Category Archives: General

Today is the day this country decides whether a competent person becomes the first female President of our great nation, or if a bunch of idiots put a dangerously-incompetent imbecile/racist/homophobe/asshole in charge of our nuclear weapons. The choice is clear to anyone with half a clue, but not so clear to those clouded by ignorance, anger or hatred.

In these past few weeks, I’ve had to step away from the political scene because it’s simply too frightening to think of a nation where Donald Trump is the Commander-in-Chief. Mostly, I’ve been concerned for what it means to me and my family. My niece and nephew, at the impressionable young age of six, will have a world irrevocably ruined for them if Trump comes into power. That is not a world I want for them. Their world should be open and accepting of difference, a world that values love and compassion over greed and selfishness. Their future should be one in which they strive for intelligence and grace, dignity and honor, not divisiveness or bullying brutality.

Of course, I must also think of myself and my own marriage. That was my main worry when Trump chose the virulently anti-gay Mike Pence as his running mate, and when the whole notion of the basic (and official) Republican platform was revealed, in which they propose gay conversion therapy and the overturning of marriage equality. That’s terrifying in itself, and the closer we inch toward the possibility of such hatred worming its way into the White House, the more upsetting it was for me.

Then I realized something: even if Trump were to become President of the United States, I’m lucky enough to not have my life ruined by it. Even if they strip us of our marriage, that won’t change the love between Andy and myself. We managed just fine for ten years before we got married, so it won’t really change a thing. That’s always been the underlying fact about those who fight against marriage equality, and why they will never win: they cannot stop our love. They can take away a certificate, they can take away our rights, they can do everything to treat us as less than them, but they can’t take away our love.

I’m also in a lucky position where the “policies” and tax-everyone-but-the-rich plans of Trump won’t send me into ruin. The same can’t be said of most of his supporters. They will be the ultimate victims of a con perpetrated by a man who already cheated countless people with his Trumped-up university, whose corporations declared bankruptcy four times, and who proudly proclaimed he liked to grab women “by the pussy” without their consent.

I know some people have a hard time considering a vote for Hillary Clinton, but when you consider what’s at stake, when you think about who you want in control and command of the world’s most powerful nation and all its nuclear codes and secrets, that person is not Donald Trump.

It’s time. Make your choice.

Beauty breeds peace, and I think that’s part of the purpose of art in this world.

It’s also the reason for such natural wonders as fall, seen here.

Whatever your beliefs, the beauty of fall transcends our differences.

On a winding road beside which the dead rest, there is a peace that exists between two worlds.

Sometimes I think that beauty is the place between earth and heaven.

That’s basically the choice of this election, and it’s no secret whose side I’m on. You’ve probably already made up your mind as to who you are voting for, and if you haven’t you are just a complete idiot. (If you’ve decided to vote for Trump, you’re a complete idiot too – and I can supply countless examples of why if you really need them. Believe me.) But this is largely a politics-free place, so let’s focus on our established areas of interest. A recap of the previous week, as per usual on Monday morning.

Halloween is traditionally my day-off, and this year proved no exception.

Local Albany luminaries in disguise.

Encroaching on the ennui of middle-age.

Don’t ask me.

Have you started your holiday shopping?

Leaving off the corners.

Japon Noir: a November Private Blend by Tom Ford.

The mystery posed…

…and the mystery solved.

The waving of wood.

Autumnal glory in these leaves.

A fall day with the Ilagan twins.

The last bouquet of the season.

Did you remember?

Madonna is about to open her heart again.

The early crop of November Hunks included Griffin Barrows (in his well-deserved second crowning), J.J. Watt, Alexander Mecum, Cody Christian and Tony Ward.

Early this morning we got to do what Cher has been wanting to do for all her life: turn back time. Just an hour, but an hour can make a world of difference. What will you do with your extra hour? Most people will claim they slept through it. Fair enough, but I prefer to think of time as more fluid than that. I’m saving this extra hour for something more constructive than sleep. Addressing holiday cards, perhaps. Cleaning the bedroom. Plotting out Christmas gifts. Plotting out my Christmas wish list. Plotting out my Christmas wardrobe. Scheduling the remaining weekends of the year (they are booking up quickly).

Do I sound anal to you?

You have no idea.

Go make the most of your hour. In half a year you’re going to lose it all over again.

Behold the wondrous coral bark maple! Though it’s best-known for the red bark of its younger branches, clearly it has other colorful tricks up its coral-barked sleeves. Witness this brilliant show of bright gold, so gloriously enhanced by the autumn sunlight, so resplendent in an increasingly-dull landscape.

Soon only the branches will remain, and their coral hue will bleed beautifully against the snow, but damn if it doesn’t go out in a blaze of glory before the white stuff falls.

We mistakenly assume that wood is rigid and hard, tough and unyielding, but it’s much more fluid than that, especially when it’s still alive and the water of life courses through its limbs. In these exposed views, the wave-like grain of a tree reveals its fluidity, as well as the grace and beauty of such free-flowing form.

“I’m a tree. I can bend.”

I am a fallen tree.

If you zoom in on me, you can find among my rings what looks like a faded antique map, but it’s merely the haphazard effects of time and nature within my fallen shaft. History is kept in different ways, marked by various signs. Some count in rings, some in fallen teeth, some by the length of hair or the girth of limbs.

