Broadway aficionado, and theatrical showstopper in his own right, Seth Rudetsky has been dazzling audiences throughout his storied career. Not only has he performed in myriad Broadway shows, he’s written a number of books on the subject, and his passion for performance – and performers – is unparalleled. He handily earns this Dazzler of the Day feature for continuing to impress and astound – check out his website here for further evidence of his brilliance.
Entering the fall of one’s life is not something that usually happens without incident or reflection, and finding myself not-so-suddenly at the age of 48, I realize that there are probably more days behind me than are ahead of me. Cresting over this hump of middle age is, somewhat strangely, not something that has caused much consternation or worry. In a number of distinct ways, the overriding feeling is one of gratitude. Honestly, I never thought I’d make it past thirty – there were so many moments fraught with willful self-annihilation, so many times when I gave up on myself, when I actually set out to destroy the young man I couldn’t quite stop myself from becoming.
A song then, on the piano, for the boy I used to be. (All those years of piano lessons, and still I could never play like this.) A song, too, for the man I’ve somehow become, in spite of my weaker efforts, and because of my strongest.
One doesn’t reach a place of gratitude from mindfulness or meditation alone, or from the luck of leading a very charmed and privileged life. One has to suffer a bit, go through a few things, build some character, and maybe approach oblivion couple of times. The debilitating struggle of not feeling like you belong, of not feeling wanted, of not being understood at the most basic level – those things chips away at the innocence and exuberance of childhood. If you’ve only ever felt you were at the margins of life when you were a kid, you never really quite feel like you belong anywhere – at least, you don’t until you can find yourself, and find your own worth. It’s that shaky and unsteady ground that many gay people feel themselves on at one point or another – that moment when coming out might cost you friendship or love or life.
Such a strange thing, that unsteadiness, and the dizzying lack of some feeling of belonging – and then of thinking you don’t belong anywhere unless you’re there at the center of it all, marching in some grand parade, embraced and hoisted on the shoulders not because different, but because you’re just like everyone else. You belong.
Everyone’s eyes are on the spectacle of it – the music and the pomp and the majesty of a march – and we lose ourselves in watching it go by, not looking around to see all the people next to us – eyes only on the chosen few, missing the real connections, the true threads of life running through our journey. I thought I wanted to be in that parade. I thought that would make me belong.
So I made myself into my own parade – a grotesque, ridiculous, carnival of outlandish proportion compared to my trifling lot in life. It was but one of the many demons I conjured in the name of survival. A celebration of me to mask the utter lack of believing I deserved one.
There came a time when all those demons became my friends, when they stopped fighting me and turned their formidable powers against the outer world. Suddenly I could charge ahead with a battalion behind me, a support system the likes of which I never knew or got when I was growing up.
Like all demons, however, they proved problematic, deceptive in their perceived power, and ultimately deserting me when I needed them the most. Empty shells and vaporous ghosts, the scariest forms of imagined life, they were all in my head, all made-up and false crutches to get me through. Sometimes they did, but in the end they couldn’t do what I needed them to do.
The parade marched onward, and I watched it go…
Sometimes this blog is just about filling in the blanks: blank space, blank posts, blank screen.
Most of the time it’s more like Mad Libs.
Taking life into a macro-level view always results in further mystery and intrigue, which aligns with the general cloak and veil aspect of the fall season. A circle of toadstools, a pair of acorns, or the umbrage of a mushroom rising seemingly overnight – these are but a few of the magical pulls of autumn. They lend an enchantment to the forest floor amid the business of preparing for the slumber of winter.
There is a frenzied increase in the activities of squirrels and chipmunks now. Their summer days spent playing and chasing one another have been supplanted by the rushed stocking of their winter pantries. Acorns and nuts are dug and collected, then hidden somewhere else – the machinations of a squirrel’s plan for winter are still mysterious to me, and still a wonder to watch.
The ground is filled with life at this time of the year, if you bother to bend down and look a little closer. There is dampness here, and with water comes life. Any dry and barren dirt has been given a more hospitable constitution, and life finds a way.
