Shot to the Heart, and Then A Splash

It is not enough to be adored.

How sad to finally say it, how sad to give up that ghost.

It’s easier to believe in something, no matter how far-fetched, no matter how ridiculous, than to face an empty truth. Some of us, like Joe Gillis, believe right up to the very end. The bullets tearing through his back must have come as quite the surprise. The first one doesn’t even stop him, so intent is he on walking out the door, away from the dream, into the future.

Most of us just stumble along, happily or sadly as circumstances allow, without the drive to move toward or away from something. I’ve always admired those who make the effort to do more, not only to steer the way, but to actively rev the engine. It’s a lazy thing to simply react to the world. To take a first step into something, no matter how unknown, is an act of courage.

To take the last step requires something more.

Resignation.

Reconciliation.

Redemption.

When at last we grip our bloodied chests, when our final breath floats to the surface and disappears, we find relief at the end of a journey.

The splash, and then the slow gentle sinking

Of a dream

Of a wish

Of a beginning.

The Delusional Grandeur Tour: Last Stand Of A Rock Star

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The Sun Starts to Set

It begins with a man floating face-down in a pool. Not just any pool, the pool belonging to Norma Desmond. The man has been shot, Ms. Desmond has gone delusional, and at this 40-year-old crux of my life, I feel sympathy and empathy for both. The dreamer destroyed by a world that passed him by; the dreamer destroyed by a world that passed her by. Both treated roughly, and both deserving it a little, because we all fall victim to our successes as much as to our failures. The sun sets equally on everyone. It cannot be stopped.

Audiences don’t know somebody sits down and writes a picture; they think the actors make it up as they go along.
~ Joe Gillis

My fascination and love of ‘Sunset Boulevard’ runs deeply. It runs darkly too. Ms. Desmond did, after all, slash her wrists in an act of desperation, hopelessness, manipulation and love. It was an act of defiance too, and, in a sad way, of nobility. She was a survivor, but not a successful one, and merely surviving is not the stuff of grandeur. We want to pretend it is, and we bestow honors on the Miss Daisy’s of the world to make it be true, but comebacks are never as glorious as that first initial high. It’s the nature of the beast.

You don’t yell at a sleepwalker – he may fall and break his neck. That’s it: she was still sleepwalking along the giddy heights of a lost career.
~ Joe Gillis

Joe Gillis and Norma Desmond are brittle and bitter, not wholly likeable, and selfish enough to want and want and want, but they were made that way, and why should anyone be blamed for being a product of their surroundings, of a world that so easily discards those who dare to dream and want? It’s a harsh view of our nature, a cold and contemptuous take on greed and fame and love, and there is little redemption to be found in the way either of them end up.

There’s nothing tragic about being 50, not unless you try to be 25.
~ Joe Gillis

 

Because ‘Sunset Boulevard’ played such an inspirational role in my very first tour, it’s only fitting that it rears its gorgeous and grotesque head again for my final tour. Here, an homage to the demise of Joe Gillis. There is peace in still water. Darkness too.

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Scene: A Pool, Late Afternoon

Sparkling in the waning hours of a sun-filled afternoon, the water looks inviting. Do not be deceived: this is no bath. The water is cold. Its still surface belies its deadly charm. Like some California dream, it is all an illusion. Pretty enough to look at, but no one would dare delve deeper into such a frigid world. Do we know the day when it is at hand? Do we ever really know the day? I think we only know it when it’s gone. It’s only real when it’s over. It is safer that way.

For now, a pause to admire the prettiness of the scene. A pristine look before bodies and waves and blood pierce moonlight-stained water. A bed of liquid to break a dead man’s fall. Or a pocket of delusions to give him wings. Either way, he’s about to take flight…

The Delusional Grandeur Tour: Last Stand of a Rock Star

Next Stop: SEATTLE, WA

 

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Return to the Emerald City

The Delusional Grandeur Tour traverses the country this weekend, as I make my way from Maine to the West Coast, and my first visit to Seattle since 1998. When last I left that Emerald City, I was riding in an over-heated white Volvo station wagon with Suzie, and as incongruent and unlikely as that sounds to my preferred mode of living, it was one of the happiest times of my life.

After a few days in Seattle, we had packed up Suzie’s meager minimalist belongings and headed out, and one of the only things I remember about that first day of traveling (aside from the over-heating) was a magnificent field of sunflowers, resplendent in the deep amber glow of an August sunset. It remains a memory that warms my heart all these years later – a memory of beauty, of contentment, only slightly tinged with restlessness, and emboldened by a golden lining of hope.

