Only the Beekman Boys could get me to tune into the Home Shopping Network and then actually purchase something. Their products are so good, and their explanations and knowledge so convincing that the goat milk soap and lotion they were peddling were too good to pass up, especially at the special prices.
I’ve long been a Beekman 1802 fan, and even at full price their goods are more than worth it. Quality and customer care shouldn’t come cheap, and supporting a local upstate New York farm comes with its own sense of doing something better for the community. The use of natural ingredients (in this case goat’s milk) is something else to feel good about – not only for its environmental health, but also for its soothing properties and scientifically sound explanation on why it’s so much better for the skin. (They made a compelling word picture of describing how oil and petroleum simply sit on top of water while something like milk mixes with it – a powerful testament to how most soaps and lotions stay on top instead of absorbing and hydrating the skin. Listen to them tell it, it’s much more entertaining.)
I wanted to try just about everything, and much was selling out, but I disciplined myself to one blind-buy: the Fig Leaf Whipped Body Cream – better known as the Voluptuous Fig. Whether it was Brent’s seductive way of rolling off the name, the luscious description of the cream itself, or the way it thickly clung to Josh’s fingers clearly depicting its substance, I was sold. It helped that I loved all things fig too.
For the remainder of items, I’m planning on making the short pilgrimage to their brick and mortar store in Sharon Springs – just a hop, skip and jump away from Albany – in order to try out the other scents and products. It’s been a few years since we last visited and we are overdue for such beauty.
The new thing is making words up, or so I’m telling people, and I’m all about the new thing. Today that word is ‘sprice’ – which in its original long-winded form translates as ‘spring ice’ – something we had the misfortune of finding in our backyard thanks to a wayward sprinkler system. A small spray of water coated and transformed a lace-cap hydrangea during a windy and cold day this past weekend, hopefully not killing it in the process. In the sunlight and against the blue sky, it made for a beautiful, if slightly disturbing, scene.
These early days of spring are so iffy, like the season is not quite ready to arrive or reveal itself. Winter’s tail-whip can lash back worse than that demon did in ‘Lord of the Rings’ – you shall not pass and all that jazz. We won’t make it out of the winter wilderness for certain until May.
Just when you think the world has gone all brown and gray, something like this pops in at the tail-end of a lunch-time walk, and everything is exciting again. A blue spruce illuminated by the afternoon soon, framed by an expanse of blue sky. There’s a clarity at this time of the year that you can’t usually find in summer or later spring. It echoes the crisp, clear atmosphere of fall, which makes sense.
For some reason I’ve always been resistant to embracing evergreens. Something in me wanted more dramatic transformation during the year – the shedding of a wardrobe and the regrowth of a new one each season. Evergreens go through their own growth spurts, usually of a brighter green and softer texture – that tender spring time when things haven’t been hardened off yet, when a killing frost might just do that if one decided to linger.
Not so for the branch in this photo. It’s been put through the winter ringer and paid its dues. A grizzled and fortified collection of pin-prick-like arrows, protecting any pinecone carriage and fending off any wayward predators unlikely to attack from the sidewalk below or sky above. I admire such resilience and strength, particularly in the face of our winters. I also admire such simple beauty. Nature knows exactly what she’s doing.
We shall see whether the month exits like a lamb or retains its lion-like properties. Personally, I love a lion. Weather-wise, however, we are ready for something gentler. If it’s a quiet lion, soft and demure, then it is welcome. Otherwise, cue the lambily’s entrance. Or exit. Whatever. On with this recap as sponsored by Mercury in retrograde…
Last week we had the first day of spring, a full moon, and Mercury was still in retrograde (a sorry state that continues through the first half of this week). How we made it through that mess is something I’ll never understand (assuming we did in fact make it through – at the time of this writing we are still in it).
The last thing the internet is needs is another crappy, poorly-shot moon photo, but too fucking bad. You’re getting two. I love when the moon hangs low, and when it wobbles to and fro. Perched in a tree, or slung over the sea, it’s a thing of beauty, even if it inspires lunacy. Among the lunatics, there is a certain thread of truth running through the loopy. I dwell in the realm of such lunacy, and the land of strange truth. The moon brings it all out.
Good luck to all of us swayed by its pull and transfixed by its spell.
Oh Gronk, how envious we were of you, and how envious we still are.
Rob Gronkowski of the New England Patriots officially announced his retirement today. Don’t bother doing the math on how old he is, because the math just makes me mad. I mean, so happy for him and everything… blah, blah, blah. (No word yet on how Tom Brady is taking this news.) The Gronk has been very popular on this website, thanks to his penchant for removing his shirt at no provocation whatsoever. We appreciate such things, so let’s take a quick look back at everyone’s favorite footballer.
