Birthday Boy, Birthday Suit

When Madonna was putting out her ‘Sex’ book at the ripe old age of 36, someone asked her if she’d stop taking her clothes off for pictures when she was 40. True to form, Madonna balked then, and judging from the set of topless photos released this past spring when she was 56, I’d say she’s still balking now. However, much as I’d like to be, I’m not Madonna – and I don’t have the millions of dollars at hand to afford the trainers and chefs and time that would enable a honing of my body into such pristine form. For that reason, posing nude into my 40’s doesn’t seem like the best idea.

Besides, the idea of evolution, upon which this website was founded way back in 2003, forms the basis for everything I do here. Change is cause for celebration. New things are welcomed and embraced. If they work, they can stay, if they don’t we move on. But one thing I can’t abide is stagnation. Dullness. Repetition and more of the same. So when the notion of MORE nude photos of my already-overexposed naked ass reared its head, I began to wonder if we haven’t played that hand enough. How does one go on making male nudity interesting and fresh and new?

You’ve seen it all before,

You’ve seen it all before,

You’ve seen it all before

There’s also the well-intended advice and exasperated chatter of those who claim that at my age it may be time to tone things down, to mature with grace and dignity (and covered head-to-toe in fabric of some sort). If I’ve learned anything in 40 years, it’s that I shouldn’t be so quick to shut down ideas that at first glance appear different or oppositional to mine. To that end, I’ve given it some thought and put in some considerate deliberation, and I’ve come to a conclusion:

Here’s my naked ass.

My 40-year-old naked ass.

If you don’t like it, I probably didn’t invite you to this pool party.

Be gone before someone does a cannonball on you.

All bad punning aside, I’m 40 years old, and I can do what I want. For a spell of 90 degree days, I find a bit of skinny-dipping a refreshing way to end the afternoon. It’s still exciting. It’s still invigorating. And as long as I’m enjoying it, I’m going to share it.

BOOM.

BAM.

POW.

For your end, you are free to avoid this space if you don’t want to take the chance of encountering naked booty. Forewarned is fairwarned, and this place is not always safe for children or work. Since I abhor both, it’s not an issue for me.

And now, Mr. DeMille, I’m ready for my birthday spankings.

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My 40th Birthday

Holy fuck, I’m 40. In what crazy-ass time-warped universe could I possibly be 40 years old? I was just 29 a few days ago… In some ways it’s unthinkable, in some ways it’s inevitable, but mostly the act of turning 40 is, for me, uneventful. It’s never been the number that’s bothered me. There are deeper forces than some arbitrary milepost at work, and that’s where my head is at right now.

‘The Big Chill’ was on television the other day, and watching that when you’re about to turn 40 is akin to watching ‘Leaving Las Vegas‘ when you’re about to turn 21 (I managed to do both, with various emotional landmines exploding around me). The first time I saw ‘The Big Chill’ I found it drab and dull, but what was once a big bore suddenly became relevant and relatable. The set-up is slightly contrived, but it provides the perfect backdrop for the ruminations of incontrovertible middle-age: following the suicide of one of their college friends, a group gathers and finds their lives far from where they thought they’d be. Here was a group of people who found themselves losing their way and grappling with the realization that while the time for dreaming went on forever, the time for action and for doing anything may have already passed. There’s a coldness to this, and a hardening of the heart that, once begun, is very difficult to slow or stop.

“I haven’t met that many happy people in my life. How do they act?”

~ The Big Chill

I’ve felt that chill recently. I don’t know if it’s turning 40, or simply the ripening of my situation. I’ve been with a loving gentleman since 2000, I’ve worked my way up to a decent position at work (after starting out as a Grade 5 Data Entry Machine Operator almost a decade and a half ago), I have a wonderful support group of close friends who’ve stayed with me for the better part of several decades, and I’ve been generally healthy for most of it. In so many ways, I have so much. Yet there’s been a gradual erosion of the spark and jolt of feeling alive, of new experiences and new places. I find myself looking back at previous periods of life and thinking how much more colorful and exciting they were, how much more passion and excitement and hope buzzed with the birth of each day.