This time around, I’m focusing solely on Seattle – home of the Nordstrom flagship store, the fish-flinging Pike Place Market, the team of hunky Cooper Helfet, and a whole fleet of whales soaring through Puget Sound. In other words, it’s the ideal place for a touring adventure. A throwback and a new beginning in one. A return – not a comeback – and a moment ripe for a sunset…

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The Art of Touring

Having just spent a couple of days in Portland, Maine, it seems a little soon to be jetting off to the other side of the country, but such is the state of affairs when one is on tour. In a few days I’ll be in Seattle, and there are some serious ‘Delusional Grandeur Tour‘ posts coming up for that – but for now, a holding pattern to give me the chance to breathe.

The photos for this post were taken by permission in the Portland Museum of Art, where we were awaiting a showing of ‘Iris’ – and which is absolutely worth a trip for its own merit. A museum is a treat on the most beautiful sunny day (when there are fewer crowds) or the rainiest (when the place transports you to other realms of beauty). In this case, the day was hot, so we kept to the cool environs and surrounded ourselves with works of art. A ‘Director’s Cut’ show was on display, whereby various directors of other Maine museums had supplied some of their signature works for a grand exhibition – a greatest hits if you will. It was comforting to see the many pieces that referenced or originated in Ogunquit. We’ll head back there as we get deeper into the fall. Before that, I’m heading West… life is peaceful there.

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Kim Davis Should Be Fired

When Kim Davis first refused to issue same-sex marriage certificates even after the Supreme Court declared it law, I took it all with a grain of salt. The will of the highest court in the country seemingly meant nothing to her, and though it was an aggressive, and downright mean, act to perpetrate against a couple that simply wanted to get married (at its heart, Ms. Davis, that’s what you’re doing, under the guise of religion), I still decided to let her nonsense play out.

Let’s be reasonable, something that people in support of Ms. Davis and “religious freedom” seem incapable of being. Kim Davis has been married four times. She’s been divorced three times. If we’re going to go by ‘God’s law’ then Ms. Davis is already in for a hellaciously hot future. Targeting innocent gay and lesbian couples who want only to celebrate their love (as she got to do four times already) is not endearing her to anyone’s God. I thought for sure the loonies would see that much, but they and Ms. Davis herself have proven capable of stupidity beyond my wildest imagination. Even then I joked a bit, saying that I didn’t understand how someone so badly in need of a makeover could alienate so many gay men.

But today, after her umpteenth appeal was denied, and after she still refused to do her damn job and issue marriage licenses, I’m just pissed. I work for the government too, but if I behaved the way she did I’d be disciplined big time. Her job is to issue marriage licenses, not administer a religious sacrament. There is a distinct separation of church and state written into the constitution, and it’s there for precisely this reason.

Let’s say, for example, that my religion is fashion. Not a far-fetched example, quite frankly. And let’s say that I’m vociferously against Crocs and cargo shorts, that I think anyone who wears them is going to hell, and that I don’t want to be affiliated with them in any way. As much as I’d like to not help them, if my job calls upon me to provide information that they need to do their job, if I have to help them or support them in the course of the day, as a state worker I have to do so. I can’t refuse because I don’t believe in Crocs or cargo shorts.

Or better yet, let’s say that I don’t believe in working a full day. My beliefs are that I need a siesta from noon to five, and after that I need a period to relax and meditate. It goes directly against the hours that I’m supposed to work, but hey, those are my beliefs and everyone who knows me will most definitely attest to this. Can I just leave my job at noon based on these staunchly-held beliefs?

That’s exactly what Ms. Davis is doing right now. If it were anyone else, they’d be disciplined, if not fired. How many times does she need to be instructed to uphold the law of the country and do her job as a government employee? I think she’s had her chance. Either do your job, or resign. Stop getting paid for services you refuse to render.

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School, Saddle Shoes & Shame

When I was in third grade, saddle shoes were all the rage. At least I thought they were – the way they contrasted so delightfully in and of themselves, the way they sharpened an outfit. I didn’t pay much attention to who exactly was wearing them, but I loved the way they looked and soon became obsessed with getting a pair.

At Buster Brown there was a pair of saddle shoes – for boys in fact – and I rejoiced as I slid them on my feet. Ahh, the glory of a pair of shoes! These shone in shiny black and white, beacons of pride and joy, like tickling piano keys as I walked. I marched around the store, admiring them in the shoe mirrors. They were bold, and at first my feet were unaccustomed to something so demanding of a second look. Could I pull them off? Of course! How could I not? I thought of those pretty little girls parading around in their pristine saddle shoes, topped by perfectly-white frilly socks. How they glided along on dainty footsteps, how they made it look so effortlessly elegant and easy, and how I wanted to do the same.

