This night was supposed to be about finalizing an outfit and packing our suitcases for a weekend getaway to my friend Kristen’s wedding in Virginia. Instead, I’ve been sentenced to the attic because of contracting COVID (as happened exactly one year ago today) and no one is going anywhere. That is one of life’s not-so-little fuck-overs, and I am heartbroken over missing out on Kristen and George’s wedding, as well as seeing all of our friends.
The one bright spot in all the sadness is the notion that we will make our trip in the fall, and get to spend some more intimate time with the newlyweds – something that wouldn’t have been possible in the happy frenzy of a wedding celebration. But really, that’s a small bright spot in a devastating blow of disappointment, and I’m nothing but down and sad about things right now.
Our BroSox Adventure 2024 really should be subtitled “Diarrhea Not Gonorrhea” for the musical moment that is about to be told, but that seemed a little off-putting if I wanted any of our friends to read this – instead, you get the rain or shine/win or lose title, and after a night of rain and loss, Saturday began with a hot and clear sky filled with sunshine and humidity. The gardens of the Southwest Corridor Park were in full bloom, but beginning their slow fade to autumn. These Japanese anemone blooms were telling signs that September’s coming soon…
The notion of fall and its ensuing holidays on my mind, I asked Skip to join me on a cologne expedition, which ended with the glorious discovery of Frederic Malle’s ‘Promise’ slated for Christmas delight. Skip’s take on it cemented the choice: “It’s a lot.” That bit of fragrance business done, we could relax.
As I approach the cusp to age 50, I’ve found that an afternoon siesta is one of life’s greatest indulgences, and when I’m lucky enough to be in Boston for a carefree weekend I will usually incorporate that into whatever loosely-scheduled program I’m on. Kira is always game for this, as is Skip, and so it was that we decided to do our customary pilgrimage along Newbury Street early in the day, allowing for an ample siesta by the time the wretched heat and humidity reached its highpoint a little after noon. It worked out well, and gave us time for a double siesta because one nap didn’t quite seem like enough.
Our afternoon plans were equally non-committal, and ended up with a nostalgic return to Fanueil Hall, which is where I spent many a childhood vacation. We took the T to Government Center, and as we walked down the stairs to the entrance, a scene of musical performers had amassed a small crowd of listens and on-lookers.
This brings us to the musical portion of our adventure – beginning with what I can only assume and hope is an original composition by the street performers putting it on – the song was called ‘Diarrhea’ and was exactly that – a song straight-up about diarrhea – not gonorrhea, as they helpfully pointed out in front of all the families and kids in attendance at Fanueil Fucking Hall. I absolutely loved it – and Skip and I were cracking up as we stopped to hear it all play out. I was buckled over in laughter, the kind of hearty stomach-and-back-aching laughter that hints at extremely hilarious circumstances enjoined by a good friend.
On this day, Skip and I got our dinner from the main food hall, convening beneath the rotunda and joining the masses of tourists for a stand-up dinner, the way my Mom and brother would do it, and with the same dinner of Pizzeria Regina slices. Finishing up with a bag of cookies from the Boston Chipyard, we began walking toward the harbor as the sun was going down in its golden hour. Exiting the crowds of Quincy Market, we approached the sunset sky happening at the harbor. A guy on a pan flute was playing a familiar melody – and we both stopped in our tracks, each singing a bit to figure it out.
Fuck if that’s not a sweet melody. And fuck if I don’t love a pan flute! Where is Zamfir when you need him? In the way that flicks like ‘Deadpool’ incorporate a classic and occasionally cheesy 80’s track and make it into something more, tugging at the heartstrings of childhood nostalgia while moving forward on a current journey, this felt like a good soundtrack entry to our weekend. That it is so unabashedly romantic only added to the ridiculous irony of adding it to our decidedly unromantic bromance.
Reaching the harbor, I also reached the realization that while this trip marks the ninth year since we first started these adventures, Skip and I have been friends for almost twenty years. He’s become one of those safe and cherished friends who feel more like family – better perhaps because he is part of my chosen family, the family we each create when we have a better idea of who we are. That lends an ease and relaxation to our trips at this point, and as we eye the advancing turn into our 50’s, that sort of ease and relaxation is a very good thing.
Walking back to the condo as the evening began its descent, we came up with some ideas for the next BroSox Adventure – it will mark our tenth year of doing this, and as such we are honoring it with a big build-up and some classic touchstones. Hinting at the next one to come is the best sort of consolation for the Sunday let-down.
Another Red Sox game in the books, another summer racing to its close, another year timing ahead… and always the friendship of a chosen few keeping us going when we need it most.
