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Walking the Gay Plank

On the verge of turning 39, I am not quite one of the over-40 men trolling the gay bars that Dalton Heinrich so viciously vilifies in this ridiculous post he wrote for GayGuys.com. In the article, Heinrich laments all those “sad, thirsty” men over the age of 40 who still go out to bars and clubs. He wants to know when they’ll grow up and start families. He wants them to get out of their “Peter Pan” syndromes and act their age. He wants them to be proper role models. Above all else, he wants to sound like he’s making a valid point. Unfortunately, he ends up sounding like a number of homophobic people who have a problem with the “gay lifestyle.”

Rather than offering a critical or even half-thoughtful reading of the differences between generations, Heinrich sticks to broad and sweeping generalizations, claiming that at a certain age we need to start acting a certain way, settling down and having families. It might have been charmingly nostalgic if it wasn’t so ass-backwards and close-minded.

It must be noted that by writing such a post Heinrich perpetuates the very stereotypes he so deeply criticizes. He attempts to shade it with the shaming of such gentlemen as not providing a good set of role models for him. I’d like to remind Heinrich that some of those “over-40” gentlemen fought for him to have a voice and to spew such stereotypical nonsense, and they’ve earned the right to have a night out if and when they please.

There are two quotes in the post that particularly wrought my ire:

“I think most of the gay men I associated with had never mentally passed the age of 25.”

“Why are there so few gay men in my life that look at the next generation as someone to mentor and coach rather than a new addition to their dating pool?”

The common thread here, Mr. Heinrich, is not the gay men you lump so carelessly together, but yourself. You chose the people in your life. The gay men in your circle of friends likely did not force themselves upon you, but found their way into your world by invitation or your own machinations. You get to decide who your role models will be. If you don’t like them, then you’re the one to blame.

I wonder how Heinrich would feel about such stunningly-stupid generalizations like ‘Young gay guys are stupid’ or ‘Twinks are pretty but vacuous.’ I could list a staggering number of examples of each, but I don’t do that because as a thinking person I know how such stereotypes can be damaging and dangerous.

If Heinrich took the time to talk to some of the over-40 guys he finds unfit to be role models, he might change his mind. I know a number of gentlemen who regularly go out to bars for the social aspect, the shows, the dancing, and the friendship. They’re just as good at being role models as a gay father who stays home tending to his family.

Mr. Heinrich, I would ask that you consider that there’s enough room in the world for everyone, and enough room at the 18-and-over bars for those, well, over 18. In your post you asked, “When my generation of gays gets older are we going to think that is the normal thing to do with our nights?” If it is, it will be entirely a matter of your own making.

Growing up, I had even fewer visible gay role models than you do. Rather than limiting myself to those few brave souls, I sought out anyone  who impressed me, who made me want to be a better person. That included older gay men and women, and – just as importantly – straight men and women. It included people who enjoyed hanging out in gay bars, as well as those who preferred to stay home and read. The one thing I never did as a younger gay guy was to go around judging others based on their age or what I thought they should be doing with their lives. Perhaps you’d do better by broadening your own mind, rather than criticizing the rest of the world for being as limited in their views as you have proven to be.

Yes, it’s true that certain men do have a problem growing up. Thank you for revealing another one, Dalton Heinrich.

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The Madonna Timeline: Song #107 – ‘Like A Virgin’ ~ 1984

{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.}

The woman stands alone in the spotlight. Thousands of screaming fans surround her, watching her every move, but she is undeniably alone, and, dare it be said, perhaps a little lonely. Her hair is disheveled, her body is both beautiful and a wreck – bound by a corset, restricted by lace, and held only half together by her trademark fishnet stockings. She looks a bit broken and fiercely forlorn. The familiar pop chirp and breezy bounce of the signature track is almost unrecognizable in this waltz – and the woman, almost three decades after she first sang the song, imbues the performance with a tragically ironic take on all that is shiny and new. This is Madonna and her latest incarnation of ‘Like A Virgin’ – the emotional high-point of the MDNA Tour. She sings to a plaintive slowed-down ballad version, with world-weary fatigue and heartrending abandon. Here, then, is our Queen, laid low by life. It is a mesmerizing moment from a woman who has made a career of transcending the boundaries of pop culture.