Unaccustomed to such nostalgia, I was surprised by the worry and weight that was slowly building. There was a sense of general ennui, to the point of madness, in what followed a long, gentle, barely-discernible slope of sadness. Yet for all of that, I haven’t done much about it. I’ve been complacent, unable to muster the real ambition and drive to do anything other than vaguely complain or whine on occasion, finding substitute thrills in clothing or cologne or the same old trips to the same old places. I’ve wondered about those friends from high school and college, as I watch them expand their families on FaceBook, as I hear from them on birthdays, as we move further and further away from our youth, and from each other. I hope they are finding their own happiness.

“I just love you all so much. I know that sounds gross, doesn’t it? I feel like I was at my best when I was with you people.” ~ The Big Chill

Then I think the terrifying thought: what if it meant more to me than to them? What if everything I’ve ever believed in was a minor footnote in their lives? It’s so hard to tell whether we matter – whether we really and truly matter. A crippling doubt envelops everything then, and an insatiable insecurity – never quelled, never satisfied, never conquered – over-rides all the good I’ve ever tried to do in this world, and suddenly it all feels so pointless. We want so much to mean something to somebody. Anybody.

“A long time ago we knew each other for a short period of time; you don’t know anything about me. It was easy back then. No one had a cushier berth than we did. It’s not surprising our friendship could survive that. It’s only out there in the real world that it gets tough.”~ The Big Chill

I have to believe that it still matters, that we still matter, that what we went through together still means something, still holds a place of significance in our hearts. I have to believe that love doesn’t just disappear, doesn’t fade away even when time and place and circumstance keep us apart. I have to believe that even in the smallest, most mundane motions of a day there is meaning and magnitude and magnificence. If we don’t believe in that, if we don’t believe in something…

“Wise up, folks. We’re all alone out there and tomorrow we’re going out there again.” ~ The Big Chill

I don’t want to think that we’re alone. As much as I love my solitude, and as well as I do forging my own way, I don’t ever want to feel that I’m truly alone. I also don’t want to feel like nothing matters. If I’m dramatic or high-strung or over-the-top, let me be that way. The opposite is apathy. There’s nothing more cruel and damaging to the human spirit than someone who just doesn’t give a shit. That kind of coldness can crush the happiest soul.

And so I greet 40 with gleeful defiance and happy ownership of everything I’ve done up until now, and everything I have yet to do. I will still be here. I will write, and I will take pictures, and I will read and garden and sing along to Madonna songs as loud as I like. I’ve done it since I was a child, I’ve done it as an adult, and I’ll do it until the day I die. I’m taking all the foolish baggage that comes with turning 40 and turning it into something to signify the start of everything. We are far from done here – and we always will be.

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The Madonna Timeline: Song #113 – ‘Rebel Heart’ ~ Right Now

{Note: The Madonna Timeline is an ongoing feature, where I put the iPod on shuffle, and write a little anecdote on whatever was going on in my life when that Madonna song was released and/or came to prominence in my mind.}

[On the eve of my 40th birthday, a most-fitting Madonna Timeline: the title track to her latest album (and current tour) ~ ‘Rebel Heart.’ The demo leaked early, and remains, in my humble opinion, the superior version, but I’ll include the more acoustic and stripped-down album version at the end, as that’s almost as good.]

When Madonna turned 40, or shortly before or after, she delved into yoga and put out her magnificent (and yet-to-be-topped) album ‘Ray of Light.’ According to a New York Times interview at the time, yoga had brought about a profound transformation in the once-material now-ethereal girl. At one yoga session she once found herself in a particularly strenuous pose and suddenly just started crying, letting out emotional baggage she’d been carrying for 40 years. I’ve always been struck by that image, and I’ve since wondered what will come of me when I hit 40. I guess we’re about to find out. Will the torrents of four decades of pain be released or relieved? Will I heave forth some cleansing expulsion of pent-up sadness or anger or fear? Will I rejoice in a new freedom? Somehow, I don’t think it will be as dramatic as all that. It’s just another day, and a Monday at that. Still, like it or not, the number means something, even if it’s been impressed upon us by a society hungry for drama and terrified of aging.

I LIVED MY LIFE LIKE A MASOCHIST 

HEARING MY FATHER SAY, “TOLD YOU SO, TOLD YOU SO.

WHY CAN’T YOU BE LIKE THE OTHER GIRLS?”

I SAID, “OH NO, THAT’S NOT ME,

AND I DON’T THINK THAT IT’LL EVER BE.”

