Coming up: my review of ‘Kinky Boots’ – the show that just won the Tony for Best Musical – and the best musical I’ve seen in a decade. Here are the six rules gleaned from the grand finale:
1. Pursue the truth.
2. Learn something new.
3. Accept yourself, and you’ll accept others too.
4. Let love shine.
5. Let pride be your guide.
6. You change the world when you change your mind.
Having spent an amazing weekend in NYC with my Mom and best friend (details to come), I’m a bit tired out to post much right now, but I’ll do the usual Monday morning recap, just don’t look too deeply for inspiration.
A man from the past returned for a brief encounter, only to remind me of last summer.
Green was the color of the week, represented by the lady’s mantle, chives, and the celadon poppy.
Also, the green fairy dripped into The Fascinator.
The Hunks of the Day were represented by this unrelated trio of men: Ian Ziering, Neil Patrick Harris, and Oguchi Onyewu.
And finally, another installment of a relatively secret project.
Sometimes I think that being a Dad might be the hardest job in the world. Yes, it’s usually the thankless role of being a mother that gets all the hardest-job-in-the-world accolades, but every so often I wonder about what it takes to be a father, especially today. I know I could never do it. But my Dad and my brother are both fine examples of how it can be done – if not perfectly, at least pretty damn well. That’s the problem with Dads – they’re never perfect, and their sons never let them forget it. Hopefully I’ve shown my Dad that, imperfections and all, I love him. Happy Father’s Day to all the Dads out all – especially mine.
At the moment of this writing, I’m ensconced in a hotel on the upper East Side, winding down from a double dose of musical theater with Mom. As such, today’s posts will be light, if they arrive at all. Stay tuned. We’re doing this in real time… Hold onto your hats!
It all came flooding back the other day, when I was spending a lunch on a cobblestone street in downtown Albany, practicing selfies for my new Instagram account. The man rounded the corner and caught me off-guard. I pretended to be doing something else with my phone, though with arm extended and stupid smile on my face I’m sure he figured out what was going on. He smiled and said hello. At first it didn’t register. Was he someone from work? Was he a bartender from a place I patronized? Or, worse, was he someone I slept with in my early twenties? In a bathroom no less? Suddenly I remembered. A cool courtroom. A few blocks away. At this time last year.
He was the prosecutor for the murder trial on which I served as a juror. And then the floodgates opened up to a host of memories – pleasant and unpleasant that comprised the days before, after, and during that trial. A Gay Pride weekend in Boston with my friend Kiera right before I reported for duty. A hawk screaming wildly in my backyard. A vodka stinger, straight up and torturously strong.
In that week or so, I lived another life, cut off from communicating with friends and family, listening to lawyers and witnesses and doctors, and trying vainly to make sense of how one person could kill another person, whether by accident or intent. It took a few months to do much of the processing it took to get over it, and I had to come to terms with the fact that it may not be something you ever really get over. There are things that may haunt us forever, stains that are impossible to eradicate. This may be one of those things, resurfacing with a vaguely familiar face, a certain time of year, a specific location. It never goes away, does it? Even at the start of summer.
Almost every year, a robin finds a way of making a nest and laying eggs near our backyard patio. Usually, Andy manages to catch her before it gets too far, (the one year he didn’t catch her in time, she terrorized us whenever we were within a short radius of her hatchlings). This year, right in the crotch of our weeping cherry (the tree closest to the patio – it actually shades part of it), she constructed a nest before he noticed, and soon enough these eggs were laid. Andy said he had to remove it, but I begged him not to do so. Let’s just wait and see if she’s okay with us, I said.
Up until now, she’s been well-behaved, leaving us to dining and gardening in the nearby vicinity. In fact, the Japanese umbrella pine I just transplanted was right below the nest, and she stayed without a peep as I pried it out of the ground.
We shall see what the arrival of children does to her peaceful disposition. In all that I’ve witnessed thus far in life, that tends to destroy almost all peace.
Yes, I’m christening Monday the new Funday, because we need it now. After a very gay weekend of Boston Pride, and Albany Pride (neither of which I quite made) – and the Tony Awards, which engaged me more than most (especially as I get to see ‘Kinky Boots’ and ‘Pippin’ this coming weekend!) it’s time to recap the previous week. Summer, and beautiful days, makes these recaps more tedious to write, and I’m guessing more tedious to read. I won’t feel bad if you skip it. Points for honesty.
