Some filler posts are filled better than others, but you don’t have to take my word for it. Gaze upon the form of one Cristiano Ronaldo, football player extraordinaire who also has his own line of underwear which he has been kind and generous enough to model time and time and time and time again.
This year’s Super Bowl was one big-ass dud (with the possible exception of the Adam Levine strip show) but ball games never interested me as much as shiny phallic men. Tonight is the Academy Awards, and once again I’m not as excited about the night as I’ve been in the past (cite a combination of the new Academy nomination process – how many films are up for Best Picture now? – tiresome hosting issues (Kevin who?) and just getting older and growing uninterested in such things). I still have some favorites, including ‘The Favourite’ and Glenn Close, as well as Cate Blanchett and Nicole Kidman in whatever gown they’ll choose to wear, and of course I’ll watch because there’s something comforting about fluff and entertainment in this present climate.
In the past I’ve done some online posts about the Oscar ceremony (some FaceBook stuff and lots of Tweets) and a recap of commentary on this very blog, and perhaps I’ll get a second wind and do a bit of that, but as we near the last month of winter, I’m probably going to be too exhausted for any of that. (Follow or Friend me just in case.)
Anyway, let’s get some glamour going. We need it now.
While the rest of the world alternately celebrates and condemns the appointment of Shawn Mendes as the new body and face of Calvin Klein (almost as divided as the views on Adam Levine’s shirtless gyrating at this very-non-epic Super Bowl), a few have expressed their belief that the new CK bulge rightfully belonged to Nick Jonas. I suggested as much in this underwear-proposal post, but I also suggested Mr. Mendes as a possibility, so no complaints. The state of the internet demands conflict and discord and no unanimous celebration about much of anything these days, so it’s no surprise that Shawn Mendes in his Calvin Klein underwear didn’t win universal praise. Perhaps the same would hold true for Nick Jonas, I don’t know. Compare his underwear bulge and body in posts here and here and here, and then witness him out of clothing altogether in this naked Nick Jonas post. {See also a half-naked Joe Jonas here, here, and here.}
That noble sentiment, so much easier said than done, is the opening salvo to Mike Rickard’s latest album ‘Out Loud.’ The title track, dedicated to the “victims, survivors and families of the Pulse Orlando shooting†resounds with defiant jubilance, refusing to be cowed or broken by hatred and fear. “I thought I was the only one,†he sings, “But I know I’m not alone. The faces may change but the story’s still the same. I am them and they are me, and we are strong.†Setting up the strength of love to vanquish hate, it’s a proclamation that Rickard has made throughout his musical career, but perhaps one which was difficult even for him to fully believe. The past few years have made political activists out of anyone who dares to be different or dares to be themselves. Rickard takes up the mantle, putting fear and frustration to song, as in the shuffling ‘Alright’ and the melancholy ‘Don’t Feed the Ghosts’ – the latter of which finds him ready to give final exorcism to past events, a glorious kiss-off to what has come and gone but still finds a way to haunt him.
‘Out Loud’ accomplishes what Rickard has always done well: it tells stories, setting emotion to characters and music, and bringing the listener along for the ride, as it so compellingly proves with ‘Six Queer Kids’ and its powerful video. Telling the not-uncommon tale of a boy kicked out of his home for being gay, and the ensuing tragedies that result, it weaves its warning with a barely-there lining of hope:
Contrasting with the somber social themes, the midsection and heart of the album has Rickard waxing wistful and romantic, as on ‘You’re to Blame’ and ‘Taste Your Smile,’ in which he indulges in some happy reflections on being in love. “So let me say it, let me lay it on the line,†he sweetly opines, “I still see you, like I saw you for the first time.†As in most great love stories, ambivalence and doubt creeps into this one as well, yet the honesty that tempers it brings about something more genuine and lasting. As heard in ‘Wouldn’t Be Love’ the narrator finds a way of reconciling the trials and breaking points of life as the very things that strengthen and solidify love. The complex quartet of love songs rounds itself out with ‘What Love Looks Like’ – a simple but heartfelt distillation of a true romance that sways gently and sweetly.
Sonically, Rickard’s music has evolved since ‘Stirred, Not Shaken’ ~ moving further along from the occasionally-country inflections of that early work to incorporate a few more electronic flourishes without sacrificing song structure. It makes sense given the trajectory that can be explored later on in ‘Sweat’ and its follow-up remix EP that ‘Out Loud’ completes this journey in brilliant fashion.
The penultimate cut is a gorgeously string-adorned aural jewel to keep on keeping on: ‘Not Finished Yet;’ comes with telling punctuation to indicate that Rickard’s voyage is far from over, and it speaks to a broader and more compelling message to anyone about to give up. He closes out this album with ‘Surrender’ – a dose of hard-earned wisdom that uncertainty and doubt, when acknowledged and honored, are the other sides of acceptance and confidence; without them any genuine self-love rings slightly hollow. It takes most of us a number of years before coming to such a place. After an album, and a lifetime, of introspective tension, Rickard finally lets loose, surrendering in a clever sonic illustration of steely vulnerability. A little bit bruised, a little bit broken, and all the more beautiful because of it.