The steady stream of water falls hot from the shower head. I stand there in the wet, stilled suddenly by the woman who has never failed to thrill me, and thirty years into her storied career the words and music touch me like the very first time. As her new song sounds brilliantly against the tile of the bathroom, I stop in my scrubbing, look through watery eyes, and simply listen. So much of my shower and car music is Madonna, but most of the time it’s background noise. Far more intent on testing out a new Aveda body wash or jockeying the Ice Blue Show Queen out of a bottleneck situation, I hear her, but don’t always listen. On this night, I do. Standing there, naked and quiet, I listen to ‘Rebel Heart’ while water surrounds me. Forget a reinvention, this is a rebirth. Thirty-nine years into my life, it feels like a baptism.

Her voice reveals further shades of vulnerability, with an underlying resilience that has allowed her to survive, and thrive, this far into an entertainment career, unrivaled by almost everyone. In ‘Rebel Heart’ she was a little girl, a grown woman, and the very sensitive human who registered hurt and love in ways both wizened and misunderstood.

THOUGHT I BELONGED TO A DIFFERENT TRIBE

WALKING ALONE, NEVER SATISFIED, SATISFIED 

TRIED TO FIT IN BUT IT WASN’T ME, 

I SAID, “OH NO, I WANT MORE,

THAT’S NOT WHAT I’M LOOKING FOR.” 

It is just another number, and tomorrow is just another day, yet there is an albatross of significance to the person turning forty years old. Society has largely assembled such an onus, creating a false notion of anxiety upon hitting the much-maligned milestone. Some, like Madonna, have pushed back against such limitations, railing in opposition to the notion of the prim, proper, and age-appropriate – subjective terms at best, ageist and elitist at worst.

In that respect, it is not the number that scares me. It’s the question of whether I’m where I want to be, four decades into this journey. That’s a question that has plagued me since I was first cognizant, and I hope it bothers me until the day I die.

SO I TOOK THE ROAD LESS TRAVELED BY AND I BARELY MADE IT OUT ALIVE

THROUGH THE DARKNESS SOMEHOW I SURVIVED

TOUGH LOVE – I KNEW IT FROM THE START, DEEP DOWN IN THE DEPTH OF MY REBEL HEART.

During my freshman year at Brandeis, I took an Introduction to Astronomy course. I thought it would be all stars and moons and romantic dreamy prose, so when it turned out to be mostly physics and difficult calculations, I was less than thrilled. The scope of it, however, was impressive, and on clear November nights, we’d ascend to the top of the science building and view the skies through telescopes and binoculars, and begin to feel just how large the universe was. Up until then I’d eyed my professor’s unruly and unkempt beard with disdain, judging his soiled jeans and dilapidated belt with profound displeasure. Now, I realized something. It wasn’t that he didn’t care. He simply knew it didn’t matter. Not when other worlds expanded ad infinitum, not when we were smaller than specks of dust in both time and distance.

Whenever these big-picture conundrums rear their weighty, philosophical heads, I panic a bit. There’s nothing reassuring about being nothing, and it’s frightening to think about how minute our place in this world is. To combat that, part of my existence has been dedicated to making myself seem larger-than-life. Maybe Madonna does that subconsciously too. It’s a fear of oblivion, a fear of not being known, a fear of not mattering. ‘Rebel Heart’ might be her way of reassuring us, and herself, that it’s ok. We did what we had to do to survive, to feel safe and secure and prominent when the reality of the universe was doing everything it could to make us feel small and insignificant. We acted out, we dressed outrageously, we thrashed our bodies and brains to excesses of emotion just to leave an effect, an impression. We loved ourselves because sometimes it felt like no one else in the world did, and even if we were faking it, there was truth and loneliness and hope in that.

 

I’VE SPENT SOME TIME AS A NARCISSIST,

HEARING THE OTHERS SAY,

“LOOK AT YOU, LOOK AT YOU!

TRYING TO BE SO PROVOCATIVE.”

I SAID, “OH YEAH, THAT WAS ME.

ALL THE THINGS I DID

JUST TO BE SEEN.”

At times of feeling unseen and small, when the universe expands in terrifyingly exponential form – unending and beyond the scope of my limited comprehension – I try to shrink the view, to narrow my focus on the most minute particle I can hold in my hand. There may be something to this theory of relativity after all. A ragged cube of salt, a jagged piece of sand, an oblong grain of rice, or a seed in a sea of thousands of seeds – there is comfort in carrying the whole of their existence in the wrinkled landscape of an upturned palm. I limit my gaze to a single coneflower, and follow the circles to its very center, or blow off all but a single parachute of a dandelion seed.