The first day I wore my saddle shoes I felt like I was floating into school. I was making my own black-and-white checker-tiled dance-floor, Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers all rolled into one (before I even heard their names in the ‘Vogue’ rap).

Yet the whispers upon my entering class were not of awe or envy. I knew those whispers even then. These were whispers of confusion. These were the whispers of discomfort. These were the whispers of ridicule. I thought I heard someone say they were girl shoes.

Then, sudden and swift and irrevocable, the onslaught of shame. With reddened face and panicky disposition, I seethed in inner agony. I quickly took my seat and swung my feet under my chair, away from prying eyes. At heads-down time, I peeked under the desks to study the feet around me. Only girls were wearing saddle shoes.

I shrunk in embarrassment. I cringed at the monstrosities on my feet. I’d made a fatal misstep. I who never faltered, who never failed, now felt the hot flush of being the almost-object of ridicule. I felt myself teetering on the brink of becoming ostracized from the only people who seemed to matter. Yet I never let on that those whispers bothered me, or even made it to my ears. I never let on how badly they crushed my ego and destroyed the silly bit of joy I got in those shoes. I never let on that when they tried to break me, they had in fact succeeded.

I didn’t wear the saddle shoes much after that – just a few more times so as not to arouse the suspicion or ire of my frugal parents for not making use of new shoes. They went back into their box, worn only at home or on vacation or where I could be myself and not worry about being chided for it.

Everything I do today, every strange, questionable object I wear, is done in honor of that little boy who was robbed of such joy, held captive for the rest of his boyhood by a gang of innocently cruel children. They were taught by the world to dress like a boy or a girl, and there was never room for anything in-between. Another line between innocence and shame. Another demarcation of growing up. The way we erase our identities to fit in, to feel like we belong – I didn’t know then that it was the very way I would grow to hate myself. It would take years before I returned to my quirky style. Years of khakis and polos, and jeans and sneakers, and trying to be the boy everyone wanted me to be. Years in which I pushed my lovely saddle shoes into the dark recesses of my closet, and the life-loving fun that should comprise every childhood into the hidden recesses of my heart.

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The Last August Recap

Such a sad and sorry post, to signal the coming end of summer and its final full month. I don’t want it to go, I don’t want it to go, I don’t want it to… Repeating this like a mantra, like a prayer, I try my best to slow time. That’s the worst thing to do, as it always has the opposite effect. It is far more effective to focus on the moment, and making each one memorable. There’s too much to lose by being distracted by such mind games. On with the recap.

Sometimes a Hunk of the Day is so named simply because of his eyes. Jacob McCaslin is one such Hunk.

Ryan Phillippe is the same age as me, which just feels grossly unfair, because his body is in an entirely different bracket.

Getting locked in a gym is all Nicholas Clayton needed to do to make it into Hunk of the Day status. That and his body.

Little pockets of beauty, little bouquets of flowers.

This UFC mixed martial artist got naked before he threw the punches.

‘Iris’ may well be my new favorite movie. Another testament to the power of Mr. Maysles.

The artist as Hunk: this is Dustin Yellin.

La vie en rose.

A jockstrap is always in vogue, especially on these male celebrities.

Finally, a hint of pink.

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A Hint of Pink & Things to Come

Harbinger of fall, bringer of change, this is the late-blooming Japanese anemone. It is with a bittersweet sigh that I greet their buds, coming as they do at the tail-end of a season most of us would like to prolong. Though they may be a little unwelcome, the scarcity of new blooms at this stage of the game makes them valuable additions to those beds and borders in need of a little jolt before the feathery seed-heads of the grasses take center stage.

The turn of the seasons is almost upon us. I’m not ready, not quite. The coolness that has been creeping into the nights is refreshing, but this last winter was so cruel I don’t want to head in that direction. It will come, but give us a little longer, still and slow time, even if it’s just in my head. In the meantime, there is beauty to be found in the end of August, last full month of summer.

Below, an anemone blossom is visited by a pollinating bee. It’s never too late to seek out a sweet bit of nectar, to roll around in whatever bit of the sunny season remains.

