Category Archives: General

Disruptive Mercury is once again in retrograde, where it shall remain for much of the month of March. Hold on to your hats and underwear as we try to ride this one out (unless you’re featured ginger Seth Fornea). If you’re still recovering from too much partying on St. Patrick’s Day, HA HA. I’m apoplectic, on with the recap…

The Bloodstone Bracelet: Not Another Nancy Drew Mystery or Harry Potter Prequel (I don’t care who Dumbledore fucked). 

Go to any one of these posts, click on the “#TinyThreads” link at the bottom of each, and see how far back you can go. It’s like a little Fuck Your Own Adventure series.  

Paint the town something. 

It was Skip’s birthday, and it was grand. 

One-two princes stand before you. 

“It is such a secret place, the land of tears.“

The Madonna Timeline returned with a bang: this is ‘American Life.’ 

Hot-ass gingers for your St. Patrick’s Day viewing pleasure. 

Hunks of the Day included such hotties as Takaya Honda, Jim Brickman, Jeremiah Lloyd Harmon, Kyle Cooke, and Graysen Quinn. 

My brother and I were hellions in a number of ways growing up – none more-so than when our parents had to go out and leave us with a babysitter. We went through a cadre of babysitters, a number of whom ended up in tears at some point in our time together. We had a knack for torture, and most of them never told on us. I don’t know why. Suzie’s older brothers each babysat just once. Tim was terrified of our German shepherd Crystal, so our parents warned us not to let the dog in while he was in charge. We gave Tim about three minutes before we let the dog in; he promptly ran into the bathroom and locked the door. Eventually, we put the dog in the garage and Tim came back out. Eventually.

Andy was not afraid of the dog, so we had to find another trick for him. He arrived with a copy of ‘The Little Prince’ which he read to us (at least, a bit of it). We recognized the book because we had a copy of it too. We brought out our version and compared them. They were identical but for a black star on the back of his. Of course, we wanted his version, the one with the black star, and we begged him to trade us. He was not having it, so we gave up and waited.

Whether it was a bathroom stop or dinner preparation, at one point he left the room and it was then that we pounced. With a black marker, I drew a wobbly star on our copy of the book, then put his copy back in our library. We said nothing, assuming we would get caught before he left for the night, but he never noticed, and as he left with our copy we thrilled at the trick we had played on him. Hopefully it wasn’t a library book…

Aside from the book, Andy escaped relatively unscathed. A switched-out book was nothing compared to the horror/obstacle course we set up for a neighbor in our basement, or the vaguely suicidal gesture I made using a few allergy pills. It was a more innocent time then.

I won’t get into the grief we gave family members who ended up watching over us, especially Uncle Roberto who put up with more bullshit than anyone other than our parents. As an Uncle myself, I feel that the twins are as much karma for my bad behavior as they are for their father. Neither of us is ready for what is about to come.

It was one of those moments where nothing more needed to be said. We had just finished a movie and were walking to the Skip’s car. The wind was brutal, the temperature was well below freezing, and the night was dismal. Hurrying inside, I pulled my coat tighter around me as Skip started the car. 

“I hate going to the movies in winter,” he said with a note of sadness in his voice. “It’s so much better in the summer.”

There was no better way to convey the discontent near the end of winter in upstate New York. It was why we had spent the earlier part of the evening plotting and planning possible weekends for our annual Boston Red Sox adventure, picturing a warmer world on the brink of summer again. 

There’s nothing better than planning future adventures with an old friend. Suddenly it struck me, in the wretched cold and dark of a February night: we were old friends. We’d known each other for almost a decade and a half. (That’s the thing about old friends: they take years to find.) Now, at the end of an evening, with no need for inane filler babble, we coasted to the last weeks of winter, sustaining ourselves through the dark season with whiskey and beer and the odd appetizer. (Still no new decaffeinated soda selections at the concession stand. And why is it called a concession stand anyway? What are we conceding? Our health? Things that make you go to a movie expert like Skip…)

Last year he turned 40, and that fun party was the unofficial kick-off to spring. Coming as it does one week before the real deal, Skip’s birthday has become the earliest signs that winter is receding, that the world will be bright and sunny again, that there is hope left after all. That’s sort of symbolic of what Skip is to many of us ~ an eternal font of hope and optimism. He’s a perpetual example of how the planning and plotting and dreaming is as much a part of the journey as the destination ~ and sometimes not getting where you originally thought you wanted to be can be the best move we never make.

Happy Birthday Skip ~ and many happy returns of the day!

