This is what Christmas should be about ~ magic and wonder and a pair of wizard wands (shown off to best effect in a darkened bathroom). Here are the twins having fun with the gifts I got for them this year. In some respects they take after their Uncle (they were much more excited by these than the requisite items of clothing we got for them).
{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.}
Thus far, Madonna’s 1990 album ‘I’m Breathless’ has been represented by ‘He’s a Man‘, ‘Sooner or Later‘ and ‘Hanky Panky‘. Now, in timely fashion for gift-giving (and receiving) season, comes ‘More’. This is a Stephen Sondheim composition, and a pretty damn good one at that. The merging of Broadway and Madonna was a genius one, and one that made burgeoning gay boys like myself cream their pants with musical excitement. Madonna once hilariously commented that Sondheim songs were difficult to sing due to their chromatic wildness. Whatever the case, she manages to pull them off quite nicely here, and ‘More’ was a bouncier ditty than the other Sondheim contributions (‘Sooner or Later’ and ‘What Can You Lose?’) I’d tell you I composed a dance number to go along with it, but I’ve embarrassed myself enough here, thank you. Instead, let’s focus on the material aspect of things.
We’re all a little greedy, and most of us always want more than we have. I’m no holier-than-thou exception to that rule, but I know enough to realize that I have all I’ll ever need. Everything else is just gravy – fabulous, fashionable, Tom Ford-scented gravy. To that end, however, it means that I am considered one of the most difficult people to buy gifts for. It’s why I post a Christmas wish list every year (and set up a birthday registry once – don’t ask).
This year, almost everything was checked off the wish list – a collection of Crate & Barrel wine glasses to populate the new kitchen, a Tommy Hilfiger coat, several certificates for dining out (much-needed in these weeks without a kitchen), a Brooks Brother’s gift card, a new rice cooker and vegetable steamer, and Tom Ford’s ‘Bois Marocain’ Private Blend – a surprise from Andy that I didn’t even ask for. After all that, how could anyone still feel empty? Surely only a spoiled brat would complain…
There have been years when I didn’t make a list, but the gifts I received then proved that no one really understood me, no one ever got who I was and what I might want. That proved more upsetting and depressing than the guilt at getting everything I asked for, so since then I’ve made a list. At least that way I can pretend that people pay attention, that they listen throughout the year to what I say, that they care enough to figure out what appeals to me, along with what I already wear or have. I can hear the miserable ones on FaceBook and Twitter writing their ‘First world problems’ comments now… But really, what am I supposed to have, third world problems? I don’t live in that world.
Back in 1990, I was less concerned with fashion or Ford. I hadn’t quite come into myself yet (in some ways we never do), though I knew how to dress well, and understood the power of appearance. For all that, I never asked for clothing or cologne or other sartorial accessories when it came to birthdays or Christmas. Don’t give me too much credit – I wasn’t asking for world peace either, but my wish list consisted of whimsical things ~ a lava lamp, a saltwater fish tank, a traffic light, a wave machine – the fascinating nonsensical objects one would find at Spencer gifts. My bedroom was a gallery of cheesy 80’s artifacts held together by plastic and powered by black power cords. At night, the flashing lights and other-worldly glow provided futuristic solace, but scant warmth.
In the days after Christmas, when it seemed like we had it all, an inevitable disappointment crept into my room. The let-down of the post-holiday doldrums was wicked recompense for the build-up and excitement of all that anticipation. Getting what you want is always a tricky business. Emotional manipulation carries its own cost. What I was searching for was happiness, and it was something that couldn’t be bottled or sold or wrapped up under the tree. It is, I fear, something that no one else can give me ~ and, until I find it, I will always want more.
This is a bit of a holding post to tide us over until early next week brings the 2013 Year in Review (in three parts no less). For the rest of today, and tonight, I’d like to direct your attention to last’s year’s review. It should come as no surprise that I’m not a fan of looking back that extensively. As a pretty perceptive and analytical person on a day-to-day basis, I find the added burden of going back over an entire year rather onerous and unnecessary. If you do it right the first time around, why go through it again? But as I get older, I find these recaps are a good way of remembering things that would otherwise be forgotten in an instant.
Last year was actually a lot of fun – more-so than this year in a lot of ways – so it might be worth the look back. Here’s what was going on then ~ Part 1 and Part 2. Get ready for this year’s synopsis, which won’t be nearly as enjoyable… (which means you won’t want to miss it).
