High Rollers: My Days at the Roller Rink

I grew up in the 80’s.

Big hair.

Lots of hairspray.

Madonna, Prince, and Michael Jackson.

The Facts of Life. Dallas. The Cosby Show.

And High Rollers – the roller skating rink in Amsterdam, NY, where kids spent most of their weekends in the winter.

It sounds like such a silly thing now, but how all-important and serious it felt back then. To be honest, I don’t recall much of the friends I may or may not have hung out with then. I simply loved the feeling of gliding along while music played and lights flashed. There was a large main rink, like the enormous tank in the middle of the New England Aquarium. We all went around in the same circular motion – not unlike the denizens of that extra-large fish tank. In the corner was a smaller kiddie rink, which had a couple of long benches bordering its sides where less-skilled skaters – and children, of course – could practice with a safety buffer. There was also a dark penalty box in the corner of the large rink, where those who broke the rules (skating the wrong way, aggressively bothering other skaters, and basic misbehavior) would land after one of the workers tapped them out. (It was also a fun and hidden spot for when you needed a break.) I was much too young to know if anything more untoward happened there, but now that I think about it, what else could it be used for?

There were also limbo contests, held periodically on Saturdays, and I was so small and short I could also make it into the final four or five. As contestants dwindled, and the bar got lower and lower, more and more people stepped up to watch the final moments. I hated that. More often than not, I’d lift up at the last moment and intentionally knock the pole down because I couldn’t bear the thought of all those people staring at me and watching. (Looking back, it’s clear that practically my entire life has been one big bout with social anxiety.) It was enough to be in the finals and to know that I probably could have gone lower than that pony-tailed girl who made it look so effortless, and who soaked up the attention of the crowd’s prying eyes better than I would ever be able to do.

Far more enjoyable to me was hearing a good song come on, picking up speed, and feeling the rush of air on my face. I was just starting to hear and learn songs from the radio. Our home didn’t have MTV, or even a VCR (my parents would be the last to succumb to both in the later 80’s – you do the math of the deprived) but we had a radio, and a cassette player, and with those technological advances we could figure out the hit songs of the moment and not look like totally uninformed and shoebox-residing idiots.

One of the bigger songs at the time was ‘Say, Say, Say’ coming at the height of Michael Jackson’s reign. In a joint-effort with Paul McCartney (pop royalty past made present), it was a synthesized and sinewy piece of pop that had a slinky bass line and words that didn’t make much sense to me. I just liked the way it sounded, and the way one could skate along to it in smooth, gliding motions.

I didn’t know many songs – this must have been around 1983 and I was only eight years old – so when a song I knew came on, I made damn sure I was in the rink.

On one Saturday morning, a girl whom everyone said had a crush on me was trying to start a conversation in the snack bar area. I was just taking a break and had no interest in the tater tots or pretzels or whatever else they were doling out, but she cornered me before I could pretend not to see her. She had always been very sweet, and I considered her a friend, so I did my best to keep up the patter of small talk, until I heard a familiar bass. She wanted to stay and talk with me, but Paul and Michael were beckoning me to the skating rink, and I wanted to move with the music. “I love this song!” I exclaimed, interrupting whatever she was saying as the opening beats to ‘Say, Say, Say’ began. It wouldn’t be the last time I passed up a pretty girl for a pop song.

I paused at the entrance to the rink, waiting for a break in the stream of skaters, then made my move, seamlessly entering the clockwise swirl and getting giddily swept up in the motion and the music.

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Tillandsia Heads

My first brush with the Tillandsia genus came on my birthday, many years ago. I was probably 12 or 13, and my love for plants was well-known to family and family friends. Elaine gifted me with my first, and thus far only, air plant. I distinctly remember standing next to her on our back terrace as the evening descended. She was on her way out, no doubt with Suzie in tow, and she was explaining to me how to take care of it.

I loved plants as much as I loved words, and it was equally enthralling to hear Elaine tell of the cultivation methods as it was to look upon the silver-grey foliage she held in her hand. She waved the little plant through the air and made a dunking motion, saying that the person from which she purchased it told her it just needed to be dunked in water once a week, or misted, and it would survive without pot or soil. Such magic was new to me; I’d never had a tropical bromeliad, and it sounded so simple and easy. The promise of a bloom was also enticing, held vaguely in the future if the happy growing conditions were met.

When I came upon the Tillandsia seen here in their whimsical head holders, I had to take a photo. It brought back such a happy memory, and I may have to find a few new plants (apart from that silly head contraption) for our collection.

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Life In Miniature

We saw this amazing little work of art while strolling through the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston a few weeks ago. It evoked cozy scenes like the ones seen in this similar display, and offers an opportunity to contemplate perspective. When I was taking an Astronomy course at Brandeis, I marveled at the ratty clothes our professor wore. Even by the sub-standards of professorial garb, this guy just didn’t give a fuck. The same went for his hair and beard, neither of which he bothered much with (certainly nothing in the way of product or even a comb by all indications). As the course went on, and his wardrobe revealed itself to be a revolving set of three or four shirts and two or three pairs of pants, it dawned on me that his area of expertise was such that in a philosophical stance the notion of clothes was indeed quite ridiculous.