Jaxon celebrated his Uncle Andy’s birthday by presenting him with a plastic bus, a couple of books, and a little baseball. Our family had a belated birthday dinner for Andy – lasagna and cheesecake courtesy of Mom – and it was a lovely gathering on a cozy Sunday afternoon. As the daylight grows shorter and the wind grows colder, and we find our way in this new section of life, such dinners are important. They provide comfort and a time to connect with family.
In the featured photo, astute and detail-oriented viewers will quickly find the photo-bomb by Taylor Swift of all people. Meanwhile, the second pic is in the aftermath of Andy prematurely blowing out his candles before we had barely begun singing Happy Birthday in an effort to stop the song from happening. Noah can be seen stifling a laugh, and the song went ahead anyway. You can’t stop a birthday, anymore than you can still time.
In honor of Taylor Swift’s release of ‘1989 (Taylor’s Version), I’m posting my favorite track from the album (‘Blank Space‘ is a very close second, and on days when I’m feeling especially crazy it might be number one). But I digress, and must remind myself that comparison is the thief of joy. ‘Out of the Woods’ has what I consider to be the greatest bridge of any Swift song, which is saying a lot when you consider the likes of ‘Cruel Summer’. Still, I give the edge to ‘Woods’. And there I go comparing again…
In celebration of the woods, we are revisiting the forest, where fall comes into its own with the following links.
A meditative walk in the woods.
Over the river and through the woods.
Are we out of the woods yet?Are we out of the woods yet?Are we out of the woods yet?Are we out of the woods?
Are we in the clear yet?Are we in the clear yet?Are we in the clear yet?In the clear yet, good!
Our friend JoAnn is visiting us from Cape Cod this weekend, and the stage has been set for a casual and low-key weekend of cozy food and fun, the very best way old friends find joy in the world. Once upon time we’d have been gearing up with an abundance of booze and party plans, non-stop social whirlwinds that left me mostly stressed and breathless. They served their purpose for that specific point in time, but both JoAnn and myself have grown beyond that. We find comfort in quieter and more meaningful connections now.
This weekend we are making a trip to the Armour-Stiner Octagon House in Irvington, NY. JoAnn has wanted to visit this place for a long time, and we are finally able to do it after a summer of set-backs. While that’s our marquee goal, in all likelihood the weekend’s most magical moments will be in the simple joys of comfort food and a viewing of ‘Practical Magic’. That’s the way it usually unfolds, and that’s the best way to spend a weekend.
…Velvet pumpkins, apple cider silks, and scarves to make Stevie Nicks proud… a fall weekend of enchantment convenes now…
Being a Barbie is all about perfection, and even when such an impossible standard is set, it’s the trying that achieves wonders. Hari Nef has been succeeding in wonder and astonishment all of her life, which is why she earns this Dazzler of the Day. The actress, model and writer has appeared in ‘Transparent’ and ‘Barbie’, as well as ‘Assassination Nation’ and ‘The Idol’. She’s also walked on numerous runways for her modeling career, and appeared in several magazine cover moments.
Dear Al ~ May I call you Al? Perhaps that’s a bit disingenuous, as I’ve already called you that twice. Also a bit hypocritical, since I don’t take kindly to anyone who calls me ‘Al’ without having known me for at least twenty years. Then again, I don’t care to be particularly kindly to you, so perhaps we should keep things formal after all.
Dear Alcohol ~ You and I go way back. From my 21st birthday, when I made my friends watch ‘Leaving Las Vegas’ as I got drunk on whiskey and Coke, you’ve been a companion, savior, hindrance, crutch, fair-weather friend, mortal enemy, and ultimately an ex as of four years ago. That’s when I had my last drink, and in one of the wisest and best decisions I’ve made in life, I haven’t had you since. It’s been one of the best break-ups I’ve ever had.