Two decades ago I sent out a project entitled ‘Apology’. Back then, my audience consisted of about five close friends who received my work through the postal service, as this was right before we all had e-mail. It was more fun that way: I could send out offensive things and have a few days to regret it before the damage was delivered. Which is basically what happened with that project. After a few months of getting battered by friends and family alike, I decided to go the usual passive-aggressive route (with a decided emphasis on the second half of the hyphenate) and address it in my writing. And theirs.
For ‘Apology’, I used Plato’s definition of the word. Unlike what most of us think of an apology, my version was a throwback to its original meaning – a defense. Over the years I’d amassed a decent collection of condemnations against me. Most were from people I’d never even met. The ones that mattered – and the ones that hurt the most – were those that came from the people whom I thought knew and understood me. Many of these were letters of blame bandied about in anger, but at the core of them was a simple critique of me and my lifestyle. Not so much my gay lifestyle, but a lifestyle of honesty and bluntness, and perhaps not-always-popular-opinion made unabashedly known. I was hated, and criticized, for being myself. Not always without reason, but often. And so my ‘Apology’ was born. Birthed from an exasperation of being attacked (you should see what people write to me on FaceBook and Twitter – I may be a bitch, but I rarely do it on someone else’s wall), it came from a dark place, an angry and defensive place, and as such it alienated just about everyone. (When you only have five viewers, it’s probably not the wisest move to make them all mad.) But I knew I needed to be alone then, so I did it.
On each page of the Project, I copied and printed out the worst letters that people had written to me (including all my friends who were about to receive it). On the back of each page I wrote a response to each of the accusations, outwardly apologizing for whatever bad things I had supposedly done, while rather transparently mocking such attacks. It was petty and childish – and it got the point across. But being right is a lonely place to be.
Twenty years later, I’m still fending off unfair characterizations, unprovoked attacks, and misplaced blame. I think I’m a little better at dealing with them now. Yet every once in a while I feel it may be time for a New Apology. (And before the next volley of criticism comes this way, please remember that no matter how cruel you think I sometimes am to others, no matter how cutting and critical, it is nothing compared to the atrocities I inflict upon myself. You don’t need to believe it, but that doesn’t mean it’s not true.)
Last weekend I was in Boston, which is where I’ll be spending most weekends until the kitchen is done (including this one). Not that I need an excuse to go to Boston, but this one is legit. (I’m finally getting tired of walking through dust, ducking under drop-cloths and plastic, and coughing from whatever is in the air.) I may even spend a super-long weekend there that brings me into the New Year if I can figure out some parking ideas (or pony up for a garage). The point is, I’ll be happily ensconced in the condo for an extended time, and I couldn’t be more pleased.
It is one of the places where I feel grounded and safe. No matter what storms may rage outside, and no matter what storms may rage inside of me, Boston has always provided a safe haven, especially in the winter. It’s quieter there. I don’t usually turn on the television (I don’t think we get cable) and only when people come over do I play music. Reading books and writing letters occupies my time, but so does doing nothing ~ sitting on the couch or in a chair by the front window ~ its own form of meditation and contemplation. It’s a good place to get back to basics.
There is a working kitchen too, so I can pick up some supplies at the market then cook up a meal, which is a luxury these days ~ a cozy, comforting luxury. Kira and I made a lovely brunch while in town this past weekend, and it was a nice change of pace to spend a slow, lazy Saturday morning just padding around in our pajamas, leisurely setting up the food, and talking over hot tea while bagels toasted and the room filled with the scents of breakfast.
Last Sunday, when returning from Boston, I drove through the thickest fog I’ve ever seen in my life. The foot of snow from the storm a few days prior was turning directly into fog as temperatures soared into the 60’s. It made for a few wondrous, and dangerous, patches of greatly-reduced visibility. Fog has always proved dangerously questionable for me, both in real life and in fiction, but this one was affecting everyone. Cars would disappear suddenly, enveloped by the water vapor, then the road would go, and with it the guidelines – and to be plunged into blindness so quickly is a terror you don’t want to know.