It was just a matter of time before I got around to embracing crystals. In fact, it may not be so much discovering them as returning to a minor passion of my youth, when gems and semi-precious stones caught my fancy. Back then, it was a science class where were examined the various minerals and rocks that introduced me to this world. I was obsessed with the way calcite broke into neat, uniform parallelograms, and how writing would be doubled when viewed through a thin-enough piece of it. I was transfixed with the gleam and sparkle of pyrite, happily fooling myself into trusting its golden show. I dug in the woods behind our home and found the smallest bit of rock that contained a bit of mica – shiny and flaking off in thin sheets. And I was enthralled with the tale of how a friend had found a perfectly-formed quartz crystal in his backyard, then brought it into class to show everyone. That such beautiful objects also held some sort of power was simply too good to feel true. I stopped short of the New Age worship that some crystal-lovers practiced, because I wasn’t quite ready to put all my faith in crystals.

I’m still not. My brain is too wary of such magic. Part of me understands on a fact-based level that a piece of stone has no literal power to sway my life in any way. But this isn’t about the literal. This is about the power one imbues to a talisman or object that gives it a different life, and in return it inspires or changes something in you. That can be quite literal. Sometimes belief begets transformation. I’ve done this many times – every time I walk into work for example – and it can be a powerful way of getting to where you want to be.

The stones that make up this bracelet (found at Tushita Heaven in Saratoga – a wondrous shop that you should definitely visit) are Bloodstone, said to aid in Personal Healing: “It stimulates the immune system, builds courage and raises self-esteem, teaching that all is at it should be. Bloodstone transmutes negative memories into positive actions, working gently as it cleanses and purifies. Bloodstone makes us aware that adverse conditions in our lives are often illusions.”

That sounds about perfect for what I need. What we all need. I feel better already.

We gave an hour for a little more light, and it was a sacrifice we were happy to make. Spring is on the way – it has to be. I’m working on a new project, and thus have no time for grandiose intros. On with the recap:

The week began in colorful fashion. 

The #TinyThreads category kept growing.

The Annual Ass Wednesday post. 

What kind of fuckery is this?

Pillow by Target.

Daffy is not just a duck.

Sexy Sunday studs.

Hunks of the Day included Jason Domino, Keegan Michael Key, Brian Justin Krum, Keegan Whicker, Cameron Hawthorn, and Kris Boyson.

This beautiful pillow, which goes so well with my Grandmother’s tufted green velvet couch, was procured at Target of all places. Perhaps somewhat surprisingly, I’m not a complete label whore, and I enjoy a bargain and a well-lit mainstream store as much as the next person. (I still have a gorgeous Marimekko for Target beach bag that personifies summer living and summer fun.) Their clothing has not quite won me over just yet (I don’t care if Isaac Mizrahi once played a part in it or not), but this pillow is stuffed heaven. 

I like its multi-textured surface, along with its riotously-jarring collection of colors. There’s a remotely 60’s vibe to it as well, with a little garishness thrown in for good measure. It goes well with Gram’s couches. 

Strong, vibrant color makes all the difference in a dismal day. 

What kind of mad, life-sized fuckery is this bullshit? 

It’s not even Lent yet, and this bastard, towering over all, just stood in my path at Michael’s while I was trying to hurriedly pick up a few supplies for the new project. (Further evidence that nothing good ever came of Michael’s, or Pinterest for that matter. And don’t even get me started on that nightmare called JoAnn’s Fabric Store.)

Now, I thought I’d already banished the Easter Bunny ghosts from my youth, but when something like this catches you by surprise, and it’s so goddamn big… well, one recoils at the horror of it all no matter how far past it one thinks one is. 

The madness of March – herald the Return of Spring! – is in full effect as the last week brought about the turn of the calendar page. Hunkering down and getting deep into some project work is the best way to pass these last few weeks of winter. The sun is staying a little longer; the days are beginning to last. We can do this. But first, a quick look back at how we left February in the snow dust.

Let’s begin with these #TinyThreads. (Click on each #TinyThreads link at the end of each to follow the journey of nonsense.)

Lady Gaga & Madonna, together again. 

Morning meditation.

Hot pot. 

The next time you want pussy…

Marches of our world. 

Questions that need answers.

The magic of Belinda Carlisle. 

Madonna’s ‘American Life’… en route.

The return of the Jonas Brothers, all grown up. 

Madonna’s best album… to date. 

Gratuitous underwear studs.

Getting my ass out again. 

Hunks of the Day included Patrick Duffy, Brendan Patrick, Nick Dent, Adam Devine, Michael Kleinmann, and Mike Rickard.

So, leap years… are they like a Daylight Savings thing? Do we need them to make up some weird little discrepancy in the calendar? I forgot my grade school lessons on this topic. We’re not having one right now anyone, but my heart goes out to those who were born on a February 29, because it’s not happy for you this year.