DESPERADO, WHY DON’T YOU COME TO YOUR SENSES?
YOU BEEN OUT RIDIN’ FENCES FOR SO LONG NOW
OH, YOU’RE A HARD ONE
BUT I KNOW THAT YOU GOT YOUR REASONS
THESE THINGS THAT ARE PLEASIN’ YOU
CAN HURT YOU SOMEHOW
Long before there was YouTube, Instagram, and Twitter – long before there were blogs and websites and other outlets for anyone to visit, there was Public Access television – those local channels where a person would sit in a little make-shift studio, often accompanied by a sad, fake ficus and an equally-dismal backdrop curtain. My hometown of Amsterdam had a couple of these shows (when they weren’t showing the latest polka party) where brave folks could sit for half an hour and field phone calls or talk about whatever was on their mind. Production values notwithstanding, it was interesting to see how well they dealt with prank callers, but also to see how people presented themselves. I’ve always enjoyed being an unobserved observer. This allowed for such viewing at a time in our history when such glimpses were not as ubiquitous as they are now.
One of the older kids in our high school had his own show. I knew of him, but we weren’t close. He was one of those rare kids who was popular with just about everybody. His presence was big, his smile ever-ready, and he always had something to say, which made for a perfect one-man talk show. I don’t recall what he discussed – I only remember his earnestness, and the fact that he was trying. It’s hard to find fault with someone if they are trying. He always closed his show with ‘Desperado’ – a song I didn’t know that well, but one which I searched and sought for meaning, desperately trying to figure out how he had such confidence, such power, such ease, and how I didn’t.
DON’T YOU DRAW THE QUEEN OF DIAMONDS, BOY
SHE’LL BEAT YOU IF SHE’S ABLE
YOU KNOW THE QUEEN OF HEARTS IS ALWAYS YOUR BEST BET
NOW, IT SEEMS TO ME SOME FINE THINGS
HAVE BEEN LAID UPON YOUR TABLE
BUT YOU ONLY WANT THE ONES THAT YOU CAN’T GET
In school, he was much the same. Gregarious and outgoing, with a popularity that somehow cut across all of the complicated circles of friendship and cliques that seemed to so densely populate Amsterdam High School. What a remarkable trick: to win acceptance and adoration from everyone, yet remain so staunchly down-to-earth. Maybe that was his appeal. Because he was a year or two older we would never be friends. (It was hard enough to step out of one’s own gender to be friends with another – stepping over the age barrier was almost impossible.) Yet we shared a physical education class for one year, and as we all waited on the gym bleachers for the teacher to begin, he would often stand in front of us all, bouncing a ball carelessly or just shifting his standing from one foot to the other, and talking and asking questions of everyone in the class.
He asked me how I was once, using my name, and I wondered if that was the key to his charm – to pay just enough attention to people so it sounded like he knew them. It has been documented that the sound of one’s own name is one of the most pleasing things a human being hears. It certainly worked for me. My distrust of anyone so openly vulnerable – because that’s what he was when he was so friendly to everyone – was instantly disarmed when he said my name and asked me how I was doing. My response was genuine, not my typical surly jab, but I’m not sure he took it as such, and he was already on to asking about someone else’s day so that was that.
DESPERADO, OH, YOU AIN’T GETTIN’ NO YOUNGER
YOUR PAIN AND YOUR HUNGER, THEY’RE DRIVIN’ YOU HOME
AND FREEDOM, OH FREEDOM, WELL THAT’S JUST SOME PEOPLE TALKIN’
YOUR PRISON IS WALKING THROUGH THIS WORLD ALL ALONE
I wondered at his popularity. I sometimes found it difficult to talk to my closest friends, I didn’t dream of talking much to my family, and it was terrifying to have to speak to strangers. How did he do it? How had he escaped the chains of social anxiety, and how wonderful might it feel to be so free? I envied him, like I envied everyone who seemed to have such an easy time of so many simple things. But what if his freedom came with its own prison? There was something about his broad appeal, and that expansive popularity, that left me feeling my quiet and shy manner, and my ocasionally-off-putting way with the world, might be a more sure path toward love. With prickly deliberateness and an intentionally aloof attitude, I’d made sure that anyone who entered my orbit was carefully vetted and tested – they were not casual acquaintances, not masses of genial, well-meaning peers who were made happy and content with a smile or a friendly word of encouragement. Such empty platitudes would not leave my lips.
DON’T YOUR FEET GET COLD IN THE WINTER TIME?
THE SKY WON’T SNOW AND THE SUN WON’T SHINE
IT’S HARD TO TELL THE NIGHT TIME FROM THE DAY
YOU’RE LOSIN’ ALL YOUR HIGHS AND LOWS
AIN’T IT FUNNY HOW THE FEELING GOES AWAY?
Two different boys.
