It’s fun to be a dick – to go around and just fuck things up, so I’m going to be one and tell you that if you’d like the mocktail recipe for the delicious creation you see pictured in this post, you are going to have to work for it. That means going to this post and finding the recipe card for the base of what you see here. One last bit of exertion before the weekend…
This seems as good a time as any to remind anyone who needs to hear it (and I’m speaking mostly to myself, as is my habit these days) to slow down, read the signs, and stop right now. We are already in July and early summer won’t last much longer. Who better to teach such a lesson than the Spice Girls?
This is one proper bop, if we can keep the good meaning of ‘bop’ going for just a little bit longer, like the summer. (Leave it to middle schoolers to ruin a term just as us adults get cozy and comfy using it.)
It’s Friday, and we’ve arrived – at the weekend, at the height of summer, at all the things we’ve been waiting for all these days. Stop right now and experience the moment.
Pie never did much for me. On my list of preferred desserts, it’s near the bottom. Not that I’ve ever turned a pie down if that’s the sweet treat to close out a dinner (Andy makes a mean one), it’s just not my favorite. For holidays, however, it seems that pie is often the choice for dessert – especially Thanksgiving and Christmas. For yesterday’s low-key non-celebration of the 4th of July, I picked up a small apple pie, because they say nothing is more American than apple pie. Whether that’s true or not, I have neither the energy nor the desire to investigate or argue – we’re talking about a fucking pie.
With some whipped cream and a double serving of softened vanilla ice cream, we made this one into apple pie à la mode, which sounds way more French than American to me, but what the fuck do I know?
PS – I don’t hate pie because I’m gay. I’m gay because I hate the pie.
Bewitched, bothered and bewildered… check, check, and double-check. History, even the worst of it, repeats itself when we should have learned better. Debriefed in the literal sense of losing my briefs, I feel raw and naked on this day of independence. Such exposure is not new to this blog, but the fatalism and sense of dread and defeat in the air is something different.
Shall we have some music then? Something to mirror the summer vibes of a poolside escape, or a bit of night-swimming before the crickets begin their late summer song.
Let’s have decadence in the face of all this depravity – the only way to get through this summer is to shut off the news and focus on what is real, what is here, what is actually happening. The strength of the sunlight and the way it wavers on the water… the sweet scent of privet in bloom… the hunger and exhaustion that happily overcomes the body after a day of swimming…
These cherries on my new swim trunks are absolutely popping. Cherries are a motif of the coquette aesthetic, so for this summer a swimsuit of such fruity charm is a necessity. From their early spring bloom to their flaming fall color, the cherry is a magnificent tree. Their scent is a bit trickier to enjoy, as evidenced by Tom Ford’s flailing cherry line, none of which really thrilled me. Instead, let’s focus on the ones we can eat, devouring their flesh and spitting out the pits – the elegant and the vulgar all at once, not entirely out of place with the multi-layered meanings of a coquette summer.
And speaking of our coquette summer, let’s play a piece of music from across the pond to set the dramatic tone on a day when I don’t feel much like celebrating for a multitude of reasons. God save the Queen – and yes, I mean me.
It’s a strange and scary time to live in America. I’m not going to pretend that there isn’t a clear and present and very prominent danger to our very democracy in the form of the Republican nominee for President – and the fact that he is a convicted felon, a morally-reprehensible adulterer, and a proven-time-and-time-again outright liar should be what our nation is focusing on. Instead, the press and media seems hellbent on focusing on the age and bad debate of the other candidate. There is no comparison, and we teeter on the complete loss of the very tenets of our country. Look up Project 2025 and be very afraid, as it’s already happening. We’ve lost the Supreme Court (which did away with the supposedly-settled right for a woman to make choices over her own body, and just recently gave king-like immunity to Presidents, even proven criminals) – a Revolutionary War was literally fought to ensure we didn’t have to live under such a king, but history is lost on idiots.
And what we have now is a country that is doing anything but keeping its eyes on the current and imminent threat to its survival.
We’ve seen that no one is going to save us. No Congressperson, no press or media, no court of law, and no historical precedent. It was always, and only, up to us – our own citizens, our own people, our own believers in what the founding fathers created when they forged a brand new government for and by the people. Do I have faith that we will do the right thing in November to turn this danger away? I don’t know… I want to have hope… but I wonder.
Wonder can be a powerful thing – it’s part of what birthed this nation, and part of what has kept it great. It also might be what sees us safely into a future that squashes the notion of a fascist dictatorship. I only hope that Liberty has the strength to carry her torch of freedom beyond November.
Vote Blue if you care about America.