{If you happen to be in the Atlanta area this evening, pop in to Mike Rickard’s listening party for his latest album, ‘Out Loud’ at the Red Light Cafe. For more information on ‘Out Loud’ and other work, check out Mr. Rickard’s website here.}
The very first sundial I ever encountered was in the semi-secret side garden of the Ko house. In the center of a circular stand of hosta, which itself was in the middle of a formal stone-lined section of the garden, near an enormous elm tree and not far from a grape arbor, it stood and marked the path of the sun, or so Suzie and I assumed. Neither of us could read it, even if the dial itself was still intact (that part remains fuzzy in my memory bank). I remembered what was in the surrounding garden quite more vividly: the beds of floppy peonies, heavy and wet from a previous eve’s rainfall – the dirty, leaf-filled basin of a small cement pool that was mostly dry all summer – and the bearded iris that insisted we sniff their beautiful fuzzy heads every time we passed. Only I obliged; Suzie was supremely uninterested in them, no matter how I extolled their virtues.
That sundial stood in the center of the space, yet it didn’t occupy the center of our thoughts. Children don’t often succumb to the intended focus of a place and we were no different. The bees buzzing in dangerous numbers among the Centaurea by the stone walkway demanded our notice, as did the perfume of that summer place, which I didn’t know then but subsequently discovered to be either the fringe tree nearer the street, or a hidden hedge of mockorange dividing the garden from the house next door. And grape taffy – Suzie shared some beneath the grape arbor, from which small green grapes were just starting to form – grapes that would never come to ripeness no matter how many times the sundial marked the day. Or maybe they did and we just weren’t there to witness them. Summer never lasted long enough when you were a kid.
The sundial seen in these winter photos was a gift from a few years ago, and I only just noticed the rather macabre grim reaper on it to indicate the passage of time, and its only slightly-more-hopeful message. Yikes. I’m going to take that as a sign of the passing winter, as it stands there in the snow, marking the march of the sun, and the passing season of a garden waiting to begin again.
I previously posted a quick text exchange between Skip and myself as a #TinyThread; today is Suzie’s turn, but don’t tell her because I didn’t get her permission yet.
SUZIE: I’m not positive on this, but a quick scan of our work fridge seems to indicate that someone brought in SpaghettiOs for lunch.
ME: Ok. NEVER scan the work fridge. This is basic office protocol. You put your stuff in, and you take your stuff out. Do not touch, look, scan or involve yourself in the rest of the fridge. It’s like Fight Club only more dangerous.
My days of teabagging it may finally be at an end. Sencha (or matcha) – the pulverized powdered form of green tea – makes the tea bag, the tea pot, and the whole steeping process obsolete. It also retains any and all nutritional value that may be thrown into the garbage via the tea bag – all those antioxidants and minerals remain intact, albeit in fine powdered form. Is this the greatest thing of which I’ve been woefully unaware all these years? Or is it just another way to chip away at the already-dwindling tea ceremony?
As quick and streamline and beneficial as this whole toss-the-teabag revolution is, I wonder if we’re missing the main thing that a cup of tea provides, which is more than flavor or nutrition or simple sustenance: it’s a ritual. Ritual is lost in the modern ways of getting things done in as quick and efficient a manner as possible. While I’m all for efficiency and time-saving, I also appreciate the slower process of tea-making and tea-drinking. Patience is an art – an art largely missing from many generations now.
To make up for the lack of a tea pot and tea bag, another elegant accessory comes into play for the matcha or sencha extravaganza: the chasen. We may be streamlining the tea experience, but we shall never give up an opportunity to accessorize. The fine bamboo stirring utensil looks like a flower itself, lending additional beauty to the intake of tea.
If you enjoy the undiluted or untampered-with flavor of green tea like I do, this makes for a nice blend on the tongue. So many green teas today are coupled with ginger or lemon or jasmine or other hoo-ha items, and that’s fine. I prefer mine simple and unbothered by such frills. The powdered form here gives a delicate green tea flavor – subtle and soft but distinctive enough to stand on its own. It also seems ideal for making something like green tea ice cream (at least I’m assuming it is, if I were skilled enough to make something like ice cream). I’ll leave that, and the cumbersome frozen canisters involved, to Andy. Not all accessories are pretty.
Situation: you’re at the café, you order your drink and you get about seventeen cents back in change. No spare dollar bill, not even a quarter – just some pennies, a nickel and a dime. Do you put this into the tip jar? I never do, thinking it’s more of an insult to give such a piddling amount. To me, it always felt like one of those silent fuck-you-I hate-change-too-so-I’m-leaving-the-mess-for-you-to-clean-up-while-looking-like-I’m-tipping-you-which-for-all-intents-and-purposes-I’m-not-because-what-the-fuck-can-anyone-do-with-seventeen-goddamn-cents moves. Am I wrong? Or does every penny count?
