Mexican-American singer Omar Apollo released his album ‘Apolonio’ last year, from which the featured song and video below originate. Apollo earns his first Dazzler of the Day honor thanks to his musical prowess – as much as for his blue hair. We love a guy in blue. Visit his website for more fascinating vibes.
“It is not by the gray of the hair that one knows the age of the heart.” ~ Edward Bulwer-Lytton
Do not be deceived by my downtrodden and wayward gray hair in these photos – I have not quite give up despite physical evidence to the contrary. In fact, almost one year into the new pandemic-plagued world in which we have morphed, I find myself reaping the benefits of a more healthy existence, even in the face of these new risks and dangers that are rifling through the world. When it all came crashing to a halt last March, I was in the beginning stages of improving my habits. I’d stopped drinking the previous fall, I’d started meditating on a daily basis, and I was about to embark on the popular Yale University course ‘The Science of Well-Being’. Taken together, those three items would see me through the first year of COVID-19 (along with therapy), and rather than break or bother me, this new way of life led me to a calmer and happier place.
“Gray hair is a crown of life.” ~ Lailah Gifty Akita
So when I see these fun pre-shower and pre-haircut photos, they don’t embarrass or embody the interior as much as they tickle me. That’s not some fancy designer shirt in a trendy shade of nude – it’s an Airism undershirt from Uniqlo. There’s no dime-sized application of hair-product or any crazy coloring job to disguise all those grays – that’s just my hair after going three months without a haircut. Best of all, there’s no hiding behind hats or elaborately-adorned jackets or exquisite silk scarves – there’s just an honest exploration of the moment at hand – the moment we all inhabit, and the moment in which we all have the choice to embrace or repel or simply exist. Being comfortable here is the only way to being comfortable anywhere.
{All that being said, I did just get a haircut, but I didn’t do it for all those wise-ass detractors about to come for me: I did it for spring. And easy-upkeep.}
“Look, moon
I turned silver for you.”
~ Sanober Khan
At some point in the summer of 1986, my Mom dropped me off for a few days at Gram’s in Hoosick Falls, where the magic of my grandmother would rub off on me in ways that I’ve held onto through this very day. For all her crushingly introverted attitude, the way she seemed so painfully shy when making her way through much of this world, she also held a fascination with glamour and old-school Hollywood, regaling me with tales of Greta Garbo, and she liked to accentuate her outfits with little bits of splendor and sparkle – colorful jewelry and beaded purses. Part of her was drawn to such drama, as seen in her love for NBC’s daytime drama line-up, and she imparted the gift of the dramatic to me in my formative years. We’d sit and watch ‘Days of Our Lives’ and ‘Another World’ and somewhere among those waning summer days she taught me how to crochet.
The earliest hints of fall were seeping into the open windows of the living room, where I slept on the tufted velvet couch – it was a gorgeous shade of green that I would forever love, and it functioned as a cozy bed at night. During the day it was where we sat to watch television, and where she taught me how to tie the first loop for my first crochet chain. Somehow we both knew that crocheting would be a good skill to learn to see me through the fall and winter, a way of conjuring coziness and warmth and hygge – decades before I even knew what hygge meant. In that pocket of summer days, I learned how to make the most basic crochet moves, perfect for scarves or blankets – and that’s where the skills ended, but that was more than enough.
I’d sit on the large couch and Gram moved to the smaller couch across the room, and we’d crochet our projects as the daytime shows ticked off the hours. It was idyllic for a gay boy – as thrilling as exploring Gram’s jewelry boxes, or listening to her tales of tawdry silver screen gossip. By the time it was ready for that late-summer stay to be over, and Mom arrived to bring me back home, my Grandmother had gifted me with the art of crocheting – something I held close to my heart for the rough school year that was about to ensue, and for all of the colder moments that would soon descend. Those days of crocheting with my grandmother are still part of my happiest childhood memories, even if I didn’t see it at the time.
That fall I developed severe allergies from a new cat I insisted we give a home to, which led to severe asthma and a rigorous series of medical tests to treat the cascading sicknesses that left me out of school for lengthy periods of time. Stuck at home, I started crocheting a blanket, making it thicker by using two strands of yarn – a twist that I taught to my Gram, but one which she didn’t decide to utilize. I had visions of a grand bedspread in some brightly-lit loft. It felt like I had all the time in the world, so I made a long-term master plan.