Here, a memoir is presented in the markings within a protective shell of rough and weathered bark. High above the earth, in the lofty reaches where only birds and squirrels dare to tread, I once soared.

If my branches could speak they would tell you tales of passing seasons, of boys running around atop my roots, of chipmunks dashing among my leaves.

Felled, my story is nearly at an end, but do not weep for me. I’ve scattered thousands of acorns over the years. Our journeys always run into each other ~ where mine leaves off another begins, and where we overlap, where we hold on and intertwine to stay connected, is the space of love.

What am I?

A treasure map?

And ancient guide?

Or something more basic?

(Return tomorrow morning for the answer.)

The way leaves collect in wind-protected corners has always fascinated me. These little spaces of respite amid howling streets offer solace on wind-chilled days. The little bit of Temple Grandin that’s in most of us desires to be protected and confined like that. The comfort of condensing the world into a small spot, of walls closing in around us – it’s not for the claustrophobic but it’s how some of make sense of the earth’s unending sprawl. It’s difficult to get your mind around how expansive the universe is. I find it helpful to zone in on a small piece of it, to study and peruse and know that little spot inside and out. You need to start somewhere before you go anywhere.

And?

What’s the big deal?

Am I losing my mind?

Where do we go from here?

Which path to take?

How will it end?

Where is your comfort zone?

There will never be another Madonna, but there have been other artists and books and shows and movies have inspired me over the years. Shirley Horn, James and even Lady Gaga have sounded over my stereo. Sunset Boulevard, Wicked, Cabaret and Grey Gardens have strutted on stages before my eyes. Edith Wharton, Gregory Maguire, Jane Hamilton and F. Scott Fitzgerald have roped me in with their words. Bette Davis, Meryl Streep, Nicole Kidman and Rosalind Russell have all mesmerized me with their screen presence. Tom Ford, David Beckham, Ben Cohen and Zac Efron have offered sweet-smelling fashion and delectable eye candy.

At one stage or another these entities have been an obsession for me, and my life has, sometimes for better and sometimes for worse, revolved around each of them for a bit. Mostly it’s been a good thing. We are always enriched by those we admire. Lately, however, I find muses in short supply. I can’t tell if it’s a dearth in fascinating people or works, or the advance of age and a Big Chill phenomenon wherein I simply don’t get excited over things as much as I once did.

I’ve noticed it most glaringly in music. Once upon a time I’d hear a certain song and have to play the devil out of it. Family, friends and one very patient husband would be subject to repeated listens at all times of the day and night, until they knew it as well as I did. I’d send out CD singles of it with the lyrics written out and implore everyone I knew to listen to it. (‘You Must Love Me‘ indeed.) It still happens on occasion (hello ‘Rebel Heart‘) but now it’s about once or twice a year. The same goes for books and movies and musicals. Fewer and fewer of them inspire me. Even Tom Ford cologne has faded. Everything feels muted, less exciting.

Maybe it’s the lull as we go into the darker seasons. It’s hard to get very thrilled about anything when it’s pitch black when you wake up (and soon when I get out of work). Or maybe it is a blunting and deadening of my senses as I get older. Maybe it’s even the technological availability of all sorts of sensory overload. All I know is that I need a new obsession. Any suggestions?

This year’s Boo-jolais Celebration was a costume party, and almost everyone was decked out in full regalia (minus a husband here and there). I’ve already shown off my sartorial splendor, so feast your eyes on some other fabulously-frocked and dazzlingly-bedecked party-goers.

The official Halloween post comes in a few hours, but before we get there let’s have our traditional look-back at the previous week. It was one in which fall most definitely arrived, in the form of win, rain and even a bunch of unseasonal snow. There’s no looking back now. We’re in it.

The party event of the year got a revamping, and I got all dressed up for it.

I returned to a very wet Boston, and a sweet reunion with Kira.

The weather was wild but somehow wonderful, enough so that I stalled leaving.

Boston beauty has a way of remaining in the heart.

Fall poetry.

Fall memories.

Longing for summers past… and future.

Pietro Boselli’s shirtless workout routine.

Halloween limbs.

The Hunks of the Day kept things hot: James Marsden, Paolo Roldan, Jake Arrieta, Eddie Judge, Griffin Barrows & the guy featured in the photos for this post, Sam Morris.

Tomorrow is my day off: Halloween. As someone who dresses in costumes pretty much every day, I welcome the one time of the year when the rest of the world does its best to don disguises and challenge the sartorial standard. Despite my backing out of that tradition, I do enjoy a fright and some sick imagery, so feast your eyes upon these photos of dolls and doll parts found at an antique store in Maine. They give new meaning to ‘American Horror Story’ because I can’t imagine anyone treating their children to such monstrosities.

This was the stuff of my childhood nightmares. I distinctly remember a puppet on some children’s show that scared the hell out of me. She had a raspy voice and was kind of nasty to everyone. When she came into the scene I shrunk into myself a little bit more, trying to hide from the fear of that sort of darkness.

These days I fear I am that sort of darkness, and I often wonder what kind of scary visage I must present to small children. (JoAnn still recalls an episode where I was screaming at her for something and a little kid was watching us, horrified.)

Mostly, though, kids can sense that I’m harmless, and at my heart I’m still one of them in many ways. I try to hide that, but kids see through it better than adults. That’s something that frightens me.