The new thing is making words up, or so I’m telling people, and I’m all about the new thing. Today that word is ‘sprice’ – which in its original long-winded form translates as ‘spring ice’ – something we had the misfortune of finding in our backyard thanks to a wayward sprinkler system. A small spray of water coated and transformed a lace-cap hydrangea during a windy and cold day this past weekend, hopefully not killing it in the process. In the sunlight and against the blue sky, it made for a beautiful, if slightly disturbing, scene.
These early days of spring are so iffy, like the season is not quite ready to arrive or reveal itself. Winter’s tail-whip can lash back worse than that demon did in ‘Lord of the Rings’ – you shall not pass and all that jazz. We won’t make it out of the winter wilderness for certain until May.
Just when you think the world has gone all brown and gray, something like this pops in at the tail-end of a lunch-time walk, and everything is exciting again. A blue spruce illuminated by the afternoon soon, framed by an expanse of blue sky. There’s a clarity at this time of the year that you can’t usually find in summer or later spring. It echoes the crisp, clear atmosphere of fall, which makes sense.
For some reason I’ve always been resistant to embracing evergreens. Something in me wanted more dramatic transformation during the year – the shedding of a wardrobe and the regrowth of a new one each season. Evergreens go through their own growth spurts, usually of a brighter green and softer texture – that tender spring time when things haven’t been hardened off yet, when a killing frost might just do that if one decided to linger.
Not so for the branch in this photo. It’s been put through the winter ringer and paid its dues. A grizzled and fortified collection of pin-prick-like arrows, protecting any pinecone carriage and fending off any wayward predators unlikely to attack from the sidewalk below or sky above. I admire such resilience and strength, particularly in the face of our winters. I also admire such simple beauty. Nature knows exactly what she’s doing.
We shall see whether the month exits like a lamb or retains its lion-like properties. Personally, I love a lion. Weather-wise, however, we are ready for something gentler. If it’s a quiet lion, soft and demure, then it is welcome. Otherwise, cue the lambily’s entrance. Or exit. Whatever. On with this recap as sponsored by Mercury in retrograde…
Last week we had the first day of spring, a full moon, and Mercury was still in retrograde (a sorry state that continues through the first half of this week). How we made it through that mess is something I’ll never understand (assuming we did in fact make it through – at the time of this writing we are still in it).
The last thing the internet is needs is another crappy, poorly-shot moon photo, but too fucking bad. You’re getting two. I love when the moon hangs low, and when it wobbles to and fro. Perched in a tree, or slung over the sea, it’s a thing of beauty, even if it inspires lunacy. Among the lunatics, there is a certain thread of truth running through the loopy. I dwell in the realm of such lunacy, and the land of strange truth. The moon brings it all out.
Good luck to all of us swayed by its pull and transfixed by its spell.
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.