‘Like A Virgin’ is the album that catapulted her into the pop culture stratosphere, and it remains her best-selling album in the United States. As for the title song, it had a bass-line influenced by Michael Jackson, and the synth-heavy production so favored in the 80’s. It also had a universal message, particularly when you take out the mundane literal readings of the lyrics, and nothing that has lasted all this time could ever be seriously dismissed as a novelty song. Madonna herself has always claimed that ‘Virgin’ was less about losing one’s virginity and more about a freshness, a feeling of newness and wonder as befits the beginning of any relationship. There was a sexual aspect running through all of it, however, one that even she couldn’t deny, but to peg it solely as a sex song is largely missing the mark, and ignoring its lasting cultural influence.

I made it through the wilderness, somehow I made it through
Didn’t know how lost I was until I found you
I was beat, incomplete, I’d been had, I was sad and blue
But you made me feel, yeah you made me feel shiny and new… 

Going back a few years before the opening scene, she gave the song an electro-twist, riding around on a futuristic abstract horse on the Confessions Tour in 2006, while x-rays of her recently-broken ribs flashed across screens behind her. In that version she was the triumphant rider, returning to the scene of a crime in Madonna-fashion, defying that which struck her down a few months prior. By that time, ‘Like A Virgin’ was already a well-tread warhorse of its own, having undergone such drastic tinkering as 1993’s Girlie Show incarnation.

For that circus-like romp, Madonna donned a top hat and tails, channeling Marlene Dietrich in full androgynous glory. It came, right after the ‘Sex’ book and ‘Erotica’ album, with a comforting wink and nod (and only one phallic rising that was more comical than offensive). At the very moment that her career was saturated with sex, Madonna made ‘Virgin’ the unlikely heart of a rather family-friendly portion of an otherwise erotic-heavy show. That’s defiance. That’s the power of the shiny and new.

Like a virgin
Touched for the very first time
Like a virgin
When your heart beats
Next to mine.

It’s withstood the test of time due in large part to Madonna’s varied performances of the song, from a silly throwaway mash-up on the ‘Who’s That Girl‘ Tour to more magnificent executions such as in the epic Blonde Ambition Tour documented in ‘Truth or Dare’. To this day, the latter remains my favorite rendering of the song. Maybe it was the time period that ‘Truth or Dare‘ was released – the summer of 1991 – and its coinciding with my budding adolescence, or the infamous golden Gaultier cone-bra, or the simple brazen act of someone who had the nerve to rub one out for all the world to see, but for whatever reason, that’s the rendition of ‘Like A Virgin’ that means the most to me.

Gonna give you all my love boy
My fear is fading fast
Been saving it all for you
Cause only love can last.

“So, what’s considered masturbation?” the diminutive woman asked as she adjusted her head-set beneath the tangle of her blonde, Barbie-doll pony-tail.

“When you stick your hand in your crotch,” her brother sheepishly answered.

Such was the exchange that Madonna had with her brother Christopher before going on-stage in Toronto for that night’s show. It was, by many accounts, the pinnacle of her outrageous power, and her masturbatory performance of ‘Like A Virgin’ was the centerpiece of sexual provocation. Forget the cone-shaped bras strapped onto the male back-up dancers, the harem-like Middle-Eastern revision of the song, and the red velvet bed on which our tainted heroine draped her body – it was the simple act of self-satisfaction that had so many in an uproar, and this boy in rapt wonder and awe.

Watching her command the audience, and the world, with a brush of her nether-regions, illustrated the power of sex. It was titillation, it was promise, it was tease and release. It was a woman in control, with men as supporting players at best (and likely gay and uninterested to boot.) With a single touch, she brought a parochial world to its knees. With a simple grind, she felled centuries of male-domination. With one final flourish, she cried out to God and released the tormented torrent of the life of a woman.

You’re so fine,
And you’re mine
Make me strong, yeah you make me bold
Cause your love thawed out
Yeah your love thawed out
What was scared and cold.

As a gay boy, I didn’t quite get turned on by the proceedings, instead I took a different lesson: the power of self-love. Literally. Tied in with that was the power of sex and the power of seduction, along with the power that comes from being the object of desire, untouchable but for her own hands, isolated and alone yet watched by thousands. It was a daring show of raw sexuality and unabashed self-pleasure that left jaws-dropping wherever the Blonde Ambition tour landed. It is the image of ‘Like A Virgin’ that I retain to this day. It’s a far cry from its original version.

Like a virgin
Touched for the very first time
Like a virgin
When your heart beats
Next to mine.