It wasn’t so much the disconcerting lack of guideposts and signs – it was the rush into the unknown. It felt like no matter how much I slowed it was still coming too quickly, like I might crash into some roadblock or stranded vehicle without warning or notice. Eventually I caught up to another car with its hazards on, going about my speed but even more cautiously. I stayed close until the fog dispersed. It was a relief to see that someone else was out there, that someone else was scared. We parted when we could see again, and when another patch came along I was already well-past my foul-weather friend.
For those of us without family or friends on this day, and for those of us who’d rather be away from family and friends on this day, here is a post to distract and take you away from all of that, Calgon bath-style. The anti-climax of Christmas is quick and ruthless, often arriving on the day itself. I remember coming back after Christmas dinner at Suzie’s house as a kid, feeling disappointment that the build-up and lead-in was done in a few short hours, calmed and quieted only by some new toys and gadgets, and the stretch of vacation days ahead, but still bothered that it was all over already. It’s why I’ve come to appreciate the journey rather than the destination, and why, for me, anticipation usually trumps any happy ending. But this is not the time for heavy ruminations like that, I promised a distraction – and an empty and vapid one at that. (What I do best…)
Before next week’s three-part Year in Review, let’s look back at some of the shamelessly salacious skin posts, the ones that featured all that dirty and gratuitous male nudity, the gleefully naked male celebrities, and the shy but shirtless guys as well. What better day for man candy than Christmas?
This post was a Greatest Collection of sorts, Immaculate in its own naked way.
In this one, a look back at one of the greatest battles of the butts of all time.
The great and the gratuitous are on almost full-frontal display here, even if the backdoor is the preferred mode of entry.
Here is an Erection Collection, not so much in the literal sense as a jumping off point of inspiration.
A more recent post chronicled some favorite nude dudes.
And this one is a bunch of nude male celebrities masquerading as something more (but don’t worry, it’s not).
From my family to you and yours, I wish you a very Merry Christmas. If you’re stopping by here on this day of all days, it means you’re part of my family too.
It has become my family’s custom to open our gifts on Christmas Eve, which I think takes some of the joy and wonder out of the holiday for the kids, but I’m not the one raising them so we’ll leave it at that. We started this when my brother and I were at college, and no longer so excited about waking at the crack of dawn to open presents. In the space between dinner and going out for the evening, we’d sit and open gifts in the hushed living room. Lit with candles and a Christmas tree and a mantle-mounted garland of evergreens, the space took on the holiday magic that only Christmas Eve could create.
It was a break in whatever family drama was unfolding at the moment, a time when differences were put aside, just for the night, and smiles and laughter returned to the house like they did when we were kids. The excitement of unopened gifts still elicits a thrill, and the joy in watching my family open theirs is even better.
In the spare, sparse state of our home, without tree or ornaments or garland or lights, I look back on pictures like this and ache just a little for the comforts of Christmas. There’s a magic when the lights of a Christmas tree are all that illuminate the living room, there is warmth in the stockings I made for us over a dozen years ago. Golden angels usually hold glowing candles here, and holiday greenery traditionally accents the wooden surfaces of the room. A wreath laid in the center of a table holds shiny gold ornaments, spilling the sparkling collection over its side in a happy seasonal wave of light-reflecting wonder.
Yet that is not what Christmas is about. Christmas doesn’t require the bombast and the sparkle, the decorations and the twinkling lights. Christmas has always been simpler, and deeper, for me – and for most of us. Even in the kitchenless wonderland of our house, where the hearth seems to have gone missing for the moment, the spirit of Christmas seeps through, lending its own warmth, and conjuring its own magic.
“And the Grinch, with his Grinch-feet ice cold in the snow, stood puzzling and puzzling, how could it be so? It came without ribbons. It came without tags. It came without packages, boxes or bags. And he puzzled and puzzled ’till his puzzler was sore. Then the Grinch thought of something he hadn’t before. What if Christmas, he thought, doesn’t come from a store. What if Christmas, perhaps, means a little bit more.” – Dr. Seuss
I’ve always maintained that many Christmas songs, far from being the merry-fest some would have you believe, are actually sadder than most people realize. There is often an underlying thread of melancholy that runs through them ~ ‘Silent Night’, ‘The First Noel’, ‘Away in a Manger’ ~ these are depressing dirges. Moving yes, but mournful too. Sometimes they’re filled with longing and yearning ~ ‘I’ll Be Home For Christmas’, ‘Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas’ and this ‘Christmas Waltz’, a slower-paced waltz that speaks of lonely nights, solitary cocktails, and some elusive eleventh-hour epiphany of redemptive romantic love.