{Read about Project 2025 here.}
The last Japanese iris of the season just bloomed, its form skewed slightly sideways from all the other blooms that rose and bloomed before it. A tinge of sadness accompanied the end of this plant’s bloom – it started its banner show on Father’s Day – our first Father’s Day without Dad. When they bloomed I took that as a hello from him on a day that I needed so badly to hear from him in some way. Mom wasn’t feeling well that day, so we didn’t do our usual Sunday dinner at home – instead, I dropped off some food to her and made a short visit to the cemetery.
It’s strange, but so far I haven’t really felt my Dad’s presence at the cemetery. If he is there, it’s at the bottom of the little hill where his site is, far from his columbarium and in a quieter space where the manicured lawn blends into a patch of wilderness. There, wild roses bloomed, their perfume lending a charm to the little bend of the smallest stream that goes almost dormant in a dry summer. Later, goldenrod and purple asters will nod in unison at the autumnal breeze. In the soft mossy ground beneath an old evergreen, a little place of respite exists, and if my father is present there at all, that’s where I feel him – but it’s faint, like the memories I have of his early days in that beautiful section of town. Obviously, I don’t have anything real or substantial as I wasn’t born then, but somehow I feel those days, from the way Mom speaks of them, and from his own stories, faded and faint.
On Father’s Day, I wanted a quiet moment with Dad, but it was not to be found at the cemetery. Foolishly, I hadn’t counted on others being around, but of course they were there, and my preference for grieving has always been one of solitude. I briefly got out of the car and paused before Dad’s name, then I got back in and drove to our childhood church. It was later in the afternoon, and St. Mary’s was already closed and locked. Still needing some time with him, I drove over to St. Mary’s hospital, remembering a day when I was sick at school and Dad had to pick me up. He brought me to the hospital where he was working, and let me stay in a room right off of the cafeteria. A nun would pop in to check on me as Dad finished his operations for the day, and he would check on me too, asking how I was – trying to figure out if my sickness was physical or emotional. Back then, it was a combination of the two – stomach problems coupled with an extreme and undiagnosed social anxiety that left me terrified of being in school with other kids. I remember feeling the inability to explain what I was going through, as much as I felt his frustration swaddled with compassion for his first-born son’s string of sicknesses, and whatever mental state I had gotten myself into that made the school call him from the hospital to pick me up.
I wanted to see if the room was still there.
I wanted to see if my Dad was still there.
I knew he wasn’t, but there was a little spark of comfort to think of how many hours my father spent in those hallways, the crappy sandwiches he got at the vending machine, the laughter he brought out from all the nurses. I found the room – at least I think it was the room – but it was locked. And that’s how it should be. Some doors to the past aren’t meant to be opened – they are designed to exist only in the past, and to open that door today in that day would only be disappointing. It would only have been empty.
My father would not be there.
Instead, I feel him in the last iris of the season, the way I felt him in the first bloom. He is there in the unforced times when he visits to let me know he is still here. It doesn’t always come on days designated for fathers, and it won’t find resolution or ending when this first year without him finishes next month.
Andy has been on a burrata bend of late, and I’m reaping the benefits of it in plates like this, which features a ring of heirloom tomatoes outfitted with fresh basil from the garden and a generous drizzle of a balsamic glaze. Taken with bites of burrata, it makes for a glorious combination to form a light lunch, or happy appetizer for a simple summer dinner.
Simplicity is key for summer contentment.
Like when my husband brings home two melons and my first thought is doing this for the camera. Completely at odds with our demure coquette summer theme, it’s a badly-needed dose of silliness in a world that seems to be crumbling around us. In what may very well be our last summer of democracy, I urge everyone to live like this is our final gasp of freedom. Who knows what tomorrow may bring? And who is brave enough to ask at this point? Honestly, I’d rather not know.
In such ignorant bliss, I may choose to retire from the current life I live, going into exile like some forgotten Jedi, perhaps to be resurrected for a distant final act in which I might play a supporting part, or simply fading away with the gentle glow of whatever becomes/remains of this website, like the solar echoes of a long-dead star. One’s actual influence is always felt more than seen.
It seems even the silliest pose for a blog post cannot quell the underlying tones of seriousness the current moment demands. Anyway, suck on these melons – and don’t give up on summer or silliness yet…
Back when blogs were a big deal, Andy Towle created one of the most popular and relevant gay blogs the world had ever seen in Towleroad. Prior to that, and going even further back to when magazines ruled the gay landscape as far as getting information and making like-minded connections, Towle was the editor-in-chief of Genre magazine. In both career instances, he pioneered the path for an openly, and at times defiantly, gay existence, providing a means and mechanism for all of us to feel less alone at a time when easy access to other gay people often proved difficult at best. A lot has changed and happened since then, and in recent years Towle has successfully shifted his goals and focus to his painting, which finds happy fruition in a show currently running at Provincetown Commons (with another reception scheduled for this Friday, July 5 for all those in Provincetown for the holiday).