{This should probably be one of the #TinyThreads, but we’ve already done that today.}

It’s the first day of March, and proverb has it marching in like a lion. I happen to love lions so that’s not a bad thing, and for many of us the roar of them is nothing but an indicator that a classic movie is about to begin. March is the month when spring officially begins, even if it won’t feel like it for a while. I’ll take it on a technicality, so let the fanfare and roar be grand and bold. Oh, I realize there are still a few more pesky weeks of winter, but now is the time to plan and begin the earliest motions of spring cleaning. (We have so much to do inside that it must begin soon or we won’t finish before summer.)

A new project is in the works too, which means things are extra busy around here, so let me go work on it a bit while you peruse how we do March around here:

• March 2010
• March 2011
• March 2012
• March 2013
• March 2014
• March 2015
• March 2016
• March 2017
• March 2018

Some days dawn like a Mary Oliver poem – all hope and promise and beautiful heartache…

I don’t usually get to embrace the morning. It passes in a rush of waking and showering and doing my best impression of a man who can dress himself for work. As it likely it for many others, my mornings are on auto-pilot, and the older I get the more mundane and drudge-like they sometimes feel. Every once in a while a blip will occur, some minor snag that reminds me I’m still imperfectly human no matter how many times I’ve done this: a squirt of lotion instead of toothpaste on the toothbrush that is just about to go in my mouth, a drawstring that gets right in the way of the stream of urine, or putting one contact lens into the eye that already had one in already. Fun, fun, fun.

Once upon a time I practiced meditative mornings over the weekends – when sun was out, either reflecting brilliantly on the snow, or mingling softly among the blades of grass – and there was no music, no television, and no washer/dryer duet. Silence and stillness. It grounds the heart, setting a bedrock of peace for the day no matter where it might take us. I miss those meditative mornings. Perhaps I’ll set my alarm a bit earlier so I have time to start the day in peace. It may make a difference.

Meditation need not be anything complicated or lengthy. Actually, it’s better in my case if it’s neither, and simplicity is integral to the experience. Even just five to ten minutes of sitting in uninterrupted silence each day can work wonders. If you can stretch it to fifteen, that’s even better, but something is better than nothing. I find it takes a few minutes to clear my brain of worries and plans and concerns and daily stuff. That’s why it’s sometimes easier to do it first thing in the morning.It’s quieter then, too.

So here’s to those contemplative mornings. May they greet the day in peace, and carry the mindset through the rest of the hours.

The golden luster of all those little dickless statuettes has hopefully not yet worn off for all the Oscar-winners from last night, but we are definitely moving forward into the next week, as it’s the last one in February. The sooner it’s over, the better. On with one quick look back…

We begin with some scent planning.

Desperately seeking mall solace.

Are my days of tea-bagging at an end?

Erect as a sun dial.

Mike Rickard, living ‘Out Loud.’ 

A shirtless Nick Jonas afternoon delight.

Is that a pipe in Cristiano Ronaldo’s underwear?

Yawning through the Academy Awards. 

Do follow these #TinyThreads.

Hunks of the Day included Ben Platt, Chris Harrison, Don Benjamin, Jack Muldoon, Reggie Bullock and Tobi Jasicki. 

If I must, I suppose I must…

Slay, Billy Porter, slay.

Regina King is a goddess who knows how to drape it.

Melissa McCarthy, proving me wrong in that not everyone should wear a cape at least once in their lifetime. Looks like a shower cap on her shoulders.

Mark Ronson is wearing just enough chicness to set a tux apart from the pack.

Linda Cardellini belongs on Fraggle Rock, and that’s not an insult.

Henry Golding’s outfit is as elegant as his accent.

Diane Warren – bringing back the dickie. No. God no.

I want Michelle Yeoh to be my fairy godmother.

Kasey Musgraves – what’s wrong? Couldn’t get Glinda’s bubble and wand too? (That said, I adore it. Oh wait, just saw it again. Nope. Give it back to Glinda.)

Apologies to Awkwafina: I think Glenn Close did this better yesterday.

Gemma Chan – I am here for this color, but why the shower curtain ruching?

James McAvoy – A black tux. For the Oscars. Groundbreaking. {Just take it off.}

Glenn Close – Restoring my faith in the cape. Take a lesson Melissa McCarthy.

Angela Basset – I’m questioning my sexuality.

Spike Lee – Channeling Prince’s work in Batman.

Jennifer Hudson – A one-shouldered scarlet dream.

Richard E. Grant – The richly-hued tux must match how good he smells.

Jennifer Lewis and Shangela: giving me life. Operation ‘Avenge the Kevin Hart Debacle’ in effect.

Nicholas Hoult – I am here for all of it, whatever the wrap is going on. (It’s actually a Dior tux, and it’s glorious.)