Pick me up on your way down When you’re blue and all alone When the glamor starts to bore you Come on back where you belong…
Some songs become emblematic of our BroSox Adventures for obvious reasons – ‘Shipping Up to Boston’ has been a mainstay, and our early theme song of ‘Something New’ was perfect because our trajectory was, quite simply, still new. This marks the ninth year since we made our first joint trip to the Cathedral of Boston way back in 2015, so it’s not exactly new, but there are always new things to see and do. Starting with this ridiculous country song, which found its way into our trip at the tail-end of everything – arriving on the airwaves of our final rest-stop in Blandford. Pricking my ears up at the sound and the vibe and not giving a flying squirrel whether the lyrics were pertinent, I told Skip to get his phone out and work his song-detection app magic to find out who sang it. There were other musical moments that had accented the weekend (stay tuned for those), but this one gave the opening country-languid ease and relaxation that marked this fun BroSox Adventure…
It didn’t begin with such ease – while the company was true, the atmospheric conditions were such that the bands of rain from a passing hurricane made the drive into Boston a sketchy/scary one. We would tempt such wet fate for the first day and a half, bringing along the hoodies and umbrellas should the worst decide to hit. Before going anywhere, however, Skip was good enough to assemble this desk, which I originally thought was a simple job. Luckily it was simple for him, and his tool bag – I would never have been able to figure out how to make working drawers, so he was a godsend in the same way he was for the installation of the air conditioning unit that was still keeping us cool on this hot and humid weekend.
You may be their pride and joy But they’ll find another toy And they’ll take away your crown Pick me up on your way down
After last year’s Sunday game-day mishap/mix-up, we were starting the weekend off with the Red Sox game – they were playing the Houston Astros and we headed over to Fenway early to grab food at Hojoku, and a matcha ice cream at a Matcha Cafe I’d just read about. Boston had thus far remained rain-free, but the air was sticky and hot, and felt ripe for rain as we made our way to Fenway.
Our seats were great – though we both noticed they were right on the very edge of where an overhang ended right above our heads. Should it start raining, we would either be barely protected, not protected at all, or right in the spot where the torrential run-off would tumble down like Niagara Falls. Sliding my very bad back into the very rigid seats, I braced for the worst.
The game began and the weather held for the start – we had our Fenway franks, and the Red Sox volleyed with the Astros for a run here and there. I looked up at the sky and saw the clouds begin to move in dramatically. The visage was stunning – the prospect of what those clouds may have been portending was more bothersome. But I was comforted by the fact that the clouds were moving up and away from our overhang – if rain was to come there was a good chance we were in the right location for it to blow just over us and hit the seats a few rows below.
It was tight for most of the game, but then Houston opened it up at the top of the 7th.
When I asked Skip to write that assessment I sent it out to all my friends. Here are a few choice responses:
“Who is this?”
“Did you even have a clue what the hell was going on?”
“Dude. You’ve been hacked.”
“Excuse me, who is this?”
My friends’ complete lack of faith in my baseball lingo notwithstanding, the Red Sox blew it, and by the time ‘Sweet Caroline’ was sung the rain had already begun, but by the sweet grace of God it was blowing just beyond our row of eats. Two rows ahead was getting soaked but we remained for the most part perfectly dry, except for the walk home, but it had been so hot and humid all day it was more refreshing than annoying, and the company of Skip and the relaxed ease of another BroSox Adventure once again at hand lent it a charm that last year’s rainy proceedings could barely muster. The boys were back in Boston, and life was good…
Yes, they’ll take away your crown Pick me up on your way down…
“When you get into a hotel room, you lock the door, and you know there is a secrecy, there is a luxury, there is fantasy. There is comfort. There is reassurance.” ~ Diane von Furstenberg
Happiness for me is a trying out a hotel for the first time. From that first entrance to the lobby and check-in, to the first elevator ride to your floor, and that first moment you open the door to your room and everything is freshly-made-up and immaculately-prepared, the whole experience has always thrilled me. Part of it is that most of my hotel jaunts have been in service of something wonderful – vacations or weddings or birthday trips – and the correlation of happy excitement to a hotel room has been gloriously cemented from years of practice.
Our upcoming attendance at a friend’s wedding provides the perfect opportunity to try out The Doyle Hotel and, based on the website, and it looks to be a grand stay. It marks our first time in Charlottesville, and our first brush with the Blue Suede Hospitality Group. Discovering a new destination, and a new home-away-from-home, is one of life’s consistently-wonderful opportunities. We need that now more than ever.
Two Augusts ago I told the truth, oh, but you didn’t like it, you went home You’re in your Benz, I’m by the gate Now you go alone Charm all the people you train for, you mean well but aim low And I’ll make it known like I’m getting paid
That’s just the way life goes I like to slam doors closed Trust me, I know it’s always about me I love you, I’m sorry
The blush is mostly off this summer’s coquette rose, but we’ll always have the music. And as long as we can hear it, the beat will go on. And as long as the beat goes on, the heart has the capability of feeling full. A coquette summer leads with longing and ends with something else… this post is leading us to that something else. This post leads to what might be next. My niece Emi tells me this next song is coquette. I listened to it – well, the quick snippets of it that she had the patience to play. I sent her a text asking her to send me more coquette song ideas. She never replied. Silence and a song.