Good young gay lad that I was unknowingly blooming into, I was stuck on the idea of a rainbow, made of a multitude of different shades of each color, and I planned on doing five rows per shade, five shades per color, and then deciding to determine later whether the starting row would be the width or length of it. At first I wanted each band to symbolize a special person in my life, assigning and imbuing every color to represent someone who meant something to me, but I started with too many people, then I had too many bands, and then I had too many people again so it never worked out that way. Besides, a big part of me didn’t want to share this blanket with anyone other than Gram. That fall and winter, as I was out of school more than I seemed to be in, I worked diligently on the blanket. It saw me through the loneliness, and brought me back to those happy summer days at Gram’s. There was coziness and warmth – literally and figuratively – in the crocheting of a blanket.
Eventually, summer returned, and my focus shifted outside, so I put the blanket down, and then for a couple of years I put it away completely, but it never remained entirely out of mind. I knew it was there, and its simple existence was a comfort, a way of reminding me of Gram and what was important in life.
Every few years I’d pick it up again and crochet a few more bands of color. It followed me to Boston for a couple of dismal and stormy winters. I took it up again while Andy and I spent our first winter together in Guilderland, and each time the years between working on it elongated – this last stretch has been the longest, as it’s been over a decade since I had it out and worked on it – and before this winter leaves I intend to get a few more rows in. It is the ideal way to end another winter season.
I’m nearing the completion of it, and I haven’t yet decided whether to go around the rough edges with a more thoughtful style; it would be a way of continuing something I may not be quite ready to finish.
If it were based on his Twitter account alone, George Takei would be a lock on Dazzler of the Day; based on his entire amazing career, he earns the title in a way few others have. Takei has been an actor, activist and author for roughly seven decades – an unprecedented run that only seems to be getting stronger as his growing social media acumen finds new ways to inspire.
Skip’s birthday last year more or less started the COVID shut-down for these parts, being that it was the first birthday/event that was canceled thanks to the world closing up shop. We were supposed to be having cocktails at the Plaza, eating an amazing Japanese dinner planned by Sherri, and taking in ‘Plaza Suite’ for Skip’s birthday festivities – and absolutely everything fizzled in the first shut-down that took everyone by shock and surprise. Lost in all of that terrifying mayhem was our friend’s birthday – I don’t think we even acknowledged or mourned that aspect of it, so devastated were we by everything else that was going on, and I suddenly feel like a rather crappy friend for not being able to discern that then.
Cut to a year later, and Skip and I have not been to the movies in all that time. We’ve managed a few socially-distanced get-togethers, some raucous trips to Trader Joe’s and a ghostly walk through Colonie Center, but winter weather and the roller-coaster that has been COVID kept us mostly apart this past year, and that’s been one of the more upsetting losses in this sad pandemic. Fortunately we’ve kept our friendship going through texts and social media – do us both a favor and follow him on Twitter (@daddydadblog) because he’s much more interesting than me.
This year there are no festivities, a sad situation to which we are all mostly already acclimated. While the sting of disappointment is not unexpected, it’s still a little depressing, so as part of his gift this year I included a book for touring Savannah, to give us both a little hope. If we’re lucky, one of our next trips will be to Savannah – a rare couples get-away that we haven’t done enough.
One of the things that Skip and I have in common is an insatiable love of living in the dream ideas of the moment. We can sit around and talk for hours about plans and possibilities, egging each other on with grandiose scenarios of how our world could, and perhaps should, be. Hatching schemes and running through various future events is not a bad way to spend time with a friend, especially when the majority of those plans come to fruition. We’ve plotted out all of our BroSox Adventure weekends in such a fashion, as we did various rendezvous with our significant others – the four of us meeting for cocktails in Times Square after a show, or dinner and a movie in Albany, and even a Friday night of games in Boston with their kids too. These days the power of planning – even if it’s just a fantasy – is imperative to keep dreams alive.