Is Sam Rockwell playing Lex Luthor for something?

Amy Adams always looks so friendly and approachable. Not sure I want that on this night. I want glamorously intimidating and elegantly terrifying.

Jason Momoa – Bohemian black tie sans tie. It works with the hair, even if the fit is just slightly off. (He still looks better naked,)

Charlize Theron – Joan Crawford will rise from the dead to get her shoulders back. 

Rami Malek – Another black tux. What more is there to say? Take it off?

Sam Elliott – matching the hair to the shirt. Well-played, sir. 

Jennifer Lopez, please don’t cut yourself on any of that! (PS – I’ll take it when you’re done. Thank you, Tom Ford.) 

Bradley Cooper – Whoa! The magenta sequins and ostrich feathers are over the top! Just kidding. Just another black tux.

Emma Stone – I’m torn. Need to see it closer…

Lady Gaga – The jewelry is magnificent. The McQueen is the color of 90% of the tuxes. The effect is largely that of this year’s Academy Awards: underwhelming. 

I love Maya Rudolph so much that I will refrain from commenting on that… dress.

Tonight Rachel Weisz comes complete with a cherry-red baby-proof bib. Not sure why.

Chris Evans is such a gentleman, and that jacket is divine.  

Waiting for Bette Midler to save another Awards show… in 3, 2, 1. 

Camo for the Academy Awards? Interesting choice. Not as successful as this one, sorry Pharrell Williams. 

Melissa McCarthy’s bunny just won the Oscars. {Careful with those rabbits, Glenn Close is in the FRONT ROW.}

Nope, Lady Gaga and Bradley Cooper’s performance just won the evening. Classy. Elegant. Moving. 

Spike Lee & Barbra Streisand: Best Couple of the Oscars. #hats 

Glenn Close was robbed. Our country can’t elect anyone anymore. 

Julia Roberts is pretty in pink, even with those fish skeleton earrings. 

This year’s Super Bowl was one big-ass dud (with the possible exception of the Adam Levine strip show) but ball games never interested me as much as shiny phallic men. Tonight is the Academy Awards, and once again I’m not as excited about the night as I’ve been in the past (cite a combination of the new Academy nomination process – how many films are up for Best Picture now? – tiresome hosting issues (Kevin who?) and just getting older and growing uninterested in such things). I still have some favorites, including ‘The Favourite’ and Glenn Close, as well as Cate Blanchett and Nicole Kidman in whatever gown they’ll choose to wear, and of course I’ll watch because there’s something comforting about fluff and entertainment in this present climate.

In the past I’ve done some online posts about the Oscar ceremony (some FaceBook stuff and lots of Tweets) and a recap of commentary on this very blog, and perhaps I’ll get a second wind and do a bit of that, but as we near the last month of winter, I’m probably going to be too exhausted for any of that. (Follow or Friend me just in case.) 

Anyway, let’s get some glamour going. We need it now. 

The very first sundial I ever encountered was in the semi-secret side garden of the Ko house. In the center of a circular stand of hosta, which itself was in the middle of a formal stone-lined section of the garden, near an enormous elm tree and not far from a grape arbor, it stood and marked the path of the sun, or so Suzie and I assumed. Neither of us could read it, even if the dial itself was still intact (that part remains fuzzy in my memory bank). I remembered what was in the surrounding garden quite more vividly: the beds of floppy peonies, heavy and wet from a previous eve’s rainfall – the dirty, leaf-filled basin of a small cement pool that was mostly dry all summer – and the bearded iris that insisted we sniff their beautiful fuzzy heads every time we passed. Only I obliged; Suzie was supremely uninterested in them, no matter how I extolled their virtues.

That sundial stood in the center of the space, yet it didn’t occupy the center of our thoughts. Children don’t often succumb to the intended focus of a place and we were no different. The bees buzzing in dangerous numbers among the Centaurea by the stone walkway demanded our notice, as did the perfume of that summer place, which I didn’t know then but subsequently discovered to be either the fringe tree nearer the street, or a hidden hedge of mockorange dividing the garden from the house next door. And grape taffy – Suzie shared some beneath the grape arbor, from which small green grapes were just starting to form – grapes that would never come to ripeness no matter how many times the sundial marked the day. Or maybe they did and we just weren’t there to witness them. Summer never lasted long enough when you were a kid.

The sundial seen in these winter photos was a gift from a few years ago, and I only just noticed the rather macabre grim reaper on it to indicate the passage of time, and its only slightly-more-hopeful message. Yikes. I’m going to take that as a sign of the passing winter, as it stands there in the snow, marking the march of the sun, and the passing season of a garden waiting to begin again.