Back in 1984, a lot of the world hadn’t quite heard of Madonna. I myself missed out on her debut album – including ‘Holiday’, ‘Lucky Star’, and ‘Borderline’ (I was, after all, only nine years old) but by 1985 ‘Material Girl’ brought her into my life, and my life into sudden-focus. Its infectious beat kept me glued to the rest of the ‘Like A Virgin’ album. Even so, the title song, and its accompanying Bride-in-Venice video didn’t do much for me. It was catchy enough, and I sensed in the title a certain degree of naughtiness, but at that time in my life I listened, shrugged, and fast-forwarded to ‘Dress You Up.’

You’re so fine, and you’re mine
I’ll be yours til the end of time
Cause you made me feel, yeah you made me feel
I’ve got nothing to hide.

Looking back, I wish I’d paid more attention to this moment and that first flush of Madonnamania. My wanna-be years were a bit further off, but something must have touched me. Now, it means a little more. ‘Like A Virgin’ tugged at my ears, at my pants, at my head, and at my heart. As it grew in resonance over the years, it came to mean different things at different times, but always the hope of starting over, the freshness of a new beginning, the bright bursting of a heart newly in love. If I listen closely enough, if I close my eyes and let my mind wander back, I can remember the innocence of childhood – and there it is again, all shiny and new… for the very first time.

Song #107: ‘Like A Virgin’ – 1984

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Birthday Pop

Today marks Madonna’s birthday, so we’re going to celebrate with the return of the Madonna Timeline (a little later today). For now, a nostalgic look back at some oft-overlooked entries in that venerable feature of this blog. Her classics have been well-documented and recapped, but there are other moments that have flown under the radar. I think of these little gems as baby ‘Bedtime Stories’ – the kind of post that comes along quietly, simmers for a bit before settling down into an indelible memory. They don’t flare brightly, they smolder silently, but the end result is largely the same: an unforgettable moment of pop music.

We begin with a song that didn’t quite make the official Madonna Timeline but is worth noting anyway for its B-side brilliance. From the epic ‘Ray of Light‘ sessions, this is ‘Has To Be.’ It is proof that something very special was in the offing as Madonna collaborated with William Orbit on her best album to date.

‘Future Lovers’ was the fantastic opening to 2006’s Confessions Tour, and remains one of her greatest entrances to the stage.

One of the best tracks from 2005’s much-maligned ‘American Life’ album was ‘Nobody Knows Me‘, a pounding and jittery dance monster that somehow got lost amid the political-shuffle of the moment.

Not all B-sides are killer tracks, as proven by the rather-lackluster ‘Supernatural’ – for which so many of us had such high expectations, given its creation during the ‘Like A Prayer’ sessions. But even when Madonna lands with a thud, it’s still pretty damn good.

She is usually at her best when sassing and being bossy, and nowhere is that more thrillingly conveyed than in the bitchy ‘She’s Not Me.’ A companion piece to ‘Thief of Hearts‘ this is Madonna at her sauciest.

For the lady at her most Zen and peaceful, we have to look to the ‘Ray of Light’ album and the chanting evident in ‘Shanti/Ashtangi.’ (I worship the gurus’ lotus feet too, mutha-fuckas.)

Even the most beloved on earth sometimes feel a little bit lonely, as evidenced by ‘Another Suitcase in Another Hall.’ Yet ‘Evita’ had a few more lessons gleaned from the strength found in solitude, and taught me how to fly ‘Rainbow High.’

They’re only ‘Words‘ unless they’re true. And on the ‘Erotica’ album she went deep. And ‘Deeper and Deeper.’

Finally, in honor of the birthday girl, will someone please tell me, ‘Where’s the Party?

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A Pre-Virginity Romp

It was the song that started it all, and the album that launched her into the stratosphere. Tomorrow, the Madonna Timeline returns with one of her most iconic songs, ‘Like a Virgin.’ In addition to it being her birthday, it’s going to be an entire day of Madonna. Oddly enough, ‘Like A Virgin’ was never one of my favorite Madonna songs, and the album has lost a bit of its 80’s luster over the years. Still, nostalgia is a powerful force, and every time she performs the song it has an effect on me. Sometimes it’s happy, sometimes it’s sexy, and sometimes it’s sad. That’s the mark of an enduring song, and an enduring artist.