Ok, so technically maybe the Prudential Center is not exactly a mall – but it’s close enough in these times when malls are no longer the rage. This stand of ferns was planted beneath a spreading banyan tree, whose roots reached down from the air in tropical wonder, while a few feet outside the glass windows the winter wind raged. We will take our bits of beauty and balm where we can find them. If there’s some greenery involved in the middle of February, that’s a bonus. These are the little tricks that see us through the crueler months, and just because you find yourself walking through somewhere as common as the Pru doesn’t mean there aren’t quieter enchantments for the finding. This little stretch is always a happy trail – bright with all the windows and openness of the space – and it’s filled with a seasonally-updated collection of plants beneath the steadfast trees lining the walkway.
It leads to a bookstore – they once could be found around every corner, now they are an endangered species – and then to the entrance/exit closest to the condo, so I find myself here often, especially in the extreme-temperature months. It’s an oasis of sorts, and during lonelier times I would come here and sit, soaking in the light and the plants, calming the turbulent heart, waiting for the winter to pass.
“The things that make you strange are the things that make you powerful.†– Ben Platt
…to set the moment, to set the scene, and most importantly to set a memory.
With spring trips to Savannah, Boston, and New York in the planning stages, the first step in making anything happen is in selecting which cologne will usher in the Spring 2019 season. To that end, I’ve begun researching some possibilities, starting with three main contenders from the houses of Tom Ford and Hermes respectively.
First, ‘Beau de Jour’ by Mr. Ford is a fabulous fougere with a lavender tint that seems tailor-made for an anniversary stroll in Boston, as befitting a gentleman or two married for, say, nine years or so. Second, and perhaps first depending on the way the wind blows, is a new take on a classic Hermes fragrance – in the form of Equipage Geranium – which would work equally well in the Boston Public Garden or Savannah’s Forsyth Park en route to the Mercer House. I haven’t had much luck in finding something I adored from Hermes since Jean Claude Ellena departed after a few delicious Jardin creations, but as a whole they tend to veer toward the elegant and wistful, even if they lack in sillage and oomph. Spring is a time when it’s ok to be softer. There is enough noise from the birds and the bees and the flowers and the trees.
Third is the brand-new Jardin entry at Hermes (set to debut in March 2019 but available in certain secret circles already). Un Jardin Sur La Lagune is reportedly a white floral – featuring magnolia and sea salt, but since Ellena is no longer at the helm of the Jardin line, I must try it before ordering it blindly. I trust in Hermes, but fragrance at these price points is not something to, well, sniff at, so to speak. La Lagune, like all in the Jardin series, has an interesting inspirational back-story (I tend to take these as fanciful yarns rather than organic tales of literal truth, but if the end result is beautiful, what does it matter?) I won’t bore you with it now; if it happens to tickle my nose in a good way I’ll save the story for another write-up.
We’ve seen this battle before, the one between Hermes and Ford, and it always ends in glorious fashion because how can one go wrong with either house? Listen to my nonsense – I’m acting like one must choose between the two, when clearly the easiest solution is to get both so the choice may be based on the mood, the moment, and the magic at hand. Dilemma solved. Planning and preparation may commence. The scent of spring will soon carry on the wind…
The less said about the current state of political affairs, the better. I’ll just leave you with the hashtag everyone seemed to be using when Trump went golfing during a self-declared National Emergency: #MarALardAss. Now, let’s take a quick look back at the week that came before, then move quickly on to the week – and months, ahead. Spring shall return. Easter is around the corner. We are on the right track.
Things started off in promising fashion with Zac Efron shirtless and bulging in this hot post.
This larch wept beauty in the winter.
Force it until it pops.
The platonic Valentine.
Broken Valentine wings.
Open your heart to Madonna’s Valentine music.
Miso soup for winter.
Before I even realized he was going to drop trou officially, this gratuitous Shawn Mendes shirtless post went up.
Another winter weekend in Boston, under the sea.
Shawn Mendes debuted his bulge and became the new face and body of Calvin Klein.
A beautiful Valentine’s Day gift from Andy: ‘Beau de Jour’ by Tom Ford.
Additional undersea antics from Boston.
Follow these #TinyThreads for some light-hearted thoughtless fun.
Ahh, the aquarium.
It’s my favorite section of ‘The Carnival of Animals’ by Camille Saint-Saens ~ it manages to evoke the undulating flow of water and magic beneath the surface, along with evoking so much more ~ mystery, tension, wonder, beauty, tranquility, and the unknown. I’ve always felt a powerful peace when in the presence of an aquarium. Life is quieter under the water. It’s slower and more languid. There is violence there too, I suppose, but danger is everywhere when you think about it. It hints, rather terrifyingly, at the immensity of the world’s bodies of water. Lake or sea, river or ocean ~ each can overwhelm and astound with their vastness, their variety, their untamed wilderness.
Maybe we feel better when we take a few drops and encase it in glass where it can be controlled, where we might have a modicum of power. Maybe an aquarium is our way of mastering a natural element that would otherwise drown us. Or maybe we just like to capture and covet pretty things. The flower power of the sea anemone. The ribbon-like sinewy grace of a moray eel. This boxy little creature with the doe-like eyes and mottled skin. We want our beauty close and contained.
Sometimes being right is the loneliest thing in the world.
And sometimes the payoff for not being right is not being alone.