Yet what happens when there is no Christmas miracle here? When there is no solace? What happens if the only realization is that Christmas comes but once a year, and never really changes anything? Then, I think, we have to pretend to believe, and if we are lulled by a pleasant Christmas waltz let’s rise to the occasion and dance. Who better to get that started than Doris Day?
Having worked in retail for a few years, and having been quite good at it, I know first-hand how difficult it can be for sales associates in the holiday season. I’ve been yelled at and treated rudely, ignored and abused, pushed aside and shoved, but I never faltered in my smile and robotic politeness. (In my younger years, I had more patience and tolerance for those things, especially when a job depended on it.) For those reasons, I have a soft spot in my heart for those retail folks who are just trying to do their job and not be blasted for it.
That said, I can also tell when a retail associate is just being rude and dismissive, or shouldn’t be on the floor at a certain point. A guy by the name of Brad, the supposed Tommy Hilfiger expert at Macy’s in Downtown Boston, seemed to have reached that point when Kira and I were waiting in his line. After standing there for a few minutes, and grateful to be in a line that didn’t seem very long, we were told that we would need to find another line (he suddenly had a dilemma of some sort that was never fully explained). It sounded like he was just exasperated by his job at that moment, which I get, but the way to handle it is to suck it up and tell anyone else that the line was closed after that.
Oddly enough, Kira was more upset by this than I was, loudly stating that it wasn’t very good customer service (!) and that he should have told us that before we were waiting in line. Which was a good point – none of this would have been an issue but for the fact that he threw us out of the line after we’d been standing in it.
We found another line, with a much friendlier associate, who asked how our shopping experience was going. So I told her, not in a nasty way, but in a constructively critical manner (because if you offend someone as normally meek and sweet as Kira, you’ve really acted out of line). This associate said that she was not a fan of Brad either, so I mentioned she could feel free to tell her manager about the incident. Luckily, or unluckily for Brad, the manager was right there, so I told her about it directly, and said that I understood what it’s like working at this time of the year, but there are better ways to handle a line of three people. She thanked me for letting her know (I really wasn’t mean about it) and assured us she would be talking to Brad. Whether or not she does is beyond my control or care at this point. We thanked her for listening and went on our merry way. All’s well that ends well. (Sorry, Brad.)
The shortest day of the year just passed, so it’s only going to get lighter and brighter from here on out. That’s a happy sign, even if it means winter has just begun. The last week was a relatively quiet one as the holiday reaches its climax in a few short days. I’m working on an end-of-the-year pair of posts to fully recap the year that came before, but I may just post a few pics and let them speak for themselves. There’s much to be done, but first the usual Monday look back.
Tis’ the season for beating the drum, and beating the bishop.
Eating of The Cock.
The Madonna Timeline was seasonally appropriate, with ‘Masterpiece‘.
Hunks were decked out in all their shirtlessness, and several nude male celebrities made their debut here, including Will Smith, Ben Foden, Brandon Beemer, Brian Shimansky, Nolan Funk, and Konstantinos Frantzis.
Holiday memories of staircases and ornaments, and the year without Christmas.
Finally, the first photos of the kitchen-in-progress.
It’s not as dramatic as the title of this post would suggest, but for the first time ever Andy and I have not decorated one single thing for Christmas. We’ve done scant and minimal decoration schemes in the past – usually every other year we tone it down just to make life easier – but this marks the first when there is not one single holiday anything on display. Of course it’s due mostly to the kitchen renovation, but I’m enjoying the easy upkeep aspect of the decision, and actually finding that I appreciate the holiday displays everywhere else that much more. Still, there is something to be said for Christmas lights that illuminate these dark nights, for sparkling ornaments that spin slowly in the boughs of fragrant evergreen trees, for the warm glow of candles that flicker with each passing visitor.
It doesn’t bode well that it feels like we’ve been having winter for several weeks already. That today is the actually starting day is quite upsetting. At times like this, I find it’s best to put your faith in God. Jesus take the wheel. Let go and Let God. The price is right. Blessed Be. Don’t go for second best, baby. Jesus is the reason for the season. Too blessed to be stressed. YOLO.
(See what the holidays are doing to me?)
As for the first day of winter, I’ll be in Boston for it, writing out my wishes and burning them from the bathroom window.