Two different paths.
We live in such different worlds even when we think we don’t.
I wish I knew better how to bridge those worlds.
I also wish I knew how happy he was. Then and now.
Looking back on what little I saw and knew of him, and the lot of what I see and know of myself, I wonder if maybe we weren’t that different after all. In our own ways, maybe we walked alone a little too long. The most popular people I know are also the most lonely. And some of us who love nothing more than being left alone have managed to become surprisingly popular. Maybe we were, and are, somewhere in-between.
DESPERADO, WHY DON’T YOU COME TO YOUR SENSES?
COME DOWN FROM YOUR FENCES, OPEN THE GATE
IT MAY BE RAININ’, BUT THERE’S A RAINBOW ABOVE YOU
YOU BETTER LET SOMEBODY LOVE YOU (LET SOMEBODY LOVE YOU)
YOU BETTER LET SOMEBODY LOVE YOU
BEFORE IT’S TOO LATE.
At this early stage of spring, it’s a little silly to start planning for summer, but that’s not stopping me. If I stopped doing things, or wearing things, or saying things, just because they were silly, I’d have stopped everything years ago. Bring on the silly, and bring on the summer planning. There’s a floral party on the horizon, to go with the upcoming project, but it’s a quieter, more intimate event – and family-friendly too, meaning the kids are all invited. The pool should be open by then, so that will work. (It’s much easier to host children when they have the run of the outside.)
In addition to the usual spring cleaning (dusting and polishing everything in sight, including the far reaches of the floor) there are more seasonal duties to fulfill, such as bringing the attic-bound banana and angel’s trumpet trees back from the brink of hibernation. This was actually started a while ago, when I re-introduced water into their pots. Since October, they’ve been occupying the unheated, but insulated, side of the attic near a small window. Stripped of most of their leaves by fall, they have since put out a few straggling shoots, none of which will likely survive a move outside into any sort of wind. Luckily, the rest of the stems and roots have survived, and once the warm weather begins in earnest, their growth should be quick and impressive. I’m especially looking forward to seeing what the banana tree will do in its second year here. It’s due for an even larger pot, which typically means even larger growth. I’m planning on getting a second one, since they lend an easy tropical feel to the yard.
As for other plans, summer music is another way of creating atmosphere and memories. Last year, it wastes little collection of songs that brought to mind the sunny season:
Now I’m obsessed with the 60’s moogarific themes of the ‘Ocean’s 8’ soundtrack, so that may play a part. It goes well with the ‘Four Rooms’ lounge vibe I’ve used for years. All bring to mind happy days putting the patio awning back up and assembling the potted plants. This is my favorite moment. Anticipation. Hope. The whole of the season spread out before us.
Is announcing the length of the next commercial the new thing? I’ve seen on several channels now an announcement of exactly how many seconds are left until the show returns. I find it helpful, but also surprising. I never knew how much I could get done in 90 seconds – piss-pot stop, hand-washing, pouring a cup of tea, slicing an apple, and running upstairs to find a coat for work the next day – all in a single commercial break. The 30-second ones are slightly more limiting…
Our trip to Savannah is quickly approaching (I just had our itinerary printed out on the cutest peach-blossom stationary) and so the day warrants a look back at my last visit to that magical city of the South. With its Spanish moss, beautifully-manicured squares, and historic ghosts, Savannah is a land of delicious enchantment. Like many people, I first succumbed to its siren call after reading John Berendt’s ‘Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil’ – simply known as ‘The Book’ to locals. This was back in the 90’s, and Lady Chablis was still holding court at her club. Sadly, I never made it to one of her shows, and now she is no longer with us, but her legacy endures, and she has not been forgotten. As much as I enjoyed the novel, it was the city that ultimately captured my fancy, seducing with its charm and character, bending perception and experience with its beguiling ways. From the food and drink to the convivial atmosphere and friendly denizens, Savannah was like an eccentric old friend who welcomes one without outward judgment.
Last time around we booked our accommodations at the Mansion on Forsyth; this time we’ll be staying at the DeSoto Hotel, a little closer to the action. I’ve also booked dinners at The Grey and Elizabeth’s on 37th, because so much of Savannah’s allure is in its culinary sorcery. The libations on offer are pretty nifty too. This marks Andy’s first trip to Georgia, so I’m hoping it’s extra-special; Savannah can’t help but work her magic on the most winter-weary visitor.
I searched the world over (ok, the malls of upstate New York) to find that rope of beads so beautifully dangling from her open button-fly denims, all to no avail. Years later I eventually fashioned my own set so I could pay proper homage to this incredible album. I don’t quite have her killer abs, but I’ve amassed a solid collection of rings to at least evoke the mood. Sometimes an evocation – the merest echo of the original clarion – will have to suffice.