As for her birthday celebration, it will mostly be a social media event. I tend to post a song lyric every hour or so, infuriating some FaceBook friends and exasperating some Twitter followers. No word on whether her celebration will leak over onto Instagram. Only one way to find out.

Are you ready to make it through the wilderness? Somehow we’ll make it through…

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Spanking Sammy

It rippled through the class in the way that something shocking often does. There was a moment of pause, a suspended stillness before any of us could react. We were in second grade, a year that I can recall even clearer than some things that happened yesterday. When something surprising happens, kids often take a while to register it. Like those seconds between the moment a kid takes a spill, and then decides, through pain or calculation, whether to start crying.

It happened to Sammy – the classmate I disliked the most. It wasn’t just me, before you go off on that well-tread track. Sammy was a bad kid: he misbehaved, he was mean and nasty, and, quite frankly and quite literally, he stunk. He was the bad seed of the second grade class, a jerk of a boy who should have worn a diaper. On the day in question, the teacher must have agreed with me, because Sammy did something that brought out the fury in her.

I can’t recall what it was that he did, but I distinctly remember her rushing towards him, not screaming his name, but muttering it viciously under her breath. She gave him a few quick whacks on the butt. Not incredibly hard, but violent enough. We watched but did nothing. I wasn’t shocked or startled. I had seen that sort of thing before. It was the aftermath that was disturbing.

As I said, he was a bad kid. Well, maybe not bad, but ill-behaved, sometimes cruel, and, looking back on it, must’ve come from a family who didn’t quite love him enough. A while later I saw her hug him. And apologize. And hold him on her lap like a baby. “You just make me so mad sometimes, Sammy,” she said, almost crying herself as she rocked him in her arms. He just laid there, kind of lifeless. That was the disturbing part.

Actually, it was the way I felt about it that bothered me more than anything. Part of me wanted to see Sammy punished. Part of me wanted him to pay for the abuse he inflicted on others, the nastiness of his behavior, the way the whole class suffered for what he did. I wanted to feel bad for him, and some small part of me did, but most of me cried victory for come-uppance, for getting what he deserved.

I’ve never quite forgiven myself for that.

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Eating the Hair of an Angel

This simple and refreshing dish uses a delicious mash-up of crab, tomato, fresh parsley, fresh basil, capers, lemon juice and olive oil to jazz up the delicate structure of angel hair pasta. The key component, however, is the lemon zest garnish – which in this instance is far more than a garnish, it’s an integral part of the meal. It makes all of the difference.

That’s the beauty of a proper garnish. It’s much more than just a pretty addition. It can make or break a dish, much as it makes or breaks a cocktail. Sometimes, yes, it’s for more subtle and decorative purposes, like the ubiquitous sprig of parsley, more often than not dismissed and shuffled off to the side. But in cases, like the lemon zest-inflected dish seen here, it’s the vital element that turns a simple dinner into a gastrorgasmic event.

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Your Love Is Killing Me

My eyes are closed and I’ve nothing more to say
But I’m so willing to give it all away…

The scent of pot, skunk-like and pungent, drifted up the open staircase. It felt like the college-age version of ‘Tales from the City’ and not unfittingly so, as this was the same city. It was dark, but the magical multi-chambered jewel-box of San Francisco sparkled in the distance, even through the foggy night. Shadowy figures passed me on the stairs.  Whispers and laughter and the flush of youth so palpable its headiness matched the marijuana.  I hopped a train to take me further into the city, away from such magnificent madness.

Heaven only knows, at your every turn a scandal…

There aren’t many moments when I’ve been afraid in my life. Most of my fear comes in subsequent waves, irrationally washing over me long after the fact when it should have started any adrenaline-pumping. That summer, Andrew Cunanan was going on his killing spree, starting with a gay man in San Diego, and ultimately working his way across the country to Miami, where it culminated with the cold-blooded murder of Gianni Versace outside his Ocean Drive mansion. That hadn’t happened yet, and as I sat waiting for my friend, the memory of a hand-made poster of Mr. Cunanan’s vague visage, seen earlier on the door of a bar in the Castro, suddenly haunted me. A serial killer that seemed to be targeting gay men? As if we didn’t have enough to deal with.

My friend arrived, and we spent an enjoyable time on the town. Worries of Mr. Cunanan faded away, as it’s difficult to be so concerned when surrounded by good friends and fun. Still, there was tension in the air of that summer. It crept in with the night, and lingered long after the day broke. It was the tension of evil lurking in the world.

