Taking life into a macro-level view always results in further mystery and intrigue, which aligns with the general cloak and veil aspect of the fall season. A circle of toadstools, a pair of acorns, or the umbrage of a mushroom rising seemingly overnight – these are but a few of the magical pulls of autumn. They lend an enchantment to the forest floor amid the business of preparing for the slumber of winter. 

There is a frenzied increase in the activities of squirrels and chipmunks now. Their summer days spent playing and chasing one another have been supplanted by the rushed stocking of their winter pantries. Acorns and nuts are dug and collected, then hidden somewhere else – the machinations of a squirrel’s plan for winter are still mysterious to me, and still a wonder to watch. 

The ground is filled with life at this time of the year, if you bother to bend down and look a little closer. There is dampness here, and with water comes life. Any dry and barren dirt has been given a more hospitable constitution, and life finds a way. 

Ask Jeff Goldblum. 

Our friend JoAnn is visiting us from Cape Cod this weekend, and the stage has been set for a casual and low-key weekend of cozy food and fun, the very best way old friends find joy in the world. Once upon time we’d have been gearing up with an abundance of booze and party plans, non-stop social whirlwinds that left me mostly stressed and breathless. They served their purpose for that specific point in time, but both JoAnn and myself have grown beyond that. We find comfort in quieter and more meaningful connections now. 

This weekend we are making a trip to the Armour-Stiner Octagon House in Irvington, NY. JoAnn has wanted to visit this place for a long time, and we are finally able to do it after a summer of set-backs. While that’s our marquee goal, in all likelihood the weekend’s most magical moments will be in the simple joys of comfort food and a viewing of ‘Practical Magic’. That’s the way it usually unfolds, and that’s the best way to spend a weekend. 

…Velvet pumpkins, apple cider silks, and scarves to make Stevie Nicks proud… a fall weekend of enchantment convenes now… 

Dear Al ~ May I call you Al? Perhaps that’s a bit disingenuous, as I’ve already called you that twice. Also a bit hypocritical, since I don’t take kindly to anyone who calls me ‘Al’ without having known me for at least twenty years. Then again, I don’t care to be particularly kindly to you, so perhaps we should keep things formal after all.

Dear Alcohol ~ You and I go way back. From my 21st birthday, when I made my friends watch ‘Leaving Las Vegas’ as I got drunk on whiskey and Coke, you’ve been a companion, savior, hindrance, crutch, fair-weather friend, mortal enemy, and ultimately an ex as of four years ago. That’s when I had my last drink, and in one of the wisest and best decisions I’ve made in life, I haven’t had you since. It’s been one of the best break-ups I’ve ever had.

The top down in the summer sun
The day we met was like a hit and run
And I still taste it on my tongue (taste it on my tongue)
The sky was burning up like fireworks
You made me want you, oh, so bad it hurt
But girl, in case you haven’t heard

I used to be love drunk but now I’m hungover
I’ll love you forever, forever is over
We used to kiss all night, now it’s just a bar fight
So don’t call me crying, say hello to goodbye 
‘Cause just one sip would make me sick
I used to be love drunk but now I’m hungover
I’ll love you forever but now it’s over

It’s not entirely your fault. In fact, it’s probably not your fault at all. Just beginning to understand that leaves me exhilarated and flummoxed, because I’m still not accustomed to taking the blame, even when I’ve been so terribly wrong, so awfully seduced, so willfully deceived. You were there when no one else was, when I couldn’t be there for myself, and, more frightfully, when I did happen to be there to ambush my own heart. We had some good times – and yes, when all else failed you saved me, like on that day I had to give a presentation in one of my required literature courses. Paralyzed by social anxiety, and terrified by the thought and idea of speaking in front of the class, I had you to keep me company – a bottle of orange juice poured mostly out, replaced by the surefire strength and sting of vodka. The idea of downing it before class in the morning, on the commuter rail and the paths leading to campus, didn’t feel dangerous then the way it does when I think of it now. Survival means different things to different people. We all have to do it. In a morbid way, you helped me survive when I knew no other way. I can’t be entirely mad at you. 

You were there when the awfulness of a family funeral presented itself, and my own parents, whom I had repeatedly begged not to volunteer or agree to have me do a reading in church, left me unprotected again. I smuggled you into my backpack, hurriedly guzzling another massive screwdriver in the hotel bathroom before I had to do that damn reading, my social anxiety off the charts and barely blunted by your vital sting. You held my hand as I walked to the front of that church, having lost a relative just like everyone else, and your effects lingered enough to get me through the moment. It was all I needed – just get me through the moment, I thought as my voice struggled to find itself and read verses I no longer quite believed. And you did it. Later, in the garage, with the macho straight men of my family who had always frightened me, I strode through, all confidence and sanctioned drunken grief, courage by beer at that point, and whatever it took was fine with me.

