indulge in the moments before it all lets loose.
IT TAKES A LOT TO CHANGE A MAN, HELL, IT TAKES A LOT TO TRY
MAYBE IT’S TIME TO LET THE OLD WAYS DIE
The best bits of beauty are the heartbreaking ones. They tear at the soul, ravage the calm, and rage against the peaceful sleep for which we may long. I think we need that sadness to fulfill the promise of happiness. One can’t exist without the other, not if we want to know what they really mean, how they really feel. The beauty of that is not always easy to grasp, or easy to see. One has to look hard to find solace in sadness.
NOBODY KNOWS WHAT WAITS FOR THE DEAD
NOBODY KNOWS WHAT WAITS FOR THE DEAD
SOME FOLKS JUST BELIEVE IN THE THINGS THEY’VE HEARD AND THE THINGS THEY READ
NOBODY KNOWS WHAT WAITS FOR THE DEAD
The solemnity of winter’s slumber is to be preserved cocoon-like until next December. Let this be an elegy for the passing of the dark season. I present to you a song with which to put your burdens down. We carry too much in a day, and we certainly carry too much in a winter. Let us take tonight to put this winter down, to honor and revere it for what it has been, and to gently welcome the next season whatever it may bring.
I’M GLAD I CAN’T GO BACK TO WHERE I CAME FROM
I’M GLAD THOSE DAYS ARE GONE, GONE FOR GOOD
BUT IF I COULD TAKE SPIRITS FROM MY PAST AND BRING ‘EM HERE
YOU KNOW I WOULD… KNOW I WOULD
Certain music always moves me at this time of the year. It’s the music of God, more-so than any choirs at Christmas or hymns at Easter – it’s a music that touches the soul, merging beauty and art and loss and nature in a glorious, rapturous and heartrending phantasmagoria. ‘Appalachian Spring’ and Aaron Copland created such a creature. Arvo Pärt made it too. They spoke the word of God.
NOBODY SPEAKS TO GOD THESE DAYS
NOBODY SPEAKS TO GOD THESE DAYS
I’D LIKE TO THINK HE’S LOOKIN’ DOWN AND LAUGHIN’ AT OUR WAYS
NOBODY SPEAKS TO GOD THESE DAYS
When winter transforms into spring it doesn’t always happen peacefully. It’s a battle of rage even when there’s only ever been one winner. Wind cries. Storm wails. Night tumbles. This is the sound of God? How could it hurt this much? How does one bear such terrifying beauty?
WHEN I WAS A CHILD, THEY TRIED TO FOOL ME
SAID THE WORLDLY MAN WAS LOST AND THAT HELL WAS REAL
WELL I’VE SEEN HELL IN RENO
AND THIS WORLD’S ONE BIG OLD CATHERINE WHEEL, SPINNIN’ STILL
As we turn the page to another spring, and bid farewell to another winter, the moment for pause and reflection is at hand. Then that too shall pass, and we will trudge on. It’s time.
MAYBE IT’S TIME TO LET THE OLD WAYS DIE
MAYBE IT’S TIME TO LET THE OLD WAYS DIE
IT TAKES A LOT TO CHANGE YOUR PLANS
AND A TRAIN TO CHANGE YOUR MIND
MAYBE IT’S TIME TO LET THE OLD WAYS DIE
OH, MAYBE IT’S TIME TO LET THE OLD WAYS DIE
Celebrating his birthday today, Adam Levine gets another featured post on this site, after a long line of featured posts. He may be close to earning his own official Category here (like David Beckham, Ben Cohen, Madonna, and Tom Ford) – those behemoths whose posts are so numerous and substantial that they merit a rarefied categorization of sorts. Mr. Levine has done his share of naked romping here, so here’s an almost-complete capsulation of his previous appearances:
It began with this naked Adam Levine shot, with some lucky hands covering his naked crotch way back in 2012.