Sometimes the nights of summer are darker than the nights of winter. How strange – and terrifying – that it should be so.

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A Recap After A Super Moon

As I write this, the Super Moon has risen over the land, and I’ve just spent a Sunday largely by the pool and baking in the sun. I don’t usually do that, but I was engrossed in a book, and sunny summer weekends like this are gifts. There aren’t that many of them left. And in order to squeeze out a few more beautiful moments, I’m going to rush through this recap.

First up was Tom Daley, back in his Speedo and making waves as only he can.

A flower that holds all of the summer in its sky-blue petals.

Family memories old and new, times two.

I made birthday plans, minus Tom Ford, and for the first time ever I’ll be spending my special day in New York City.

A lust for lavender, even when feeling feisty.

It’s all in the crotch.

As always, summer got a whole lot hotter with guys like Billy Magnussen, Francis Mossman and Trey Songz.

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The Collective Crotch Package

The butt has always garnered more than its fair share of praise and posting here, so today we pay homage to its frontal counterpoint – the crotch. A brief collection of gentlemen who have been here in the past have been called back to put what they’re packing on display for this scintillating Sunday catch-all post.

Let’s start with the man who turned me into a Bitcham, Mr. Matthew Mitcham, who recently collected another diving medal at the Commonwealth Games. He’s certainly in the right career field, at least when it comes to wardrobe, and he knows how to fill a Speedo.

Next up is a classic package-poser, David Beckham, whose junk has been prominently featured here a number of times. Here it is again, for all those who fantasize about being Posh Spice.

Shemar Moore was definitely packing the first time he was featured here as Hunk of the Day, but it’s his Junk of the Day that may catch your eye in this shot.

Male supermodel David Gandy has always supplied some dandy eye candy, the kind of sweet delight that makes everything all right.

Dan Osborne recently made a splash in some tight trousers, but it’s how he looks out of them that proves what he’s packing.

For the ginger-loving contingent, Greg Rutherford has bared front and back (a bonus butt-shot below for those who miss the booty) and it would appear that the carpet does indeed match the drapes. (Though in designing situations I would not advise such a thing.)

Finally, a little bit of Colby Melvin works wonders, even if his previous appearances here have proven there’s nothing very little about him.

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Orange and Purple

Easing into a Sunday morning doesn’t always require something this bright and bold, but who am I to deny the punch-packing power of the garden when it wants to show off? Here we have two very different plants – the garden-variety Asclepias (relative of the milkweed, and just as irresistible to monarchs and their caterpillar form) and the vining Clematis (the common-but-no-less-lovely-for-it variety that one sees on many a mailbox pole). Taken together, they form the kind of combustible combination that thrills the senses. Such a strong statement is not for everyone. I know many who prefer a kinder, gentler palette of pastels, the cooling calm of lavenders and soft pinks, or the silvers and whites of downy foliage and airy blooms. For me, like much else it all depends on the mood. Today, I’m feeling feisty. Bang bang, zoom zoom feisty. Orange and purple feisty.

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A Birthday on Park Avenue

The very first Kimpton Hotel I stayed in was the Hotel Triton in San Francisco, CA about a decade ago. It was funky, fabulous, and filled with friendly staff and whimsical fervor. I was instantly impressed. Since that time, the Kimpton brand has taken over the country in the best possible way, creating boutique hotels in a number of cities, and offering unique experiences centered around good, old-fashioned customer service. It is the latter point, and its accompanying attention to personal detail and care, that sets this brand apart from the rest of the hotel chains.

For my birthday weekend in New York, though properties like the Waldorf Towers and the Standard originally called to me, I thought back to that first Kimpton stay, and the subsequent stays I’ve enjoyed at several locations (including this spectacular time at the Hotel Rouge in Washington, DC) so I switched gears and looked into the Kimpton selection. Ultimately, while I was intrigued by The Muse, I found a happy reservation at 70 Park Avenue, and that’s where I’ll be spending my birthday weekend. Coupled with a performance of ‘Bullets Over Broadway’ – its last, sadly – I’m looking forward to a fun way of continuing on the frightening path into my upper 30’s. The way-upper-30’s… as in one more before 40.

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Poolside Family Shenanigans – Part 1

It’s not supposed to be, but summer is a busy time in these parts. Most of the business is fun, but it’s still a bit of work. Luckily we have some great people to make it all worth-while, like the family members you will find in this post. I don’t share a great deal of information about my family, but regular readers have come to know most of the key players. Here’s another glimpse at them.

