Our suite at the Taj Hotel was perched ideally over the Boston Public Garden. Looking out the window, I spotted my parents, Andy’s Dad and Andy’s sister making their way along Arlington and then across Newbury Street. Suzie, Chris and Elaine would soon join us for a quick gathering in the suite for photos, and then a brief cocktail hour at the downstairs bar before the rehearsal dinner.
For some reason, the song I remember playing in the background was this portion of a Wizard of Oz suite:
Not entirely unfitting for the end of our wicked single lives, especially as threads of ‘Over the Rainbow’ ran whimsically through it. It was music for the preparatory excitement of a night before. Is there a happier moment than the night before? When all is promise and hope and anticipatory delight? Back then I lived in the night before, and the night before our wedding was especially lovely.
Tomorrow marks our 10th wedding anniversary and I have two posts slated to celebrate the occasion. Given the state of the world, it will be a different anniversary than all our other ones, and that gives us a chance to start again, with new traditions and new adventures. Even if they take place in our own home.
“If I ever go looking for my heart’s desire again, I won’t look any further than my own backyard. Because if it isn’t there, I never really lost it to begin with.” ~ Noel Langley
When the Lenten rose first emerges, sometimes before the winter is even done, it is often ragged and half-rotten, its leaves torn, any early blooms tattered and battered by snow and ice and wind. The first showing is deceptive. No one, well, no one I know, and most certainly not the man in the mirror, looks good first thing in the morning. We require some time to pep up, to re-hydrate our skin and wrinkles, to smooth out the sleep lines and fatigue. In much the same way, the Lenten rose needs a few weeks of recuperative conditions to fully become the beauty you see before you in this post.
And like every year, it’s more than worth the wait.
Through some quirk of the internet and iTunes sales, Madonna’s ‘edtime Stories’ album from 1994 just shot to #1 on their chart, with ‘American Life’ gaining in chart action as of this writing. The #JusticeForBedtimeStories and #JusticeForAmericanLife tags were in full effect on the Madonna fan pages, contributing to their successful drive to bring her under-rated and under-appreciated works into the spotlight again. (Personally, I think a #1 for ‘Ray of Light’ is the more obvious choice, but that was widely regarded as a super-success/comeback so perhaps that’s why no one remembers it only ever made it to #2. If it wasn’t the damn Bodyguard soundtrack, it was the damn Titanic soundtrack blocking her perch on the top limb.)
As for these two albums, fans have always appreciated them, for the most part. It feels like ‘Bedtime Stories’ is the more favored of the two, though die-hard ‘American Life’ devotees will argue with that assessment. Such arguments used to be fun and engaging – now they’re simply tiresome, so we won’t get into it any more here. For now, let’s look back at the songs from the albums that have been examined in the Madonna Timeline and celebrate the legacy that such interesting pieces of her oeuvre has ensured.
A winter squash and mushroom curry stew is made into something spectacular with a dressing of fresh coriander leaves. (If you call it coriander you can spoil many a cilantro-hater’s dining experience, as I am wont to do.) This recipe felt more like fall and winter to me, but we had a string of rainy and dreary days last week, and it was easy to find some butternut squash and mushrooms, so here we have it. The coriander makes it much more spring-like, especially when kept intact and not chopped.
A super sunny weekend was just what our Kwanzan cherry tree needed to begin its annual show. These happy blooms coincided with the turn of the season – emotionally and weather-wise – even if we are due for rain in a few more days. The roller-coaster of spring rushes onward – up and down and round and round. The buds snuck up on me this year. Our downtrodden state of affairs had given me no reason to raise my head skyward, and on rainy days when I ventured outside, I was mostly hunched over, seeking signs of life on the ground, not in the air.
Thus my surprise was pleasant and immense as the buds swelled seemingly overnight and the first pink blossom unfurled its pretty tutu, dancing and twirling in the wind. Some years the pool has already been opened by this time. Not so this time around, as everything is running a bit behind. We are also due for a new pool liner, which will delay things even more. The only good thing about that is that when the flower petals fall, they won’t be clogging the filter, though I will miss the pretty way they float on the water.