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A Jockstrap is Always In Vogue

This site has long celebrated the jockstrap, both as functional sports attire and object of art, but every now and then someone comes along to elevate it with their own personal ass-stamp. Such is the case with Sean Avery’s recent Instagram shot that shows his butt perfectly framed with the straps of a jock. It took the internet by storm this past week, and was a reminder that the jockstrap never goes out of style.

Mr. Avery certainly has the goods to go with the frame, but he’s not the only celebrity to make the most of those skimpy straps. He is, however, the only one to do so in such blatant pandering to the gay internet, and for that he gets a lot of applause.

Chord Overstreet dared to wear a jockstrap, but not in the traditional manner. While I’m all for putting a different twist on things, some items just shouldn’t be put on your face. But who am I to talk?

Jean Claude Van Damme, back in his prime, was no stranger to strutting his stuff in the unabashed European style that favored skimpy attire and Speedos. Here he is in a regular white jockstrap and smile.

Making a big jockstrap splash in the 80’s were heart-throbs Rob Lowe and Richard Gere, both of whom pulled those straps on and shook their booties until all of America was weak in the knees.

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A Rose Cocktail

Though Andy favors Fresh Market for grocery shopping, I like Whole Foods a little bit more – they’ve got more interesting items, even if both places cost as much as a black-market baby (which I’m told is illegal anyway). Sometimes, as in the case of a bottle of rose water, I’ll buy something without a clear idea of how to use it, then keep it secreted in an out-of-reach cupboard until the proper moment presents itself. That’s what happened here, so when we were having guests over and the summer night called for an indulgent cocktail, I looked up this rose concoction and modified it a bit for what I had on hand.

It’s a bit sweeter than I normally prefer, but most people don’t like things as dry as I do, so it went over well. The fresh lemon cuts it a bit; thank goodness for tart citrus.

Ingredients

  • 2 oz. vodka
  • 1 oz. elderflower liqueur
  • 1 oz. simple rose syrup
  • Strained juice of ½ small lemon (modify to taste)
  • Dash of rose water
  • 1 rose petal for garnish

To make the simple rose syrup, I boiled two cups of sugar with one cup water, with a tablespoon or two of rose water. It fills the kitchen with the essence of rose, so get ready for a happy olfactory experience that reeks of early summer.

Shake ingredients with ice, let sit for a bit (for once, a bit of melted ice is a good thing, blunting both the sharper and sweeter edges) then strain into a martini glass. Garnish with a rose petal. That may seem a bit precious, but it makes all the damn difference. Trust.

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The Eyes of Iris

You have to look in the mirror and see yourself. If it feels good, then I know it’s for me. I don’t dress to be stared at, I dress for myself. ~ Iris Apfel

She is a lady after my own heart. With a style all her own, an attitude that defied the expected and surpassed the delighted, Iris Apfel is a fashion icon in a world where true icons are fewer and further between. She’s made a career of wearing what she liked, and damn those who didn’t see the genius in it. It can be a lonely place, stepping outside of the mainstream notions of pretty or appropriate, but if she felt such loneliness she turned it into empowerment. It’s only right that one of the directors of ‘Grey Gardens’ – Albert Maysles – saw fit to do a documentary on Ms. Apfel. She possesses similar qualities to the ladies who made ‘Grey Gardens’ such a powerful film – a testament to the majesty of the unique, the righteousness of the individual, the courage of those who defy the tried and tread. ‘Iris’ was released a few months ago to great acclaim, and since that time I’ve been trying to fit it into the schedule.

This weekend, after missing out on showings in Boston and New York, I’ll be traveling to Portland, Maine to see it. There are only a few artists for whom I would travel this far – Madonna and director Albert Maysles are two of those few. Ms. Apfel herself is another, and she is nothing if not a walking work of art. A fearless, funny, fantastic fashionista who has turned her life into a living piece of beauty. Her clothes are flashy, her accessories are over-the-top, and her glasses are iconic, but it’s her spirit that really soars, catapulting the zest she feels for the colorful into certifiable inspiration, gloriously pure and incandescent.

Her indefatigable spirit and extensive bracelets and necklaces became a sort of armor, deflecting criticism and catty comments in the most gorgeous manner. Some days, I don’t find it easy to access that kind of power. Ms. Apfel somehow always managed to conjure it, and it’s a commendable quality to not care what anyone else thinks. (At my best, I’m getting close.)