Two summers from now We’ll have been talking, but not all that often, we’re cool now I’ll be on a boat, you’re on a plane Going somewhere sane And I’ll have a drink Wistfully lean out my window and watch the sun set on the lake It might not feel real, but it’s okay, mh
‘Cause that’s just the way life goes I push my luck, it shows Thankful you don’t send someone to kill me I love you, I’m sorry
Summer sunsetz… August on the cusp of waning. This strange season of healing and hope, where deluge has followed dream, leaves me with an empty and dull ache. A classic coquette conundrum: balm of beauty and hurt of heart. There is no extricating one from the other. Summer winds around itself like some self-defeating vine, twirling tendrils and unfurling flowers that have only ever appeared in fantasies and fables. We weave our stories with summer’s light, retelling tales and rebuilding the past.
You were the best but you were the worst As sick as it sounds, I loved you first I was a dick, it is what it is A habit to kick, the age-old curse I tend to laugh whenever I’m sad Stare at the crash, it actually works Making amends, this shit never ends I’m wrong again, wrong again
An August sunset is a story in and of itself, but you have to learn how to listen, and you have to know how to wait. Entire books can be written in the time the sun takes to put itself in hiding for the night, but that’s a secret I’ve only glimpsed in bits and pieces – the whole trick remains elusive and out of reach for my greedy hands. I want it too much; my thirst is too desperate ~ another aspect of the coquette.
The way life goes Joyriding down our road Lay on the horn to prove that it haunts me I love you, I’m sorry The way life goes (you were the best but you were the worst) (As sick as it sounds, I loved you first) I wanna speak in code (I was a dick, it is what it is) (A habit to kick, the age-old curse) Hope that I don’t, won’t make it about me (I tend to laugh whenever I’m sad) (Stare at the crash, it actually works) I love you, I’m sorry
The sunset behind us, we drive into the deepening night of a darkening summer. The fade to black is beautiful at this time of the year.
The hosta flower spikes often sneak in and sneak out without much fanfare or notice. They arrive at the height of summer, when far more showy flowers are showing off and stealing the focus. Sometimes, they stay hidden beneath the hosta’s handsome foliage until the last moment and I miss them entirely, especially if there are days when the rain keeps me inside.
There have been a number of those days recently.
The hosta flower is like a lily, and some varieties carry the most delicate and elegant fragrance, held close to its petals and only found when you bring yourself right next to its beauty.
Mid-August is when the garden begins its wind-down. Summer has more than a month to go, but we sense what’s coming. Andy just remarked that the sun is different in the sky. I knew exactly what he meant – it carries a different shade – softer in its focus, but sharper in its shade and color. A mix of factors, a mix of emotions.
The 2024 Summer Olympics in Paris came to their very-French closing yesterday, closing the chapter on the summer Olympics until they arrive in Los Angeles in 2028. Will this blog still be going at that time? I never promised you a rose garden. On with the weekly recap as we begin the week that breaks the hump of August…
Steaing all the Speedo glory and thunder from this already-bulging Paris Olympics, Bob the Cap Catcher is crowned Dazzler of the Day. This is the person who dove into the Olympic pool to pick up wayward swim caps left from the competition. Nothing puts a cap on this Olympic Games better than honoring Bob as our last official Dazzler from Paris 2024.
This happy hibiscus looks positively lascivious and practically pornographic when viewed up close and personal. Violating a plant’s privacy in such a manner always makes me blush. Flowers often border on the obscene, the way they put their reproductive efforts right on display for all the world to see – the pollination, the protruding seed pods, the often-flamboyant and outright showy dispersal of said seed – it’s like some pretty porn flick extended over several tantalizingly long weeks or months. This is masterful edging, leaving the rest of us panting like amateurs.
When I billed our very first Summer 2024 Olympics post as ‘Paris Is Bulging‘ I had no idea how prophetic that would turn out to be. This edition of the Olympic Games was nothing short of bulgetastic, with the crotch taking center-stage from the opening ceremony and that scrotum-peek to the aptly-named pole vault and the dick-tap seen around the world.
With its marijuana-like leaves, the cleome seen here has been reseeding itself for quite some time now. For the last couple of years I’ve been ruthlessly removing 95% of their volunteers because space has become more important than filling it. I leave a few plants to develop, as they bloom just when the garden is in need of a floral jolt. That arrived last week with these flowers, which will continue to open through September, and hurriedly fan out little sticks of seeds to provide for next year’s crop. The color works perfectly with our summer coquette theme, so I’m glad I left these alone.
Bringing the coquette atmosphere into August feels right – and a theme that is kept light and airy tends to remain fresh longer than one that is heavy and plodding. Coquette flits here and there, hence and thence, darting about elusively like a dragonfly or humming bird – ever out-of-reach, ever out-of-capture. It has resonated powerfully in these parts, as evidenced by the blog stats which have shown a dramatic resurgence in viewers and hits starting in June. Usually summer ticks down in visits, but thanks to the coquette splendor and the summer Olympics, this blog is experience more traffic than it has for a number of years. Not that numbers matter here – I was doing it for ten friends in the beginning, and I will be doing it for those same ten friends when it ends.
Back to coquette… and pink panache, all in the cloak of a cleome. August whispers amid storms and rain, hinting and foreshadowing the turn of September – the turn of summer into fall. Pretending it’s not coming won’t keep it away any longer. Still, it remains summer, and summer must be embraced and enjoyed.
“The characteristic of coquettes is affectation governed by whim.” ~ Henry Fielding