Depending on their stage of development and bloom, cherry blossoms are each distinctive and unique. it is practically impossible to find two twins on the tree, which adds to their allure. Like people, even and sometimes especially twins, every one is an individual, to be compared only to themselves, or maybe the blue of the sky and the abstract notion of beauty.
My friend and webmaster Skip has been admired by many for his way with words, as well as his way with wisdom. I didn’t need to be reminded of it because it’s one of the things I value about his friendship, but it’s always nice to see something like this recent FaceBook post he wrote because then I know others are getting to witness his genius. He manages to cut through the current political situation with a sports parable that is powerful and insightful. It speaks for itself, and it speaks volumes:
Say what you will about hating the Yankees, and boy do I hate the Yankees. But I can’t say that I’m not sad about what happened to Mo Rivera. He’s a class act and I respect him as a player. I hope it’s not the end for him. The greatest closer the game has ever seen deserves a better exit than that…
This post from 8 years ago got me thinking. I have been a Red Sox fan for as long as I can remember. But I have never shied away from giving proper respect where it’s due. As was the case with Mo. He deserved respect because of the way that they played the game. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t ‘rooting’ for him. But I admired him nonetheless and wished him the best and the respect that they earned. I can reconcile this and still dislike the Yankees and all that they stand for. At the same time I can say, as a Red Sox fan, that Jonathan Papolbon was a gigantic douchebag and wasn’t worth respect from a Red Sox or Yankee fan alike. Sure he had a couple of wins but that didn’t change the fact that he carried himself like a tool and disrespected the game and the fans.
So why can’t people be like this politically? Let’s be honest here … Most of you are just rooting for “your team.” That’s the god’s honest truth. You can oppose someone and be civil to someone who has earned respect. And you can also realize that you can still love your team and realize that a player on it hasn’t done anything to earn your respect and supporting them because they are on your “team” makes you blind to the fact that they don’t give a shit about you regardless of whether or not you are a fan. ~ Skip Montross
[Insert May the Fourth Be With You stupidity here.]
This week marks our 10th anniversary, and Andy and I will have to find a way to celebrate differently this year given that we won’t be making it back to Boston just yet. Love has faced greater hardships – we will simply do a proper Boston celebration later. As for recapping the past few days, get ready for the roller coaster. The last week knocked me down and helped me back up in hair-pin turn fashion. It began in rainy mode and stayed there more often than not, before ending in a gloriously sunny weekend that completely restored my spirit. We’ll get into that happy ending this week, so come back for sunnier entries. In the meantime, we shouldn’t forget the rainy days, because there will always be more of those too. On with the recap, and then the new week.
“When we start off in life, we look at reality with wonder, but it isn’t the intelligent wonder of the mystics; it’s the formless wonder of the child. Then wonder dies and is replaced by boredom, as we develop language and words and concepts. Then hopefully, if we’re lucky, we’ll return to wonder again.” ~ Anthony de Mello
The world whipped my butt this week (stop asking for photos of that) and so I’m taking this time and doing my best to turn it into a learning experience. I had a tremendous therapy session which helped a great deal, because once in a great while the universe saves you when you least expect it but need it the most.
This week’s awareness quote from Anthony de Mello is the aspirational motivation I need to keep going in these uncharted times. It may help to turn what might first be perceived as difficult and different into something challenging and wondrous – an adventure that one can learn from and embrace, a trial that might make us all better in the long run. That’s always hard to see in the first moments of hardship and confusion, and our initial instincts may be to lash out or hide the pain within. Neither is very conducive to growth or improvement
At a time in our history when we are being forced to slow down and consider our actions more than any other in my lifetime, perhaps the universe is reminding us to reconnect with the basic tenets of what makes us human. To find the wonder and exuberant innocence of a child, to step back and away from the language and concepts and social constricts we have artificially created to distract and entertain ourselves from the natural beauty of the world.
This site leans toward that beauty. I strive to find the pulchritude of a flower, a leaf, a bird, a cloud, a plate of food, a drink garnished with verbena, a colorful scarf, a sparkling bauble, or a photograph outlining the gorgeous contours of the human body. The beauty of a song, the memory evoked by a certain melody, a fragrance that recalls the first day of summer after a whole year of school that ran all the way through June.
In beauty there is wonder. There is all that we don’t and never could understand. It is a strange thing to reach for that kind of wonder. Strange and beautiful and, well, wonderful.