A drop of water joins another, collecting en masse, running into tiny rivulets, gaining in volume, rushing into small streams, raging into rivers, surging into seas, overflowing into oceans and finding their sunlit way into the sky again, in sunbeams transporting them back to the clouds, from which they will fall again. The push and pull, the rise and fall, the ebb and flow – it begins and ends and begins again.

OUTGROWN MY PAST AND I’VE SHED MY SKIN, LETTING IT GO AND I’LL START AGAIN, START AGAIN

NEVER LOOK BACK, IT’S A WASTE OF TIME

I SAID, ‘OH YEAH, THIS IS ME, AND I’M RIGHT HERE WHERE I WANNA BE.”

I SAID, ‘HELL YEAH! THIS IS ME, RIGHT WHERE I’M SUPPOSED TO BE.”

Above me, the shower spurts more hot water over my head. It runs down my body, this body that has grown around me for almost forty years, that has carried and cushioned me from a hard world. Here, a scar on my shoulder from when I scraped the rough bottom of my parents’ pool – there, above my knee, a recent red welt from where a bamboo stake pierced the skin in an over-zealous pruning expedition. I watch a drop of water travel down from my chest, pausing for some literal navel gazing around the spot where they cut me off from my mother, and follow it as it drips off the tip of my sex, landing on my toe and trickling away down the drain. I stare down at the glistening, damp patch of hair surrounding where I’d create life if ever I were to have a child. I know now, and I’ve known all my life, that I will never use it for that purpose. I won’t have children. Turning forty won’t change my thoughts on that, but it does cause pause, and wonder. It also brings up the prospect of mortality looming on a distant horizon. I’m probably about halfway there. What, if anything, will I leave behind?

 

SO I TOOK THE ROAD LESS TRAVELLED BY

AND I BARELY MADE IT OUT ALIVE

THROUGH THE DARKNESS SOMEHOW I SURVIVED

TOUGH LOVE – I KNEW IT FROM THE START

DEEP DOWN IN MY REBEL HEART 

I’ve tried different ways of leaving a legacy, desperate attempts at not being forgotten – attention-getting antics, doing something or wearing something or writing something that wants only to be remembered. I won’t have anyone who will tell my stories later on, just what exists here, in this virtual online realm, a ghost until my host stops receiving payments, and then a page that cannot be located. One day I may only be an Error – Not Found. Then will I truly be gone? I don’t know. I don’t know how dark that place may be.

Until that darkness arrives, however, I will be here. Even if it’s futile, I’ll go down fighting. I will do my best to display a galvanized compassion, to uphold a nobility that may not even count for much in this world. Even if it doesn’t matter to anyone else, it matters to me. Maybe these words will live on, maybe they won’t, but for now, for this day and night, I am here. You are here. We are here, and we are together.

The shower stops. The song ends. I wipe the water off of my face. Tomorrow I will be 40.

Madonna has said that ‘Rebel Heart’ is the embodiment of two sides of her personality – the rebellious controversial part, and the romantic softer side. It’s a fitting juxtaposition: a warrior is nothing without heart, and a heart cannot beat without some protection. It seems both strange and inevitable that thirty years into her game, and one day short of forty years into my life, she has become the woman warrior forging the way to the future – unstoppable, heroic, and brave.

SO I TOOK THE ROAD LESS TRAVELED BY AND I BARELY MADE IT OUT ALIVE

THROUGH THE DARKNESS SOMEHOW I SURVIVED

TOUGH LOVE – I KNEW IT FROM THE START, DEEP DOWN IN THE DEPTH OF MY REBEL HEART.

IN MY REBEL HEART… IN MY REBEL HEART.

SONG #113: ‘Rebel Heart’ – Right Now

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The Rebel Returns

It’s been a long stretch since the last Madonna Timeline, but today she returns in grand form with the title track from her latest album, ‘Rebel Heart’. It’s a rather special entry, coming on the eve of my 40th birthday – a perfectly-timed arrival for a milestone that often triggers some introspective reflection. I don’t quite intend to have a nervous breakdown over it, but you never know how such things will play out. In fact, in writing the new timeline, and my birthday post, there may have been a mini-drama-meltdown, but I’m still here so it didn’t end completely badly.