This was a man accustomed to viewing our world not in the day-to-day minutiae, but in the grand, epic, millions-of-light-years perspective. Our lives were but a teensy-tiny fraction of the universe, less meaningful than a single grain of sand in all the beaches of all the planets. He would occasionally do his best to get across how vast the universe was, how immense our own solar system was, and how our little solar system was likely one of infinite systems. It brought a humbling perspective that I carry in my head to this very day.

Whenever I worry too much about silly things or get upset over minor annoyances, I think of that professor, and that astronomy class. I picture the great unending reach of the universe, or even just the immensity of our own earth, and suddenly nothing seems to matter as much.

There’s a danger in that too. When you approach the precipice of complete nihilism which one can draw too near at such times of shifting mental tectonics, there is a worry that suddenly nothing matters. I approach that line when I think about things too much. That’s when it’s best to refocus on the smaller bits of frivolity we find in this life, the little pieces of charm and enchantment that may not matter in the grand scheme of things, but which pass the day in a pleasing way.

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Iris Eyes Are Smiling

Andy’s Mom loved these blue iris, something we had in common, as irises were one of my favorite flowers as a child. Back then, it was the bearded iris that held my interest – with their gloriously larger-than-life form (beard and all) along with their spicy fragrance. The garden at the Ko house had a border of bearded iris, where they bloomed right around the time the peonies were putting on their show, just before the Centaurea and their bee-enticing flowers came into play. 

As I grew older, and my gardening tastes refined, my preference for bearded iris shifted to the Siberian and Japanese varieties, which were more elegant, bloomed later in the season, but sacrificed some of that distinctive scent. Their foliage was also a deeper green, and much less rigid than the stiff swords of their bearded brethren. 

Andy brought this big bouquet of blue iris for our Sunday brunch a couple of weeks ago. We both needed a dose of spring. A few days of a fleeting February thaw weren’t enough; these flowers gave us happy hope. They remind us of sunnier days.

Luckily we also noticed that the light is lasting a few minutes longer with each passing day. The eyes of an iris look ahead to the spring, and so do we. 

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Winter Sky Illuminated

The sky in winter is usually more somber and subtle than the flaming sort of shows we get in summer, but every once in a while it does its best to thrill in the face of all the grey, especially when there are clouds with which to paint and play. I caught Andy looking wistfully out the window at the winter scene the other day; he loves summer best of all, when his back can be eased by a daily dip in the pool, or a bloom from a climbing rose can be clipped for his side table. I miss summer too. The good news is that we are almost halfway through the winter season. Days are elongating, and daylight lasts a few minutes more as we gradually gain speed to spring. The lion’s entrance of March is but a few weeks away…

“Sometimes I think, were I just a little rougher made, I would go altogether to the woods—to my work entirely, and solitude, a few friends, books, my dogs, all things peaceful, ready for meditation and industry—if for no other reason than to escape the heart-jamming damages and discouragements of the worlds mean spirits. But, no use. Even the most solitudinous of us is communal by habit, and indeed by commitment to the bravest of our dreams, which is to make a moral world. The whirlwind of human behavior is not to be set aside.”
― Mary Oliver, Winter Hours 

 

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Tiny Threads: An Insignificant Series

We could learn a lot from tulipmania, but we probably won’t.

#TinyThreads

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The Curves of a Tulip

In the practice of flower arranging, I find it best to be flexible. It is necessary to accept imperfections and unexpected changes, to go with the flow of where a bouquet wants to take you, rather than trying to tame an impossibly-wayward branch. There are people who will prune and clip and snip and cut to make a flower arrangement bend to their wish and whim; that’s never been my preferred method of putting nature on display.

A wonderful example of how cut flowers don’t always stay where they’re put is the tulip. From the end of the leaves, to the wildly curving stems, a tulip has a mind of its own, and shortly after being places just so in a bouquet, they will bend and twist based on light and shadow and their own internal machinations. I love them for it.

When bought in bud, you can put them into a strict structural arrangement, but after a day or two they will undulate and turn, shifting their petals and leaves and stems into a form that can best be described as yearning. For freedom, for sunlight, for beauty – only they know their motivation. It’s quite beautiful once you accept their refusal to stay committed to any single form or place.

In the “arrangements” you see here (if you can consider a bloom or two a proper arrangement), the tulips are just beginning their journey. They will soon curve their spines, lift their leaves, open their petals, and otherwise shift their shape throughout their life in a vase, and it will be an ever-changing display that irks those who demand compliance and delights those of us who embrace defiance.

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Tiny Threads: An Insignificant Series

A very sad story in only two words: Lost Dog.

#TinyThreads

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Eyes of Winter

Sometimes the best way to make it through the winter is in the planning and contemplation.

The thought of the once and future garden.

The curling and unfurling of smoke from a stick of incense.

The notion of a trip South where spring is already seeping into the promise of camellia blooms.

The gentle words of a poet.