Hot sweat and blurry eyes
We’re spinning ’round a roller coaster ride
The world stuck in black and white (stuck in black and white)
You drove me crazy every time we touched
Now I’m so broken that I can’t get up
Oh girl, you make me such a lush

So warm and safe, so sexy and seductive, so sure and certain – you were my courage and commitment in one – the surefire way to get me through any situation, and every situation. Another instance of me faking it and faking it until parts of it came true, until parts of me could genuinely believe in myself. I thought you were taking away the fear, I thought you were giving me power and confidence, and all the while you were only hiding it, allowing the anxiety to grow and evolve. Maybe that’s why I find such joy in this break-up song, and such joy in when I finally kicked you to the curb four years ago. 

I used to be love drunk but now I’m hungover
I’ll love you forever, forever is over
We used to kiss all night, now it’s just a bar fight
So don’t call me crying, say hello to goodbye (oh, yeah)
‘Cause just one sip would make me sick
I used to be love drunk but now I’m hungover
I’ll love you forever but now its over

There is anger here, not at you Al, but at myself – at the person I didn’t quite know how to be just yet – and there is anger at all the people and events that perpetuated it over all those delicate, formative, crushing years. There were times I should have said more, explaining what was happening, and there were times when I should have said less, should have let things go and not torn myself up to the point where drinking was the only escape. I was just so mad, and so hurt, and I couldn’t see why. I’m only just starting to see why…

All the time I wasted on you
All the bullshit you put me through
Checking into rehab ’cause everything that we had
Didn’t mean a thing to you

I used to be love drunk but now I’m hungover
I’ll love you forever but now I’m sober

Four years after leaving you, I’m beginning to find the forgiveness that lessens the pain and releases the anger. (Screaming the bridge of this song always helps ~ All the time I wasted on you, All the bullshit you put me through…) Four years is a decent stretch of time to allow for some sort of reconciliation. They have been four wonderful years – and they included some very heartbreaking times, so if I can find the worth and wonder in them, and come to the realization that I did not once look for you even when my Dad died, I’m ok with where we currently stand. 

I used to be love drunk but now I’m hungover
I’ll love you forever, forever is over
We used to kiss all night, now it’s just a bar fight
So don’t call me crying, say hello to goodbye 

‘Cause just one sip would make me sick
I used to be love drunk but now I’m hungover
I’ll love you forever but now its over

And so my old friend, my old lover, my old savior named Alcohol – you have gone your way and I have gone mine, and those ways diverged four years ago. Too late, too soon, or just in the nick of time, we have reached a place of acceptance. It wasn’t you, it was me… and it’s ok now.

Now it’s over
Now it’s over (still taste it on my tongue)
Now it’s over

After last year’s epic Boston Children’s Holiday Hour, which required a Part Two and even a very-extra Part Three to fully process, Suzie and I almost took a year off from this annual-but-for-Covid event. Our first one was a whopping eight years ago, meaning that most of the Children that once formed the impetus for this gathering are now teenagers. That stings, as the passing of time so often does. Rather than skip out on a year however, we are doing it on a casual and scaled-down degree. Whatever happens is what will happen, and as long as good people are involved it can’t help but be a good time. Right. Right?

With the way this year has gone, it also looks to be a bit of a fiasco because whenever I let my planning guard down, shit goes wrong. I’m embracing that though, and playing up the ridiculous panoply that we regard as life these days. It’s the only way to survive a joint-planning expedition with Suzie. Best laid plans and all… 

Here is a peek at our prep process for the holiday mayhem about to ensue:

ALAN: What are your thoughts on this year’s Boston Children’s Holiday Hour?

SUZIE: I say, charcuterie board. Pack of cards, some plastic spoons. Done. I don’t know how we can top last year what with Argentina’s massive win. So why even try.

ALAN: Don’t cry for me Argentina. I mean my wardrobe anyway. That can always be topped. It was fucking Adidas x Marimekko. Plastic spoons or chocolate spoons? Should’t we at least try something festive? 

SUZIE: Yeah! That’ll totally do it! Wear the [redacted].

ALAN: Hush hush sweet Charlotte, that is a mystery of the holiday card that shouldn’t even be whispered about yet. Remember John Mulaney! Loose lips sink ships! Besides, [redacted] are too hot. Are you thinking silk organza?

SUZIE: How did you know that?

ALAN: I have a fifth sense about such matters. And no on silk organza. There’s usually at least one spill at these things. A spill that someone else will have to clean up, but still, I’m often in the general area.

SUZIE: That’s true. Silk organza is too risky…

Well, you get the idea, and you have an inkling of how this year’s holidays are going to play the fuck out. All of which brings me to the following photo, taken during our ‘Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?’ era, on the morning that I served Suzie whisked eggs in Ithaca, NY. 

“I didn’t bring your breakfast, because you didn’t eat your din-din!”