As for Madonna, she’s nearing the opening of her ‘Rebel Heart Tour’ and there is electric excitement in the air. For today, though, a little litany of some of the more meaningful timeline entries that have moved me the most over the years, starting with my favorite Madonna song, ‘Drowned World/Substitute for Love’.

One of the most beautiful and heartfelt songs she has ever written, and the one that turned me into a super-fan, is ‘Promise to Try’. I liked it so much I even toyed with the idea of using it as my yearbook quote: I fought to be so strong, I guess you knew I was afraid you’d go away too.

Even in her quieter songs, she still manages to make an impression, as heard in 1994’s ‘I’ll Remember‘ – a song that snuck up on me and captured a moment of brittleness.

Along those lines, and going back even further, ‘Crazy For You‘ made a distinct and memorable influence upon my boyhood, resonating with a longing that would last through the years as I tried so hard to control my heart.

I’ve been on the verge of disowning my behavior and countenance during the obsessive time that ‘You Must Love Me‘ came out, but it’s part of the history, part of the timeline, and part of the nonsense that made me into what I am today. Be careful of being too quick to alter the past. Everything has happened for a reason. ‘You’ll See’.

Even if you ‘Live to Tell’ there are times you may feel like you are ‘Falling Free‘ but that’s when you need to ‘Take A Bow‘ and realize that you, yes you, are indeed a ‘Masterpiece’.

Now, rouse your rebel heart and get ready to take the road less traveled… a new Madonna Timeline is coming up later today.

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Beauty Doesn’t Need to Shout

There was a time when a garden consisting solely of foliage plants would have bored me to tears. I’d have enjoyed it in someone else’s yard, but never consider such a colorless option for my own. I sought out a riot of color, a panoply of spectacular hues – something that would be seen from across the street, something that drew the eye and stunned the senses into submission. As I’ve grown up, however, I’ve come to appreciate a quieter beauty, and I see how something more subtle can be just as stunning.

This was the case as I walked by the featured garden in Boston last week. Based on a planting of colorful coleus, it is living proof that flowers aren’t a requirement for a striking display. Signifier of summer (they are tender annuals) coleus have always been a happy trigger of that sweet season. They transport me instantly back to our side porch, an out-of-the-way spot that captured the afternoon sunlight, and only saw the mid-day appearance of the mailman to interrupt its quiet.

One trick to keeping the coleus bushy and full, as well as extend its season, is to nip out its flower buds as soon as they appear. While a pretty violet in color (similar to salvia in form) they are insignificant, and zap the energy that the plant would otherwise put into its striking foliage. Closer to the end of the season – September maybe – I’d let them flower. (It seems almost cruel to let their one goal before the snow evaporate. Everything deserves to live out its purpose in life.) For now, though, the summer show is all in the leaves.

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Tom Daley: Of Bulge & Burgundy

It’s been a while since I’ve posted a few photos of Tom Daley, so let’s return to his fine form and put these up right away. It’s a duller season without an Olympic Games to occupy the summer or winter, but I think he’s just gearing up for the next go-round (even if it won’t be in Boston – and for that I’m grateful). In his burgundy Speedo, Mr. Daley strikes a striking pose in his native habitat: poolside and wet.

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Home on the Park

This fall marks our 20th year with our Boston condo, and it’s where I’ll be spending part of my birthday weekend. It has held a special place in my heart for all this time, filled with happy memories, a few lasting tears, and the comfort of a home that has never let me down. Come rain or shine, winter or summer, day or night, it has been ever-ready to embrace me at my best and worst, providing safety and surety in a world that crumbles just when I think everything is all right.

The street on which it is located has only improved over the years. In the early days, the fountain in the island didn’t even run. Now it spurts its happy streams of water, and the giddy cadence of splashing drops makes beautiful music in the middle of the street. A luxury in the fast-paced noise of the rest of the city. More on such magic this fall…

 

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Blooms of Summer Sun

Sometimes the sun comes up from the ground,

in the circular bloom of a Black-eyed Susan,

or the saucer-like blossom of the cup plant.

The super-saturated yellow lit from behind,

standing up to the heat of the day

without wilt or complaint.

It is the embodiment of summer,

of sun and heat and a season of growth.

It is a celebration.

Happiness is a flower in the sunlight.

Happiness is a summer day.

Happiness is the month of August.

The stunning simplicity of a flower that echoes the sun,

backed and buoyed by the green of sustenance and life,

will always be a wonder to behold.

The heart bursts with joy

at these explosions of a summer

that’s not quite ready to give up.