The silly tour book of Savannah is my way of giving his second COVID birthday a little bit of hope. Happy birthday, old friend – here’s to getting back on track!
Spring flowers that are kissed with color will never be unwelcome here. I think these are azaleas of some sort – their petals are painted by the powers-that-be, and the effect is striking. While I’ve never been a big fan of the over-hybridized or extra-frilly ornamental flowers that these exemplify, I’m changing in the time of the pandemic, and my tastes have shifted too. I’m less willing to find fault with certain things, and more willing with others. These flowers are not deserving of criticism – they are spreading joy and happiness and I want only to applaud that.
Anything that started with someone’s job at the circus is going to be a good story, and if it involves underwear and swimwear at the end, so much the better. Such is the magnificent tale of Patrick Allen Wood, our Dazzler of the Day, who began his noble quest with a job at the circus, and ended up crafting something for everyone. Unable to find properly-fitting clothing, he took it upon himself to make his own, resulting in the skills and self-honed talents that eventually translated to his current work creating swimwear and underwear. And what wonderful work it is – fabrics and patterns and styles that are as timeless as they are cutting-edge, Wood crafts garments that are wearable works of art. Best of all, he models them himself – and the best designers are those who walk the runway in their own work. Check out his website here.
They have come to symbolize the very beginning and the very end of the winter season. The bloom of the Paperwhite narcissus brings back opposing memories. It happens that I either force them first thing in season, so their blooms come just as fall is ripening into winter, or I forget about them and end up forcing them at the very end of winter, just as the first spring thaws arrive, which is what happened this year. As such, the memories they trigger are at once conflicting – the gray days of November at odds with the gray days of March – but there are joys to be found in each segment of the calendar, and in a way their stature as bookends of winter is something of comfort.
Their fragrance is polarizing – though it’s all love from these parts. It brings me back to my very first experience forcing them. A friend of my Mom, joining us for a trip to Cape Cod, regaled me with tales of the forcing process, and I listened – fascinated and rapt with wonder at this new way of getting a bulb to bloom.
The most epic and glorious take-down of the perennially nasty Piers Morgan came this week in the simple declarations of Alex Beresford, which prompted Premiere Snowflake Piers to walk off the set and quit the show. That alone would have been enough to name Alex Beresford as Dazzler of the Day, but underneath the armor of his on-air wardrobe lurks this specimen of fit fantasy, so he’s doing double duty today.
The other day I went into the office and left my phone at home. I’ve never been one of those people who are glued to the phone – in fact, I was the last of my friends to even get a cel phone, and by far the last one to text – but eventually I gave in to both and made the most of it. Still, I prefer to go without than be bound to any technological crutch. I also tend to enjoy time alone and unbothered, so any excuse not to answer to texts or e-mails or calls is a blessing.
At first I did find myself reaching for the phone – out of habit – to check texts and e-mail, to see what people were posting on social media – but that only happened once. In its absence I soon felt a welcome respite of joy – the relief and release of not having easy access to FaceBook or Twitter or Instagram – and being separated from the social media world was a boon, particularly when at the office. That’s when something I realized only when it wasn’t instantly accessible, and it illuminated how reliant I’d become upon the phone as a way of escaping from the present moment. That’s not a good thing, at least not for me, and being mindful of the present moment is an integral piece of meditation that only seeps into the rest of life if you make the effort to let it.
On my lunch, instead of scrolling through everything I’d missed, head-down and oblivious to the world around me, I strolled through downtown Albany and could focus on every place and person I happened upon. The habitual nudge to document it with a few photos, or to stop and respond to someone’s text, was still with me, but the notion of FOMO, usually an accompaniment of being out of touch, had subsided. It reminded me of lunches long ago, before I even had a cel phone, when I would be fully present and invested in the world around me. Life felt simpler then because it was simpler. We survived and went about our lives just as contentedly, if not more-so, than today, when we can be in touch with everyone at a moment’s touch of the screen. It was a healthy reminder for me to step away from the phone, to step away from social media, and to step back into the beautiful real world all around me.