It’s not entirely your fault. In fact, it’s probably not your fault at all. Just beginning to understand that leaves me exhilarated and flummoxed, because I’m still not accustomed to taking the blame, even when I’ve been so terribly wrong, so awfully seduced, so willfully deceived. You were there when no one else was, when I couldn’t be there for myself, and, more frightfully, when I did happen to be there to ambush my own heart. We had some good times – and yes, when all else failed you saved me, like on that day I had to give a presentation in one of my required literature courses. Paralyzed by social anxiety, and terrified by the thought and idea of speaking in front of the class, I had you to keep me company – a bottle of orange juice poured mostly out, replaced by the surefire strength and sting of vodka. The idea of downing it before class in the morning, on the commuter rail and the paths leading to campus, didn’t feel dangerous then the way it does when I think of it now. Survival means different things to different people. We all have to do it. In a morbid way, you helped me survive when I knew no other way. I can’t be entirely mad at you.
You were there when the awfulness of a family funeral presented itself, and my own parents, whom I had repeatedly begged not to volunteer or agree to have me do a reading in church, left me unprotected again. I smuggled you into my backpack, hurriedly guzzling another massive screwdriver in the hotel bathroom before I had to do that damn reading, my social anxiety off the charts and barely blunted by your vital sting. You held my hand as I walked to the front of that church, having lost a relative just like everyone else, and your effects lingered enough to get me through the moment. It was all I needed – just get me through the moment, I thought as my voice struggled to find itself and read verses I no longer quite believed. And you did it. Later, in the garage, with the macho straight men of my family who had always frightened me, I strode through, all confidence and sanctioned drunken grief, courage by beer at that point, and whatever it took was fine with me.
So warm and safe, so sexy and seductive, so sure and certain – you were my courage and commitment in one – the surefire way to get me through any situation, and every situation. Another instance of me faking it and faking it until parts of it came true, until parts of me could genuinely believe in myself. I thought you were taking away the fear, I thought you were giving me power and confidence, and all the while you were only hiding it, allowing the anxiety to grow and evolve. Maybe that’s why I find such joy in this break-up song, and such joy in when I finally kicked you to the curb four years ago.
There is anger here, not at you Al, but at myself – at the person I didn’t quite know how to be just yet – and there is anger at all the people and events that perpetuated it over all those delicate, formative, crushing years. There were times I should have said more, explaining what was happening, and there were times when I should have said less, should have let things go and not torn myself up to the point where drinking was the only escape. I was just so mad, and so hurt, and I couldn’t see why. I’m only just starting to see why…
Four years after leaving you, I’m beginning to find the forgiveness that lessens the pain and releases the anger. (Screaming the bridge of this song always helps ~ All the time I wasted on you, All the bullshit you put me through…) Four years is a decent stretch of time to allow for some sort of reconciliation. They have been four wonderful years – and they included some very heartbreaking times, so if I can find the worth and wonder in them, and come to the realization that I did not once look for you even when my Dad died, I’m ok with where we currently stand.
And so my old friend, my old lover, my old savior named Alcohol – you have gone your way and I have gone mine, and those ways diverged four years ago. Too late, too soon, or just in the nick of time, we have reached a place of acceptance. It wasn’t you, it was me… and it’s ok now.
‘Twas on this date that Madonna released one of the pivotal albums of her career, ‘Bedtime Stories’, and did it in the most subversive and quiet way, restoring the intrigue and mystery that often accompanied her musical motions. In many circles, the album is considered a mini-comeback in the aftermath of the ‘Erotica’ album and ‘Sex‘ book; true fans considered both ‘Erotica‘ and ‘Bedtime Stories’ masterpieces in their own respects. They are two very different beasts, but both are grounded din the singular wisdom and outlook of a woman who has been, at various points, all women. (And a few men too, for that matter.)
‘Bedtime Stories’ has alway personified fall for me, specifically a very precious fall in which I shared my very first kiss with a man. Rife with drama that’s been very thoroughly-explored here it was a time in which Madonna’s musical output matched my own personal journey, which melds music with memory, and some of these songs immediately bring me back to those tumultuous times. Click on the songs to see if they trigger any fall memories of yours.