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Caprese Baby

Fresh heirloom tomatoes, fresh mozzarella, fresh basil, olive oil and balsamic vinegar. The simple makings of a mouthful of pleasure. This is the sort of thing I will miss most about summer. It just isn’t the same with supermarket stuff found in the dead of winter. That only makes me appreciate it more ~ the summer, and the flavor. I’ve added a sliced baguette to this in the past, which is even better at soaking up the oil and vinegar, but for the carb and gluten avoiders no bread is needed, and the effect is just as delicious.

This makes a lovely late-morning or early afternoon snack, or a great appetizer before a summer evening of grilling. When the vegetables are at their peak, there’s no need to mask or amp up the flavor – they speak vibrant volumes on their own. Equally pretty to look at, it’s a feast for the eyes, mouth and summer-seeking soul.

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Holding On To Each Other

The Sunday of departing after a weekend of friendship and revelry is always such a mixture of sadness, sorrow, happiness and joy, that the heart runs a riotous path no matter how you’re getting home. On this particular journey back to New York, the sun was shining brightly, the heat was on, and the nodding heads of goldenrod were just beginning to bloom. Fall was coming. The tour had just begun. And I had some beautiful memories to keep me company on the road. Still, the sadness that it was over was equal only to the beauty of the aftermath. In some respects, it sometimes felt like life was one big morning-after.

Rain falls hard
Burns dry
A dream
Or a song
That hits you so hard
Filling you up
And suddenly gone

We were all searching for something. For peace, for contentment, for purpose, for love ~ and on that night I think we found a bit of it, a bit of everything. Here, in this backyard, beneath the sky, beside the fire, and close to the sea, we found it.

Breath Feel Love
Give Free
Know in you soul
Like your blood knows the way
From you heart to your brain
Know that you’re whole

And you’re shining
Like the brightest star
A transmission
On the midnight radio
And you’re spinning
Like a 45
Ballerina
Dancing to your rock and roll

Someone once said that JoAnn and I were like rock stars ~ flaming brightly, burning hotly, and loving deeply ~ sometimes scorching everything in our wake ~ but I don’t think we’d do anything differently. I would never want to tame my love, I would never want to pull back from feeling anything, even – and especially – the hurt. That pain is proof of love. That pain is proof that we matter. It is the heartache of making a difference and tearing apart your soul to prove you still feel.

Here’s to Patti, and Tina, and Yoko
Aretha and Nona and Nico and me

And all the strange rock and rollers
You know you’re doing all right
So hold on to each other
You gotta hold on tonight

And you’re shining
Like the brightest stars
A transmission
On the midnight radio

And you’re spinning
Your new 45’s
All the misfits and the losers
Yeah, you know you’re rock and rollers
Spinning to your rock and roll…

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The Tree of Friendship

“There’s not a word yet for old friends who’ve just met…”

The weather was sunny and warm. Unusually warm for Cape Cod, but there was a breeze coming in cool off the shore, and it was summer after all. Water glistened all around us. In canals, in eel ponds and on the ocean itself. The sparkle wouldn’t leave the entire brief weekend we were there. Everything would come together to make this one beautiful.

Along with the bloom of the ocean there was the bloom of the gardens. Hydrangeas and roses, Black-eyed Susans and petunias – they burst forth in what would likely be the final big show of the season. They were giving it their all. Even the seed-heads of grasses had risen high into the air, exploding like miniature fireworks in the moving air. The whole of the Cape surged with summer, and we held onto it like it was all we had. In some ways, it was.

Arriving early to beat the insane bridge traffic, we drove on the cusp of all the others migrating to the Cape for one of the last summer weekends. It can be a lonely trip to make, especially if one gets caught in a traffic snarl, so I brought Kira with me. She’s wanted to explore new experiences, and there would be no greater way to expand our worlds than in the purpose of this trip. We stopped for an iced coffee and threw off the previous Boston night’s fatigue. The Cape has a way of lulling your shoulders down a bit, of coaxing an easy, relaxed smile across your face.

JoAnn’s house was already bedecked with the makings of a grand gathering. Tables and tents and bouquets of hydrangeas dotted the expansive yard. Those gorgeous Cape hydrangeas – in blues and purples and magentas and colors so bright they feel like confirmation that there is reason to all beauty. They don’t deign to bloom like this anywhere else in the world.