I was never hurt by what anybody said about my clothes, because I dress to please myself. If somebody doesn’t like what I’m wearing, it’s their problem, not mine ~ Iris Apfel

Those oversized buggy eyeglasses, those ropes and ropes of beads, those rows and rows of bracelets, those insanely varied fabrics – they come together in the most brazen and bizarrely beautiful manner, connected by the brilliant visionary whose sole guiding impetus was a love for the new and the colorful. She’s also not afraid to try things out. Too many of us play it safe with our fashion choices, afraid to move beyond basic black or conservative neutrals, afraid it might make us look foolish – and though there is comfort in safety, there is no possibility to thrill. I admire someone who takes that chance to excite much more than someone who plays it safe and pretty.

I’m a hopeless romantic. I buy things because I fall in love with them. I never buy anything just because it’s valuable. My husband used to say I look at a piece of fabric and listen to the threads. It tells me a story. It sings me a song. I have to get a physical reaction when I buy something. A coup de foudre – a bolt of lightning. It’s fun to get knocked out that way! ~ Iris Apfel

In her 90’s, she is, perhaps, at the height of her power and influence, a living testament to the wisdom and style that can only be gained with age. It’s a slap in the face to the ageist, youth-centric way the world has always gone. It’s also a unique stand of defiance against the traditional and the typical, because as she freely admits, she never felt very pretty. Most of us who don’t feel very pretty make up for it in other ways. Maybe there’s an element of a mask to it all, maybe it’s a shield – a bright and bauble-filled sparkling shield – but in a way, it’s much deeper than that, transcending the superficial and turning the notion of fashion into a way of life. A fabulous way of life.

If you can’t be pretty, you have to learn to make yourself attractive. I found that all the pretty girls I went to high school with came to middle age as frumps, because they just got by with their pretty faces, so they never developed anything. They never learned how to be interesting. But if you are bereft of certain things, you have to make up for them in certain ways. Don’t you think? ~ Iris Apfel

Fashion you can buy, but style you possess. The key to style is learning who you are, which takes years. There’s no how-to road map to style. It’s about self-expression and, above all, attitude. ~ Iris Apfel

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Floral Incidentals

You’ve seen them everywhere, but probably never gave much thought or notice to them. They’re there when you arrive, and there when you leave, and they share your most intimate restaurant moments: listening in, nodding their pretty little heads, and remaining absolutely mum long after you’ve departed with your dishy dining mate. They are the little bouquets of flowers that adorn many restaurant tables. Generally made up of a single rose or, far worse, some carnations or alstroemeria, they more often than not strike me as sad and failed attempts at bringing the idea of beauty into an eating space, while not actually providing any.

Occasionally, though, they do work, and mostly by accident. When the happy coupling such as the one featured here occurs, my heart gets a little giddy – as much for the perfection and simplicity of such beauty as for the unexpected nature of the chance encounter. We get so little, sometimes, that when it’s there, even in the tiniest of bouquets, it means something more.

These are from the Columbus Avenue location of House of Siam, where the goodness of the Thai dishes is just as vibrant and delicious as this little floral grouping.

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Revisiting Ryan Phillippe at 40

Seeing as how I’ve just joined the 40-and-over club, I’ve been ruminating on how other men are handling the quad-decade mark, so when these photos of a 40-year-old Ryan Phillippe showed up online, I felt a little relief at being in such hot and sexy company. Though I’m woefully aware of being a far cry from the shape that Mr. Phillippe has crafted for himself at the four-decade mark, but he’s definitely an inspiration (and very deservedly a former Hunk of the Day). This is the sort of thing that people post on their refrigerator to deter them from sneaking a gallon of ice cream in the heat of the night. I’ve got a year to work such magic…

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A Birthday Recap, A Day Late

Ensconced in the Judy Garland Suite of the Lenox Hotel on my 40th birthday, I am in no position to worry about blogging or updating this website, so I’m pre-populating posts such as this one, in which a look back over the previous lovely week will have to suffice until my return to the hum-drum existence to which I’ve instantly become unaccustomed. While we normally do the weekly recap on a Monday, it’s a day late because of birthday shenanigans. On with the show…

One of the first official tour stops was Cape Cod, but even better than that was the introduction of The Brits ~ cherished friends of JoJo who quickly became cherished in my heart as well. She has a knack of making people feel like they belong.

Summer flavors are better than any other.

Sumer was blooming its head off.

In real time we’re just ending it now, but this is where it all began.

Tom Daley’s bulge is beautiful in burgundy.

Beauty’s where you find it, and sometimes it whispers.

The rousing cry of the return of a rebel.

A Madonna Timeline to coincide with the eve of a birthday.

I turned 40. Fucking 40. And I think I’m gonna like it here.

Happy Ass Ending, because some things never change.

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