I’ve had to remind myself of that this past week, when rainy days matched difficult circumstances, as work and Andy’s health issues came to a head and kicked my emotional ass. I did my best, and I faltered a few times. The state of the world is bearing down on us all. It can be, and has been, a bit overwhelming. For the most part, I thought I was doing all right – and I still think I am – but this has been a tough few days. The rain didn’t help matters, even if it did help the garden. And so I take the good with the bad, remembering that it’s all right to fall down now and then, as long as we can pick ourselves up again. It’s a cliche, and normally I’d cringe at using such a phrase, but when you’ve never felt that way before it means a little bit more.
In the past, every little failure was a life-stalling disaster. Every flow or foible along the way was reason to dip into a stultifying state of immobility. Aloofness, shyness, sadness ~ name the ‘ness unless it started with happy and I’d embrace the chance to revel in the awfulness of it all. Each setback was compounded with a resulting mind-trap, and while the world generally, and genuinely, did not care what missteps I made, I took each and every mistake to heart, and I took everything personally. It took forty years to realize the grave error of such small ways. Hence this post.
It’s ok to trip up and stumble. No one is perfect. The new trick, for me, is learning to embrace these setbacks as opportunities to learn and challenge myself, to grow and become better, because I very much believe it will lead to happiness. We shall see…
When the brain is fried and the times are crazed, best to regroup with a random selection of shirtless male celebrities who have appeared in varying degrees of undress on this site previously. May this help to focus any scattered minds, and remind everyone of what website does when it’s at its best: superficial shirtless randomness. (We’ll do a naked male celebrity post in the near future, for now it’s Shirts vs. Skins in the World Series of Salaciousness.)
Let’s begin with the newly-retired Chris Mears. Retiring at such a young age makes him a hero in my eyes, and expands the general notion that retirement is something that happens once and then we head out to pasture. There’s also something very powerful about stepping away from a career while at your prime. That’s how I want to go. (I suppose I have to approach my prime first…) As for Mr. Mears, check out his other posts here, here, here, here, and here. They are all equally impressive.
Speaking of hairy chests, visit Scott Caan’s previous appearance here. For the tightey-whitey fans, check out Joshua Jackson’s brief-clad homage to the DILF concept. (Future Hunk of the Day post in store for him…)
If ever a non-holiday had an awkward-sounding name, this is it! Welcome to World Naked Gardening Day. This spin-off of guerilla gardening, it was created by Mark Storey and Jacob Gabriel, who have since steppe into the shadows of promoting it, but it’s taken on a life of its own because being naked in the garden is part of our Adam and Steve DNA.
Since our gardens are a bit behind this year, and the pool is still closed, I won’t be frolicking in Adam’s original outfit in real time (I know, such a lost opportunity…) However, in keeping with the spirit of things, I dug out (get it, like with a garden spade?) some old photos of nakedness near the garden because it’s always fun to join the celebration.
“Do you, good people, believe that Adam and Eve were created in the Garden of Eden and that they were forbidden to eat from the tree of knowledge? I do. The church has always been afraid of that tree. It still is afraid of knowledge. Some of you say religion makes people happy. So does laughing gas. So does whiskey. I believe in the brain of man.” –Clarence Darrow
WHEN KIDS ARE DIFFERENT, YOU JUST KNOW. YOU CAN TELL ~ ADULTS CAN TELL. AND THE QUIET KIDS WERE NEVER, WELL, YOU KNOW, THEY JUST DON’T FIT IN. AND IF YOU DON’T FIT IN AT THE BEGINNING, YOU NEVER REALLY FIT IN, EVER, DO YOU?
“The attraction of the virtuoso for the public is very like that of the circus for the crowd. There is always the hope that something dangerous may happen.” ~ Claude Debussy
‘Under the Big Top’ gained a whole new meaning for me with the advent of ‘The Circus Project‘ in 2008. Fascinated by the abstract notion of a circus, and how it had historically been an occasional refuge for so-called freaks and the dwellers on society’s fringe, I wanted to explore the idea of being different in a world that treated difference with both wonder and disgust. That icky element of human nature that revels in finding things grotesque and monstrous while being unable to look away or diminish its fascination with them.