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Lavender Lust

Even when the heat of day has rendered the concrete walkway around the pool unwalkable in bare feet, the lavender remains upright and true. Though the main flush of flowers has long since passed, these hardy plants will throw out a few random blooms from now until the fall. Long a signifier of peace and calm, lavender has been a favorite of mine since I was a kid. The fragrance alone is worth putting in a few plants, but the neat and tidy form, along with the soft gray-green foliage and enchanting blooms further recommend this as a necessary garden addition.

Its rustic elegance can be utilized in both formal and cottage-style gardens, and its silvery-gray hues lend a cooling aspect to the hottest days of summer. Individually, the bloom stalks are delicate and small – taken together they form a cloud of purple, a lavender haze that bees adore and worship. I don’t blame them.

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A Big Apple Birthday

August is here. The month of my birthday is at hand. Remember the time I made up a birthday registry? That was fun. Even if I only got one item on the list. (When the starting price of a gift is $250 you tend to weed out a lot of casual gift-givers. Lesson learned.) Nowadays, I have this convenient Amazon wish list with all the incidental smaller gifts on it – along with several big-ticket items (there are a couple of Tom Ford Private Blends available – not to mention some fantastic art books). For those closer to me who may still be wondering what might tickle my fancy this birthday season, allow me to produce a list more reasonable than the Louis Vuitton items that occupied that first birthday registry in my more hubris-oriented youth.

In rather unprecedented fashion, Tom Ford is not at the top of my wish list this time. Since the Mandarino di Amalfi craze of earlier this summer (a scent so intoxicating I had to run out and purchase it myself) I haven’t found a Private Blend that really called to me. Mandarino’s sister frag, Costa Azzurra, was nice, but doesn’t have the staying power to merit such a hefty price point. Besides, the end of August doesn’t call for a bright summer fragrance. If I were to go for a Tom Ford fragrance, it would be the elusive ‘London’ Private Blend – currently only available in the London flagship store (and perhaps online if one is especially crafty and willing to deal with the steep exchange rate). That may be a wish beyond realistic possibility, but that’s what wishes are.

Without Mr. Ford, that frees up a spot for another fragrance. September is a tricky pocket of time for cologne. The days can be summer-hot, but the nights can be cooler. A little bit of citrus and a little bit of pepper offer a good balance together, but I haven’t had time to determine which scents best exemplify that right now. It may mean a spur-of-the-moment selection (like the Amber Absolute birthday gift from a few years ago). Or it may mean no new fragrance, which wouldn’t be such a bad thing.

Given my love of theater and travel, it seems odd that I’ve never asked for a trip or tickets to a show, but it’s never too late to start a new tradition. And so, in the winding trajectory of this post, I may have talked myself out of a birthday cologne, and into something entirely different. After this year’s Broadway renaissance, a rekindled passion for the Broadway musical may mean that my birthday wish is a weekend in New York. Never in my life did I think I would want to spend my birthday in the city that too often annoys me, but if I can stick to those activities and the spaces that I love, why shouldn’t it be a wonderful time?

So I’m thinking Saturday, August 23 and Sunday, August 24 at the Waldorf Towers or the Standard – two hotels that are quite different, but have each called to me over the years.  I’ve taken that Monday off for the return trip home. A day of shopping on Fifth Avenue, perhaps venturing all the way up to the Tom Ford flagship store, and maybe a walk back through Central Park, and then a show (one of the following four) on the evening we don’t do the fancy dinner:

  • Kinky Boots (seen it, but worth seeing again, if only to get Andy’s take on it)
  • The Book of Mormon (because, rather blasphemously, I’ve NEVER seen it)
  • Bullets Over Broadway (which actually closes on my birthday – hello cosmic hint)
  • A Gentleman’s Guide to Love & Murder (perhaps too close-to-home?)

I’m leaning toward ‘Bullets’ as that’s one of our favorite movies, and with a closing date on my birthday I think it may be the one (I’ve never seen a show on its closing date, but I’m guessing that’s a bittersweet and special time).

I looked at La Grenouille for a dinner (it’s one of the places where Truman Capote reportedly entertained his swans), but that was booked the entire weekend so I need to find up with a suitable substitution. Recommendations always welcome. In the meantime, start saving: my Amazon Wish List.

The month of the Virgo is upon us.

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