There’s something to be said for nostalgia, and the way a movie seen in our childhood can become something powerful, even if it’s not that good. Case in point, or so I’m told, is ‘Hocus Pocus’. Sadly, or happily as the case may be, I didn’t see this when I was a kid (I’m just this side of too-old when it came out in the 90’s.) That means its charm is lost on me. Much like ‘Dirty Dancing’ when I finally got around to seeing it a couple of years ago. (She carried a watermelon – big fucking deal.)

I have my own love of mediocre films that I saw as a kid which mean something more than their objectively lackluster quality. {See ‘The Goonies‘ and ‘Adventures in Babysitting.’} But I also remember one or two that are actually quite good on their own. {See ‘Stand By Me.’} As for ‘Hocus Pocus’, it’s been growing on me, which is good, since it’s unavoidable for the remainder of this month. Thank Bette Midler for working that magic spell. Kathy Najimy and Sarah Jessica Parker don’t hurt either. 

It was a banner fall weekend in Boston, but before we get into that here’s a quick look back at the week that came before. We have to honor the past before we move into the future. Besides, anything to extend this lovely weekend is welcome right now. 

We entered October with a backward glance at some other Octobers. 

Festooned with foul language. 

A new Madonna Timeline: ‘Illuminati.’

Now and then we’ll pick up a few #TinyThreads. 

Welcome… to Jurassic Park.

Wishful tradition. 

Foxy proxy.

Uncle Andy. 

Since 1986.

Smacked down in Starbucks. 

Finally, a powerful reason to cancel my Planet Fitness membership.

Self check-out shenanigans. 

Remembering Madonna’s Girlie Show.

Stupidity at Starbucks. 

Hunks of the Day included Matthew Morrison, Dustin Milligan, and Nick Bracks. 

Me, placing my order: Iced venti decaf Americano.

Barista: Hot or cold?

I have very mixed feelings about the self check-out option in supermarkets. Having worked in retail for a number of years, this doesn’t come from a place of privilege or ignorance. My issue is that when I’m checking out at the market, I invariably have a couple of vegetables that do not have bar codes on them, so someone always – ALWAYS – has to come help with checking me out. That negates the self-check-out aspect of the whole thing. 

The other issue that I’ve noticed is that now the self-check-out lines are often just as long, if not longer, than the regular lines, so what is the point? I’m no longer in retail, so there’s a good chance I’m missing something. 

It was about seven or eight years ago when I joined Planet Fitness. It was a fall deal they had going, and for $10 a month how could I refuse? Even if I just used it three or four times a month, it would be worth it. For about a year or two I went semi-religiously (and since church was once a week, I considered once a week ‘religiously’). For the past five years, however, I’ve sort of been promising to go without ever delivering. So when it came to light that Planet Fitness CEO Chris Rondeau had donated to Donald Trump, as well as anti-LGBT candidate Andy Sanborn, I had the perfect excuse to end my membership.

The woman behind the counter asked what my reason for canceling was.

“Your CEO donated to Donald Trump and at this point I can’t be part of any of that,” I said, not in anger or unfriendliness. The manager was standing right next to her and he gave a little nod.

“That’s fair,” he said. I chuckled a little, and he looked at my account, explaining that my annual fee was already pending, and I said I wasn’t worried about that – I had no issue paying it. He went on to say that if I ever changed my mind to get in touch with him – at which point he handed me his card – and if I came back he would credit this fee toward a new membership.

That’s fair.

But until such time that Mr. Rondeau publicly changes his Trump tune, I won’t be part of the Planet Fitness family. To think that any part of those $10/month payments went to that traitorous moron is unforgivable.

From time to time I need to be checked. Hard checked. That time came as I waited impatiently in the line at Starbucks. Already annoyed that the kids in the place outnumbered the adults , I longed for the days when Starbucks was not the province of young children. Ahead of me, a guy in a baggy suit waited with his kid. Paired with the suit, which was only mildly offensive for its ill-fit, was a pair of navy sneakers. Not dressy sneakers either – plain running sneakers. They had no place next to that suit. They had no place next to any suit. I almost took a picture for a post of shame.

After getting my coffee and settling into a couch, I watched the man pick up his drink. He walked with a limp, and he did his best to keep up with his son, and I instantly felt shame at what I had thought. He was wearing sneakers because he had to – and I had judged him and thought less of him for his choices before I thought of an explanation other than bad taste. And even if was bad taste, it was his choice. Who the fuck was I to think anything of it? It was a sudden and jarring smackdown of my silliness, reminding me that you never really know what’s going on with other people, even if it seems obvious and apparent. More importantly, it reminded me to ask – about others, about their stories, about their hurt and pain.

It was disappointing.  I was disappointed in myself. I’m usually better than this. Not always. But usually.

I’ll try for always from now on.

I’ve been taking selfies since 1986. 

I’m kind of over it.

The burning of wishes upon every seasonal solstice is a tradition that Andy taught me when we first met, and one which we have faithfully performed with each passing season. No matter where I find myself, I find the time and place to burn the little list of wishes that we send into the universe for safekeeping, hopefully to be made manifest through our own exertions or the happy happenstance of what may come. (One of the more difficult moments was when I was in Boston for the turn into fall, and I had to lean out the bathroom window and burn my list on the fire escape. It worked out. The universe accepts our wishes no matter how they are delivered.)

This year was slightly different as well, as I was up before first light to greet the first day of fall. With my work schedule, I’ve rediscovered my early morning window, and as the sun reluctantly began to light up the sky, I brought a flame to the corner of my wishes and watched them burn in a clay catch-pot. The smoke hung in the humid air, the smell of fall and coziness and cold days to come mingling with the sweet remnants of summer from the already-faded blooms of the angel’s trumpet. Sky brightening, the morning woke to the agitated chirping of a chipmunk. Not everything was still asleep.

We lucked out this year as far as the pool goes. We had lots of sunny and warm days in which to make ample use of its calming properties. In fact, we kept things going right up until the very end of September. Most everyone else we knew had shut down their pools before the last few days of 80 degree weather hit. Sometimes it pays to procrastinate. (Not usually, but this Virgo will take it once in a while.)

As for the last days of a warm pool in the cool season, they can be remarkably dramatic, as the water release its heat in steamy fashion, rising into the atmosphere like the beginning of some science fiction nightmare. On one such afternoon, I captured the effect as the sun was setting behind our banana and dogwood trees. 

As of this writing, Andy has won the last swim of the season, bravely jumping in after mowing the lawn. The water was warm, he said, but getting out was a chilly endeavor. He rushed by me just as I was writing this post.

If you look closely enough, you might see the flared nostrils of the Tyrannosaurus rex just poking through the foliage, and the voice of Richard Attenborough invoking that legendary greeting, ‘Welcome… to Jurassic Park.’ Cue John Williams and indulge me as the imagination runs wild. (Play the video below and I dare you not to laugh.)