During Lent we had to attend the Stations of the Cross every Friday night. It was definitely a buzz-kill for the start of a weekend, but so much Catholic guilt was ingrained in my head that I felt it was the least I could do for the guy who died for my sins. I liked to sit under the third station, where Jesus falls for the first time (no gentle Veronica-wiping-the-face-of-Jesus for me.) That’s when I wasn’t serving as an altar boy and carrying a candle around (which, if one wasn’t careful, would drip hot wax onto little fingers – another danger I somehow skirted during a childhood in the Catholic church.) Lent was a somber time, arriving at the end of winter, part of the seemingly-endless trudge toward spring, and coupled with the dark, mysterious story of the crucifixion of Jesus and the subsequent resurrection.

The scent of incense hung in the church during these weeks, a product of the swinging censer for all those Stations of the Cross. Part magic, part faith ~ part mysticism, part blind-belief ~ it was a time cloaked in shadows and smoke, where candlelight offered both hope and danger, and the flickering flames revealed either a smile or the stern consternation of the priest.

I didn’t know at the time that all these religious issues – the questions of faith, the tenets of Catholicism, the blind reverence and obedience – would come to burning life by the namesake of the Mother of God Herself – for it was at this time of the year that it arrived. The song, the album, and one of the greatest Madonna moments ever recorded: on the 25^th anniversary of its release, tomorrow’s Madonna Timeline is ‘Like A Prayer.’

Everyone must stand alone…

This stationary has always reminded me of seashells, so I juxtaposed the real thing with its artistic interpretation for these photos. That sort of collision is what excites me ~ the crux of nature and art, the crossroads of reality and representation. That on a simple piece of card-stock, the sea can be so eloquently conjured is one of life’s greatest gifts. Particularly in a land-locked portion of upstate New York, where the ocean feels so far away, it’s a comfort to find a few objects and renderings that take me right back to the shore.

In our living room there is a large half of a clam shell, and in it is a collection of stones that I plucked from beneath the rolling waves of Ogunquit Beach. They are mostly smooth from years of tumbling against the sand, but each is unique in design, color, and variation. Whenever I miss the sea, I wander over to this little pile of stones, take a few in my hand, and return to that idyllic space between land and ocean.

This is a holiday in which I play no part. As much as I like green, it’s overdone on this day, and done horribly wrong (plastic shamrock necklaces anyone?) Beer, green or otherwise, has never appealed to me. And kegs and eggs? A more gross combination does not come immediately, or with pause, to mind. So let’s look back over the week that came before this ridiculous day, and then fast-forward to Tuesday. (Come back later for a super ginger post, if you like redheads.)

I’ll be back in Boston soon, because I miss the scones and the banana bread at the South End Buttery just too much.

The whimsical wonder of Boston was in evidence in the charming shops along Tremont Street, where the enchanting Niche and the exquisite Olives & Grace kept the South End rife with magic and beauty.

There can never be enough of Tom Ford.

Locally, at least Capital District-wise, a few friends were doing what they do best: Kevin Bruce, GioExpressions, and the Cohoes Music Hall.

Despite all frigid signs to the contrary, this is officially the week we move into spring. To keep things hot, a few sexy gentlemen were featured in most of their glory, including Louis Smith (naked Olympian), Jake Gyllenhaal (naked actor), Anton Hysen (naked soccer player), Ryan Carnes (almost-naked actor), and Paddy O’Brian (naked gay porn star.)

Despite the glowing admiration of my pal Parley, I’ve never been all that enamored of Wes Anderson’s films. In fact, the only one I tried to get through – ‘Rushmore’ – left me unimpressed and stopping it before it took hold. That’s not usually like me. (I even sat through the wretched ‘Jerry Maguire’ when every fiber of my being was impelling me to walk out of the theater and save a few minutes of otherwise-wasted time. God I hated that film. Show me the money my ass.)

From that ‘Rushmore’ experience, I’ve unfairly avoided Mr. Anderson’s movies, with the exception of ‘Fantastic Mr. Fox’ – because I’m a sucker for talking animals. That may change with ‘The Grand Budapest Hotel’ which looks visually compelling, and features the work of an actor I’ve long admired – Ralph Fiennes (who, when I initially noticed him in ‘Quiz Show’ looked eerily similar to the first man I ever kissed.)

Being that I generally enjoy a quirky take on life, I may need to re-examine Anderson’s oeuvre. It’s never good to be a party-pooper without first having attended the party. And what better way to get back into the World of Anderson than with this short he did for Prada, “Castello Cavalcanti?” If anything’s going to convince me of someone’s impeccable taste, it’s Prada.