Apart and belonging, two sides of a dangerous coin, a trick coin really, as if the world was only ever made up of two choices. Very few things are truly binary. There is too much room for shade and nuance and varying gradations of just about everything. The circus exists in this in-between area of gray, though it disguises its flaws with garish color and death-defying acts to draw attention away from its problematic underside.
We seek the solace of a smile and think we’ll find it in a car with clowns. We seek the reprieve of a laugh in a prancing pony. We seek and we seek and we seek, and all the while what we seek proves ever more hidden and elusive, as though the very act of reaching for it perpetually moves it further away. Is there a string attached somewhere that pulls as we push? Some trick mechanism that results in an equal and opposite reaction, making the very act of our quest a nihilistic end unto itself? The Circus Project posits such challenges while making no motion to resolve them.
THERE’S ONLY TWO TYPES OF PEOPLE IN THE WORLD: THE ONES THAT ENTERTAIN, AND THE ONES THAT OBSERVE.
~ BRITNEY SPEARS, ‘CIRCUS’
“I unconsciously decided that, even if it wasn’t an ideal world, it should be so and painted only the ideal aspects of it – pictures in which there are no drunken slatterns or self-centered mothers . . . only foxy grandpas who played baseball with kids and boys who fished from logs and got up circuses in the back yard.” ~ Norman Rockwell
“Damn everything but the circus! …damn everything that is grim, dull, motionless, unrisking, inward turning, damn everything that won’t get into the circle, that won’t enjoy. That won’t throw its heart into the tension, surprise, fear and delight of the circus, the round world, the full existence.” – e. e. cummings
“I am invisible, understand, simply because people refuse to see me. Like the bodiless heads you see sometimes in circus sideshows, it is as though I have been surrounded by mirrors of hard, distorting glass. When they approach me they see only my surroundings, themselves or figments of their imagination, indeed, everything and anything except me.” ~ Ralph Ellison
Part of combatting a pesky strain of perfectionism I’ve been unable to completely shake for the past forty-four years is in gleefully accepting my own flaws, failings, mistakes and ridiculousness. I’m much better at that now. And I’m better at being wrong, apologizing, and moving on. That said, there is nothing wrong with this happy outfit. It’s not here for any reason other than I found it in a folder I was excavating, and since Andy and I are discussing a new pool liner, it felt right to put it up here. Has absolutely nothing to do with battling perfectionism. Which makes it absolutely imperfect!
It was hidden beneath a pile of clothes on the bed in the guest room. Under scarves and a robe and the last few ties I wore to work, it poked its colorful head up above a black belt. Gaudy and slightly garish in a colorful geometric pattern, it was a wonder that it could go unnoticed for so long. I guess I’d forgotten about it when the world fell apart however many weeks ago. A new Trina Turk toiletry bag, it had been purchased in the preliminary excitement of planning a trip to New York City that encompassed a weekend at the Plaza Hotel, a couple of shows on and off Broadway, and, most preciously and importantly, time with some good friends. I uncovered it on a recent rainy morning and was hit with a wave of unexpected emotion.
It looked so sad and forlorn, if an object can appear to have emotions. Still packed with contents selected for a fancy weekend, it sat with its mouth zipped close, unwilling to even whisper of its secrets, unable to utter the least objection at being entirely underutilized. I paused, suddenly feeling too exhausted to stand, but the bed was too messy to sit upon, so I stood there, on the verge of tears and not quite knowing why.
Maybe I was in a state of shock.
Maybe some part of me knew I wouldn’t be able to handle the reality of what the current state of the world meant, or the dark possibility of what it might mean for our future.
But when I saw that silly new toiletry bag, something wrenched in my stomach. It was like the sad half of a doughnut that I found on a plate on my grandmother’s kitchen table after she went to the hospital. I had to get some of her things from the empty apartment when I found the little doughnut: an act of life, so mundane and yet so poignant, frozen in mid-motion.
I stopped still, like I did back then, arrested by the sorry sight of this embodiment of dashed hopes and dreams, of a stalled and stunted moment of our lives, instantly ended and canceled and all those words that only ever lead to regret and sorrow.