Today he earns his first crowning as Dazzler of the Day thanks to the fascinating journey he has invited us to join over the past two decades. (See more of his work on his website here.)
Playing on the song of this summer, it always feels like there is one endless supply of summer time, or in this case summer thyme. It sprawls out ahead of us, with no end in sight, unfurling in bloom and herbal freshness.
A carpet of thyme, especially in bloom, is a charm that may be found at the edge of a meadow, or the neglected patch of a parking lot divider. Brushing through its mat of pungent leaves, I sense the memory of a spice cupboard surfacing, bringing back fall and winter at a most inopportune moment. This is summer – and it’s only just begun.
A recent dinner with Suzie at Athos provided the opportunity to try this mocktail twist on their ‘Lavender Daisy’ drink – hats off to a restaurant that offers every single one of its cocktails in mocktail form. The presentation is coquettish, and I would love for violets to play a part in all my drinks from this point forward. That’s the sort of magic one can wish for in a coquette summer. Let’s also have a song – one for the moon…
And so I swim, in the pool that once brought us such joy, attempting to set the trappings of happiness in physical form, rekindling the precise atmosphere and setting where happiness once resided, leading with action in the motion, the way some say to smile when you want to feel better, tricking the body into thinking it’s in a space and place of happiness. And then I remember – a coquette summer isn’t necessarily meant to be one of happiness, and maybe this summer isn’t meant to have much of solace in it anyway. We shall dream in the day and swim in the night, drink in the stars and sip on the moon, and our coquette summer will be rounded in a sleep…
Clinching the number one position on the men’s gymnastics Olympic team representing the USA, Frederick Richard is crowned as Dazzler of the Day in glorious anticipation of this summer’s Olympic Games in Paris, France. Helming our Olympic gymnastics team, Richard has vowed to bring home some medals, even if he’s already proven himself in the past year of competition.
When your therapist lays out how all the conditions of the past few months have set you up perfectly for a mid-life crisis, it gives one pause, especially as it’s been a challenge simply getting out of bed in recent days, coupled with self-induced difficulty in getting to sleep at night. And so, we pause, as July dawns and this recap goes through the past week, as our weekly recap does. Perhaps the way out is focusing on our coquette theme, and losing oneself in the pink, ribbon-laced aesthetic, especially when the rest of the world has gone so atrociously dark. My niece Emi played a large part in conjuring the coquette theme, and so she appears here lending some support to her favorite doting Uncle. On with the recap…
Summer sunsetz and summer skize.
Still largely unaffected by FOMO. (I have HTMO – Happy To Miss Out.)
A strawberry moon amid stormy fits and rainy starts at the beginning of a Boston summer.
Even in the rain, Boston shines when it’s summer.
Under a wizard’s delicious spell.
The Virgo of August differs from the Virgo of September.
We don’t have to take our clothes off.
“Remember when you wanted what you currently have.”
A coquettish mix – the second playlist of our coquette summer.
Dazzlers of the Day included Michael Phelps, Louisa Jacobson, John Duff, and Ryan Murphy.
Our second playlist for this coquette summer is at hand for the moments before we turn the page to July. When summer turns to high, all feels endlessly glorious with the world, like summer could last forever. Every year it feels like that, every year it feels endless – or maybe that’s just hope. No matter how much we know it will end, we hope.
This is the second Coquette Summer playlist – entitled simply ‘coquettish’. Beneath the spell of summer, this music percolates like an old-school coffee-maker, sputtering auditory stimulation and sweetness to mask the murder of democracy for which this country seems headed. Enjoy what is possibly our last summer of freedom, bury your head in the sand and songs, and coquette away your trifling worries.
This is the soundtrack to the world getting fucked, and no one paying any attention to it.
The Forbidden Fruits of Eden – AURORA
Petite Fleur – The Hot Sardines
Love Is – Ingrid Michaelson and Jason Mraz
I Guess I Was Daydreaming – Cake on Cake
Heavenly – Cigarettes After Sex
What Love Will Do To You – Laufey
Zou Bisou Bisou – Gillian Hills
Kinda Hate U, Kinda Love U – Alex Sloane
Smaller Than This – Sarah Kays
The Conflict of the Mind – AURORA
Diamond – Hanna V and Joe Rodwell
Blank Space – Vitamin String Quartet
Home for the Summer – Sarah Kays
Come on Rainbow – Cake on Cake
Petite Fleur – Chris Barber’s Jaxx Band
Sunsetz – Cigarettes After Sex
A Night to Remember – Laufey and beabadoobee