After months of work, it was the gardens that most impressed. Toils of blood, sweat and tears were apparent in the pretty start to her new gardens, thanks to the help of her very own Mary Poppins, a.k.a. Sarah. Straps of Japanese iris rose before the lovely weathered background of a fence, sunny orbs of coreopsis glowed in one corner, and a hearty stand of lavender held onto a few more late-season blooms. This was where she had spent much of her spring and summer, and it was happy proof that a garden can be a place of healing and growth.

The seaside town, so cruel and brutal in winter, forged forgiveness in this perfect summer idyll. A warm afternoon sun slowly began to lower itself in the sky. Music grew in volume as friends began to arrive.

 

You know, the sun is in your eyes
And hurricanes and rains 
and black and cloudy skies.
You’re running up and down that hill.
You turn it on and off at will.
There’s nothing here to thrill
or bring you down.
And if you’ve got no other choice
You know you can follow my voice
through the dark turns and noise
of this wicked little town. 

 

The same way we make it through the winter is how we celebrate the summer: together. It’s more fun on this side of the sun, that is certain, but the love remains the same – unyielding, unchanging, and true.

The fates are vicious and they’re cruel.

You learn too late you’ve used two wishes

like a fool and then you’re someone you are not,

and Junction City ain’t the spot,

remember Mrs. Lot and when she turned around.

And if you’ve got no other choice, you know you can follow my voice

through the dark turns and noise of this wicked little town.

For quite some time now, maybe since the day I met her, it has seemed like JoAnn has been searching for something, for some place to call her own. As hostess for this party, a party for her long-time cherished friends from Manchester, she brought us all together. Perhaps this then was her purpose, perhaps it had always been in her backyard, wherever that backyard happened to be. There’s a certain glory and honor in being the conduit that bridges friends, and sometimes even countries, but she wears that mantle better than anyone else.

She has always had a way of bringing people together, uniting old ones and forging new friendships. It takes a special alchemist to succeed in that, and a special person to be the touchstone for such an enterprise. Yes, there are burdens and responsibilities involved, but there is something in the goodness of connecting people that, I hope, makes it all worth it.

On this weekend, the JoJo magic was in full effect. After years of listening to the stories and heartfelt affection she felt for her Brits, it truly felt like I had known them all my life, like they had been a part of my own journey – and in a way, they had. JoAnn is such an important person in my life that they couldn’t help but be important too. That sweet rush of relief at finding you’re a little closer to finding your tribe, upon discovering a few more key players you didn’t even realize your heart was missing until they arrive and fill the hole with warmth and affection – well, that has a way of galvanizing the fading sense of hope I sometimes feel departing the coldest days.

This world will slam us in ways too painful and numerable to seem bearable sometimes, but we get through it by leaning on our friends and loved ones. Thank you, JoAnn, for broadening that circle a bit.

To my new/old friends Lindsay, Mickey, Andy, Zoe, Sharon & Ian, I’m so glad to have finally met you in person. The world became a little smaller, a little warmer, and a little more filled with happiness now that I know you’re in it. (An across-the-pond shout-out to Emma, who I was lucky enough to meet when she was last over.) And to the friends I’ve been fortunate to have already met because of JoAnn, thank you for always welcoming me as if I belonged ~ you are a good crew (Wally, Carolyn, Ali, Kim, Courtney, Tony, Sarah, Dena, Jen, Sherry, Rich, Pete, and my beloved Peaches).

Forgive me,

For I did not know.

‘Cause I was just a boy

And you were so much more

Than any god could ever plan,

More than a woman or a man.

And now I understand how much I took from you: That, when everything starts breaking down,
You take the pieces off the ground ,and show this wicked town something beautiful and new.

You think that Luck has left you there, But maybe there’s nothing up in the sky but air.

And there’s no mystical design, No cosmic lover preassigned.
There’s nothing you can find that can not be found.
‘Cause with all the changes you’ve been through, it seems the stranger’s always you.
Alone again in some new wicked little town.

So when you’ve got no other choice, you know you can follow my voice
Through the dark turns and noise of this wicked little town.
Oh it’s a wicked, little town.
Goodbye, wicked little town.

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Mid-August Recap of All Augusts

Ahh, August. Favorite month of all the months, for so many reasons – and not just birthday ones. August is the last full month of summer. August is the last month with no school. August is the last month when there are more days in the pool than out of it. August is heat and sun and fading flowers. Most of all, August is happiness. Contentment. The calm before the storm. And I don’t want it to end, so let’s go back in time, just a week, and do it all over again.