Picking up the little bag, I unzipped it. There it was ~ my frivolous life put on hold, or perhaps snuffed out forever, at least in the ways and manners to which we have become so happily accustomed. A small bar of rose-scented soap from the Beekman Boys, to bring a bit of decadence to the hotel shower. A full-size tube of face wash, because there was only enough left for a few more uses ~ I was going to leave it at the hotel for a lighter trip back. A small vial of allergy pills ~ the first of the season, and always exciting to begin again because it meant better weather was on the way. A tiny glass sample bottle of Tom Ford’s ‘Oud Fleur’ in case I wanted to add that on a wrist. (My main fragrance was going to be ‘Straight to Heaven’ by Kilian.) All those plans came rushing back and a wave of sorrow washed over me.
It’s stunning how our brains work to protect us, but eventually those protection devices are removed for us to deal with things directly. It felt like it was time to mourn.
That night, Andy picks up a dinner from Yono’s ~ they are doing a one-night take-out special of Indonesian comfort food ~ bakmi goreng. When at last he arrives home, I dive into it, and as delicious as it is, I pause in my enjoyment and think of Yono’s family doing all they know how to do ~ helping and bringing joy to people through food and merriment ~ it’s what they have done for years ~ and I’m struck with grief that we are not sitting in one of their restaurants, surrounded by other people laughing and celebrating and eating good food. I realize how much of the human experience we are losing every day.
I want to rage at the world. At the leader of our country who allowed it to get this far. At the stupid people still spreading it through their own selfishness and stupidity. At the people who say too much. At the people who say too little. At the need to blame. At my image in the mirror. At the sparkling coat I never got to wear walking down a staircase of the Plaza Hotel. At my pettiness. At my vanity. At my validity. I want to yell and scream and tear the walls down. I want to weep and cry and wail, thrashing around on the floor, ripping tears from my eyes like a child in the throes of a tantrum.
Mostly, though, I want to mourn, because I know it’s time. This may very well be the new normal for the foreseeable future, and to be ok with that, to embrace it and find new ways of joy, I know I have to go through the sadness and the sorrow and the anger. I have to acknowledge all of those difficult emotions, and the unknowable outcome of what may or may not happen next. We are not good with uncertainty, but that is our reality now. And so, I make motions to grieve.
I mourn that I don’t make plans in the future anymore, like I used to do, in the way that once brought me such profound happiness and excitement and silly exuberance.
I mourn that I can’t see a movie with Skip. I mourn that I can’t spend a weekend in Boston with Kira or in the Cape with JoAnn.
I mourn that I can’t talk to Marline and Sherri and Lorie every morning in the office.
And so I watch. Seeking out images of comfort. I see Melissa Etheridge and her daughter singing and smiling. I see Dominick Purnomo and his family feeding our city. I see Rufus Wainwright playing the piano in his robe for us. I see the musicians at The Front Porch broadcasting their concerts for FaceBook. I see people Zooming and connecting in whatever way they can. I see my friends teaching their children. I see my Mom taking my Dad for walks and patiently explaining that OTB is closed for a while. I see Andy making me a cup of coffee in the middle of the day when I would normally be at work. I see the people I love finding their way through all of these unknown and untread paths, and I think it might be ok.
We were meant to connect. We were meant to be together. That may be the greatest lesson in all of this, at least for me. Just when I was starting to figure that out, this virus came along and stopped the world, separating and dividing us. At the very moment I was ready to hug and be hugged, we were suddenly told that could be what killed us. It is a frighteningly primal thing, this need to connect and be a part of humanity. I didn’t realize or understand that until it was taken away.
A multitude of variations on this grapefruit spritzer are in store for the spring and summer months, though I will try not to bore you with all the mocktail madness unless I can dress things up with backdrops of colorful scarves or poolside scenes. You’d be surprised at the reactions a tall glass of water gets when framed with a Speedo-clad crotch shot. Such is the delicate balance I attempt to achieve on this blog. Cocktails and cock shots. Classy as ever.
This quick concoction is a simple squeeze of a grapefruit (strained to eliminate seeds and bulky pulp), a few coins of peeled fresh ginger, and a healthy spoonful of honey diluted with a few spoonfuls of scalding hot water. Shake vigorously with ice and top with grapefruit-flavored seltzer. Garnish with a twist of grapefruit or some grapefruit mint. (The latter is not yet out in the garden, so a twist will have to suffice.)