“You’re going to love the priest,” Suzie texted to me as I was about to begin my ‘Fleabag’ journey. Portrayed by Irish actor Andrew Scott, the character was a highlight, and carries on a trajectory of indelible roles that merits this Dazzler of the Day. In addition to the brilliant ‘Fleabag’, Scott has appeared in ‘Sherlock’, ‘Black Mirror’, ‘His Dark Materials’, ‘Oslo’, and films such as ‘1917’, ‘Spectre’ and ‘Pride’. Check out his entire body of work for more thrills.
After last year’s epic Boston Children’s Holiday Hour, which required a Part Two and even a very-extra Part Three to fully process, Suzie and I almost took a year off from this annual-but-for-Covid event. Our first one was a whopping eight years ago, meaning that most of the Children that once formed the impetus for this gathering are now teenagers. That stings, as the passing of time so often does. Rather than skip out on a year however, we are doing it on a casual and scaled-down degree. Whatever happens is what will happen, and as long as good people are involved it can’t help but be a good time. Right. Right?
With the way this year has gone, it also looks to be a bit of a fiasco because whenever I let my planning guard down, shit goes wrong. I’m embracing that though, and playing up the ridiculous panoply that we regard as life these days. It’s the only way to survive a joint-planning expedition with Suzie. Best laid plans and all…
Here is a peek at our prep process for the holiday mayhem about to ensue:
ALAN: What are your thoughts on this year’s Boston Children’s Holiday Hour?
SUZIE: I say, charcuterie board. Pack of cards, some plastic spoons. Done. I don’t know how we can top last year what with Argentina’s massive win. So why even try.
ALAN: Don’t cry for me Argentina. I mean my wardrobe anyway. That can always be topped. It was fucking Adidas x Marimekko. Plastic spoons or chocolate spoons? Should’t we at least try something festive?
SUZIE: Yeah! That’ll totally do it! Wear the [redacted].
ALAN: Hush hush sweet Charlotte, that is a mystery of the holiday card that shouldn’t even be whispered about yet. Remember John Mulaney! Loose lips sink ships! Besides, [redacted] are too hot. Are you thinking silk organza?
SUZIE: How did you know that?
ALAN: I have a fifth sense about such matters. And no on silk organza. There’s usually at least one spill at these things. A spill that someone else will have to clean up, but still, I’m often in the general area.
SUZIE: That’s true. Silk organza is too risky…
Well, you get the idea, and you have an inkling of how this year’s holidays are going to play the fuck out. All of which brings me to the following photo, taken during our ‘Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?’ era, on the morning that I served Suzie whisked eggs in Ithaca, NY.
Shopping bags went by the wayside during COVID, but now they seem to be creeping back into our cupboard.
This Dazzler of the Day is dedicated to my pal Skip, who is entirely enamored of Josh Allen, who earns his first Dazzler title thanks to his fancy football footwork on the Buffalo Bills. Allen was all over the fantasy football scene (which means something totally different from what I originally thought when someone mentioned ‘fantasy football’, and let’s just say it was a bit of a let-down). Skip says Josh Allen showed the same sort of spark that Tom Brady once showed at the start of his career, and I trust in his opinion.
‘Promising Young Woman‘ was one of my favorite films of the past few years, and its director Emerald Fennell has a new one coming out next month – ‘Saltburn’. It’s the only film I’ve been truly excited about seeing (I haven’t even seen that ‘Barbie’ movie yet!) And I’m not just talking about Jacob Elordi and Barry Keoghan and Rosamund Pike… this looks truly diabolical, and I can’t wait.
This sort of reminds me of ‘The Talented Mr. Ripley’, another thriller that came out right around the holidays, adding intrigue and drama to the festive season. I’ll be looking for escapism and thrills right about late November…
“Honestly, home doesn’t mean the same for me as it does for you, Felix. I don’t think I’ll ever go home again.”