 

Winter-Eyes
By Mary Oliver

 

In winter

all the singing is in

the tops of trees

where the wind-bird

 

With its white eyes

shoves and pushes

among the branches.

Like any of us

 

he wants to go to sleep,

but he’s restless –

he has an idea,

and slowly it unfolds

 

from under his beating wings

as long as he stays awake.

But his big, round music, after all,

is too breathy to last.

 

So, it’s over,

In the pine-crown

he makes his nest,

he’s done all he can.

 

I don’t know the name of this bird,

I only imagine his glittering beak

tucked in a white wing

while the clouds –

 

which he has summoned

from the north –

which he has taught

to be mild, and silent –

 

thicken, and begin to fall

into the world below

like stars, or the feathers

of some unimaginable bird

 

that loves us,

that is asleep now, and silent –

that has turned itself

into snow.

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Tiny Threads: An Insignificant Series

This touched me.

In a good way.

And I usually don’t like being touched. 

#TinyThreads

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Best Life Hack Ever? Quite possibly…

Very rarely does one of those impossibly-hyped life-changing hacks you see online ever pan out into something that actually improves, or even changes, one’s life. This time, it’s different. And if you’ve ever been in the situation where you have received one of those all-purpose gift cards from Mastercard or Visa, but don’t know how to use it in tandem with your regular credit card online, this may help you out.

These general cards differ from the gift cards to specific stores in that they function more like credit cards, with strict limits. As such, they have to be used as the main credit card for online purchases, and most sites don’t allow you to split credit cards for a purchase as you would usually be able to do in person by asking the cashier to type in a specific dollar amount. If your purchase happens to go over the value of the gift card, it will be declined, even if you were planning to pay the difference with another card. That makes things difficult, particularly if you want to use the average gift card towards the purchase of something grander (which is often my case, because Tom Ford Private Blends require that little extra something to make their exorbitant cost more reasonable).

For that reason, I’ve always had problems with making the most out of these general gift cards. Often I would end up giving Andy the card and asking him to buy me something in exchange because it got to be too complicated to use them. This semi-quick fix allows you to use a general gift card in addition to whatever other online payment you wish to supplement your purchase.

The first step is to go to whatever site you want to buy from. If they offer gift cards for purchase, buy one in the exact amount of your general gift card, and then use that to pay for it. If it’s going right to you, you should receive an e-mail with the new card info in it. After that, simply add to your cart and when you’re ready to purchase, enter the store’s gift card in, and whatever supplemental method of payment you want to use. Normally there is no limit to however many store gift cards you can use. It’s a neat way to combine those general credit cards when you’re shopping online.

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Tiny Threads: An Insignificant Series

Me, to a co-worker decked out in a plaid flannel smock with pockets and ruching: “You are checking all the boxes to piss me off today.”

#TinyThreads

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The Hate Debate Over Adam Levine’s Nipples

We are definitely living in a toxic internet land. Once upon a time one could make an innocuous shirtless post about Adam Levine and have a few of his fans write something fun and nice and everyone would call it a day. Those who didn’t find Mr. Levine their cup of tea moved on without comment, because why would they even bother with something that didn’t interest them? Not so anymore. This post about Adam Levine performing at the Super Bowl, and this subsequent post about his shirtless appearance at said bowl, garnered some of the most polarizing views on any of my posts. (Let it be said that these were superficial shirtless posts – that’s sort of the point of the ‘Shirtless Male Celebrities‘ category. It’s not that deep.)

It did, however, bring up a more serious consideration in light of Mr. Levine baring both his nipples in his shirtless portion of the program.

A number of years ago, Janet Jackson was basically stoned for baring one half-second of a single nipple at the Super Bowl halftime show with Justin Timberlake. I posted the comment that it was a bit of a double standard, hashtagging the whole #FreeTheNipple movement. (Look it up – I’m not here to educate or enlighten – I’m here to entertain myself. Emphasis on myself.) Again, just my commentary on the fact that Ms. Jackson, or any female for that matter, would not be able to get away with showing their nipples during the Super Bowl. Rather than acknowledging this or engaging in a civil conversation, people immediately went into whether they loved it or hated it, whether they adored Adam or abhorred Adam, and suddenly a post on a shirtless Adam Levine was as divisive as political commentary. What the actual fuck?

Now, I’m not saying there isn’t time or space for serious discussion and contemplation here. But on a shirtless Super Bowl shot? If that riles you up so much, and if you have so much anger and annoyance that you simply must comment and piss other people off, then this really isn’t the place for you. Please, stop reading, unfollow and unfriend, block and push off, because I’m not here for that. Calm the fuck down and channel your energy into something better.

Like a mood-killer-filler blog post such as this.

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A Gratuitous GIF post of Chris Hemsworth

We don’t give Chris Hemsworth enough credit for cutting off his Thor hair and ending up even hotter. If you prefer his longer locks, check out this post, where he joins some shirtless brethren. Or this one where he keeps his long hair and shakes his ample ass for the camera. Or this bulge-tastic post of his, well, excessive crotch bulge. Or this simply shirtless one. The GIFs just keep on giving. (And check out his brother Liam Hemsworth in his underwear here.)

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