We held a retirement gathering for my new publicist Gin-Gin, and she wore a head-dress that was simply stunning. Let me see your peacock. (Don’t forget to follow @CircleOfAlan on Twitter!)

Zac Efron and his man-purse, even if I employed that look years ago.

Summer poem for a summer night.

There was beauty in the form of male models, including Genaro Perez, Norbi Novak, Joshua Joles, Jake Jensen & Ellis McCreadie.

There was something more serious from the mouth of my own brother.

The latest, and last, for Hermes from the brilliant Jean-Claude Ellena.

Take a colorful toke.

The Delusional Grandeur Tour picks up steam, with some support from my naked ass and Louis Vuitton.

Somebody else has an August birthday, and she’s one of my favorite people in the world.

Finally, some sangria, for summer.

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Summer Sangria

I’m not the biggest sangria fan (I abhor a muddled mess, and that’s what always ends up happening at the bottom of a glass of sangria). Yet other people love it to death, so I’ll sacrifice my own taste for the enjoyment of others. In this case, a simple summer recipe of white wine, some peach schnapps, and fresh fruit – allowed to marinate for at least several hours – results in a lighter sangria (much safer for cream-colored carpets and white linen tablecloths). I also find it a better fit for these summer days, when a heavier red wine can only be lightened so much with the addition of fruit and other nonsense. Anyway, we’ll let the photos speak for the recipe – modify amounts per personal preference. Sangria isn’t anything close to a science, and I don’t have much patience for such unfussiness.

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The Birthday of My Main Muse

An August birthday shout-out to my main muse Madonna, who I’m guessing is currently too busy gearing up for her Rebel Heart Tour to pause much for celebrations. We are going to pause for a moment on this blog too (as I’m only returning from Cape Cod today), and set up a quick little collection to honor the woman of the hour – and the day – with a look back at some previous Madonna Timeline entries.

We’ll begin with some early ones, such as the very first: ‘Who’s That Girl.’ Whispers that this retired-too-soon jewel will be cropping up on the new tour has me all aglow like some senorita, mas fina. When that first Timeline was created, I had no idea what it would become, so it’s a very basic sketch of what went down in the summer of 1987. If I could do it all over again, I’d embellish a bit more, fleshing out the excitement of being a kid and connecting with your distant cousins at a family wedding while Madonna played in the background of every thrilling turn. But what’s done is done, and as the birthday girl doesn’t like to dwell on the past, neither should we.

Bouncing along with the more carefree singles of her past, this was ‘Cherish’ – another early timeline entry that could have done with some further explanation of the late summer/early fall of 1989. I remember Maine, and the way the sun slanted differently in the coming fall. A navy J. Crew sweater is part of my memory too, as is the cold sting of the ocean off Maine.

Perhaps her greatest attribute is her resilience, as proven by the mantra of ‘Over and Over‘ – a ‘Like A Virgin‘ deep-cut that personifies the 80’s, and the rise, and rise, and rise of Madonna herself. It doesn’t matter who you are, it’s what you do that takes you far.

Adolescent angst was at its height when I listened to ‘Supernatural‘ – a B-side to the far-superior (and peppier) ‘Cherish.’ It conjures memories known mostly only to myself and a few select friends. I’m afraid I didn’t do it justice, but some things are too dark to bring back to light.

Sassy-pants with attitude to spare, this was ‘She’s Not Me.‘ Let the haters hate, let the wanna-be’s be, and let them eat my dust.

It sounds silly and trite to say it, but Madonna has in many ways been the love of my life. When friends and family and lovers turned against me, there was always Madonna. She was the one person on whom I could always count – for support, for inspiration, for love. She taught me self-reliance. She taught me how to get back up again. She taught me that ‘Love Makes the World Go Round.’

Happy Birthday M!!

 

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What’s In A Bag?

Clothes and sundries, accessories and toiletries.

Socks and underwear on the bottom, along with whatever pajamas or loungewear that feel appropriate for a visit.

Rolled pants and shirts (rolling will actually keep things less wrinkled in most instances).

Maybe a book if I’m carrying the bag with me.

Sometimes a gift or two, depending on the host.

The most important thing to pack though, and you don’t even need a fancy bag for this, is an open-minded readiness for anything, and a willingness to try everything. It is the essence of a good traveler.

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