Biggest news: I finally joined Instagram. And Instagram will never be the same. I’m behaving for the moment (not even one selfie yet!) but that won’t last. Nothing gold can stay…
There was the Great Gatsby party, in 95 degree heat, and it was hot, hot, hot!
This was a very floriferous week in the garden, particularly thanks to the peonies, clematis, tree peonies, dogwoods, more peonies, and lilacs – even if I had to be ruthless.
The first swim of the season happened.
There were some summer culinary treats, simple and true, in the form of one sizzling salad and some simple side dishes.
One of my favorite bands, James, provided inspiration for this memorable song.
Your Hunks of the Day were comprised of Pavel Petel and a naked Olympian, Evan Lysacek.
And last but most certainly not least,it was my best friend Suzie’s birthday. Pay respect.Â
It’s Suzie’s birthday today, so if you see her, wish her a happy 38th!!! Every year I try to embarrass her with a photo from her past, but if you’ve seen her photos, you know nothing embarrasses her (World War 2 helmets, granny glasses, brass-colored hair, and every possible way of looking bad while eating have been captured to no avail). But she did pause when I mentioned the following photo. It was taken during a cruise our Moms took us on during winter break from our first year at college. We were in Bermuda, walking some crazy waterfall-surrounded path, trudging through splashing rivulets and trying only to keep from falling on our asses. As my Mom snapped this photograph, I still remember Suzie’s words of wisdom: “Nothing like walking a mile in your bathing suit.” Circa 1994…
Happy Birthday Suzie!!
And many happy returns of the day!!
It usually sneaks up on me. I always intend to make a big splash of it, and end up forgetting all intentions in the excitement, and heat, of the moment. This year was no different, as I can’t quite recall when I first jumped into the pool. Surely it’s documented somewhere, perhaps on Instagram (no, I’m kidding, believe it or not my visage has yet to appear on that account – really!) But there are other summers that have already been captured, some well before Instagram was a glimmer in anyone’s iPhone. Check them out here: Summer.
After months (years?) of hemming and hawing, hearing persuasive arguments made by friends mostly for it, and a final inspirational shove by Madonna, I’ve succumbed to joining Instagram (because what I really need is another social media time-consumer). Luckily, while my time online may seem voluminous, it is deceptively so. I make a decent number of FaceBook posts and Tweets (and now, perhaps, Instagram shots), but they literally take a few seconds, then I’m off. An hour later I’ll check and do the same, and then I’m off again. Those who get distracted by games and a zillion other apps may find their time eaten up in such a manner, but I’ve been lucky enough to stay relatively focused and break away from the internet whenever necessary. Like when there are gardening chores to be done ~ an unruly viburnum to be pruned, a Japanese umbrella pine to be transplanted, and potted annuals to be fed. To that end, I’m heading into the yard. Pics on Instagram to follow…
It was a week largely dominated by reminiscing over Ogunquit – here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, and here.
There was a yellow raincoat.
There was music – thanks to Tori Amos and the Muppets.
And there were hunks, notably a Speedo-clad gay-playing Matt Damon, a not-from-Silver-Spoons Ricky Schroeder, and perennial favorite Tom Daley. (Oh, and I showed off my ass too, just to be fair.)
As we ease into the summer season – and the 90 degree weather – there’s not much to be done but swimming and pruning and manscaping. Follow Tom Daley’s lead.
Because when your Speedo’s slung so low, and your butt sticks out so perkily, there’s only so much you can hide from the world. I doubt anyone is complaining either, so here is Tom Daley in all his almost-altogether glory. Given the average swimmer/diver build, I’m surprised we haven’t started taking chlorine pills. Though this isn’t a Summer Olympics year, they should still be practicing – thank God.
This furry creature was found as I made my way to a secret garden path. Based on its small size, it looked like a young squirrel, not yet skittish around humans, as it posed happily and patiently for these photos. I walked along further, and found this feather – another sign that I was on the right road. The universe has always erected such sign-posts; they’re there if you pause and observe what’s around you. It’s so easily, and quickly, lost in the daily machinations of living, the distractions of everything that doesn’t really matter, and I’m the first one to follow the flash of a falling feather. In cases like this, though, that’s exactly what I should have done.
It’s not usually my style to favor function over form. Quite the opposite. (Platform shoes, corsets and capes aren’t exactly geared toward survival.) But once in a while, like on a rainy day in Maine, one must give up the fashion ghost, and don a bright yellow parka to make it through the wilderness. (Though if you ask me, I still think this rain slicker has a certain style to it. I got it from Sault last year, on an overcast day’s whim.)