She was probably the most famous casualty in the entire ‘Sex & the City’ series, and she certainly went out in a memorable way (the cost of a cigarette in those days…) Anyway, Kristen Johnston is named Dazzler of the Day not only for her scene-stealing antics on-screen, but for her courageous and brave recovery from addiction (chronicled in her brilliant memoir ‘Guts: The Endless Follies and Tiny Triumphs of a Giant Disaster’). Check her out in this final season of the hilarious, and often moving, sitcom ‘Mom’ (made all the more exhilarating thanks to Johnston’s surprisingly tender portrayal of Tammy) and then find and follow her magnificent Twitter feed, @thekjohnston.
These beauties showed up at my weekly visit to Faddegon’s, and I was reminded that I need to plant more of them outside. This is the Lenten rose; one of the first bloomers in the perennial border, they also have handsome and stalwart foliage that lasts and maintains its beauty throughout the entire season. In milder winters, some of it remains evergreen. We don’t have many mild winters in these parts, so by spring much of their evergreen tendencies have been worn to tattered and torn bits. I find it better to clip those off entirely so the plant can focus all its energy into new growth. Such is the brutal way of the garden.
Back when I first planted the lone specimen we have in the backyard, my preferences were for shades of bright pink, speckled or striped petals, and the usual circus-like atmosphere of color and spectacle I favored a couple of decades ago. Now I find myself more drawn to the cream and soft green blooms that the genus offers, and will look to put on in this coming season. I wish I’d gotten to it sooner – they take several years to settle in and bloom, especially if they’re young, or gone through some trauma (such as transplanting tends to inflict). Even in this unsteady world, it feels good to plan for the future, just a bit.
One is bound to break a few things over the course of a lifetime. If you’re as emotionally clumsy as some of us, you’re bound to break quite a bit more – hearts, heads, spirits – and only if you’re lucky and especially careful can you claim not to have a made such a mess at one point or another. I’ve made my share of messes, though these days the things I break are objects and bad habits – both of which can be mended or, better, dispensed with entirely.
Yet a few months ago, a mug I’ve managed to keep intact for almost two decades, and one of my favorite objects, fell from my hands onto the kitchen floor and immediately broke into several pieces. The curse of 2020, Mercury in Retrograde, and who knows what else conspired to take it from me, and I despondently picked up the pieces as best as I could, chucking some of the smaller shards to keep our feet safe. I took a few photos to document its demise, before Andy came out and said he could fix it.
Andy is quite good at mending things – usually all he needs is some glue, a baby screwdriver, or some spackle and sandpaper, but I didn’t have much faith because even if it went back together I would forever be fighting the mental image of my lips getting sliced by a sharp piece of broken cup. That said, I also had visions of ‘Kintsugi’ the Japanese art of mending broken pottery, so I wanted to see what Andy might manage.
Kintsugi traditionally employs a tree sap laquer laced with powdered metal – such as gold or platinum – instead of a clear glue, to fix a piece of broken pottery. The intent is to highlight and beautify the cracks and fissures, making them part of the art and history of a piece. I love that idea – the notion of taking our faults and literally turning them into gold, into beauty, into art. In some ways, that is the goal of so much of my life.
This was just a tea cup – a cheap one at that, originally procured on a whim from Marshall’s – and Andy was able to put it back together. That isn’t always the case, as we were immediately reminded a few weeks later: our furnace broke, after a three-day ordeal of fix-its and not-so-fix-its and it’s the sort of breakdown that can’t be fixed with pretty paint and golden veining. Rather than moan or lament our unlucky circumstance, we worked in tandem to figure out the best way to tackle the problem. Twenty-plus years into our relationship, we look in the same direction, seeking out the same goal, and a solution for when dilemmas arise, especially the unexpected ones.
The advent of Lent (only true Catholics will rejoice at what I did there) makes this a bit of a Madonna moment, so entwined has some of her music been with the Catholic religion. Her most spiritual albums have been released in the month of March – see ‘Like A Prayer‘ and ‘Ray of Light‘ – and she recently re-issued some ‘Like A Prayer’ remixes that are positively divine. I’m treating you to the ‘Churchapella’ version here for a lovely almost-acoustic take on her epic song – a song that has stood the tests of time and controversy to stand alone as a piece of perfect art. Just like a muse to me…
