Monthly Archives:

August 2011

My Best Birthday Friend

Most of the kids with whom I grew up had big birthday parties, with all their friends and neighbors – at least that’s what it seemed like to me. I dreaded those things. I wanted to keep my Saturdays to myself, explore the backyard on my own, and not be saddled with small social talk and watching other people open presents that weren’t for (or even from) me.

 

So for my birthdays, I always kept it small. Aside from not wanting to be the center of attention (you can disbelieve it all you want, it doesn’t make it untrue) I also didn’t want a bunch of people who weren’t particularly close friends of mine to be with me on my special day. Most of my birthdays were destination events anyway (try getting 50 kids to behave at Beaversprite- not gonna happen) so a smaller number was best for everyone. About the only one I really wanted to be there was Suzie anyway – and had it just been us I would have been more than happy (and I think there may have been a year or two when it really was just us and our Moms).

The above photo was taken at my Burger King party… not quite one of the destination b-days I was talking about (that would be Chuck E. Cheese or Great Escape, thank you) but fine enough fun for a kid who only wanted a crown. (Yes, that’s Suzie to the right of me, in the fancy striped ensemble.)

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Thirty Fucking Six

Today is my birthday, as everyone and their mother on FaceBook have been so happy to remind me. And I am 36, which is on the wrong side of the 30’s, thus beginning the fast slide to 40.

Back when I was a kid, I wanted nothing more than to ride that merry-go-round – and the faster it went the better. I couldn’t wait to be an adult, to go to adult places, to leave the stupidity and childishness of youth behind. Because of that, I didn’t make for a very fun or beloved child. I see that now, and if you can’t find happiness as a child, it’s doubly difficult to find happiness as an adult.

But there were glimpses of a smile, and more than my fair share of laughter – especially on the day when it was the practice of the world to wish me happiness. Ironically, for someone who celebrates himself every day of the year, my birthday has never been a big event. Tucked quietly into the tail-end of the summer, it passes without fanfare. Tomorrow night, however, it will be back to the usual hype and hoopla, crowned with a super surprise announcement…made right here.

So, there you have it. I am 36.
I suppose it could be worse – that could be my waist size. (It’s not. Yet.)

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What Does One Wear to the DMV?

A bow-tie and a jacket from Brooks Brothers, of course.

(And some very fun underwear that will remain my little secret.)

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Bond in Boston

At the bar, I ask if they have Boodles gin. Boodles at Bond in Boston appeals to the alliteration whore I am, but no such luck. I settle for a Hendrick’s martini instead, very dry, with olives. A word on cocktail olives: they should always be firm, they should always be Queens, and they should always be served in threes. This one has all of the above, and if I am here for nothing more than this martini, then the journey has been worth it.

I don’t know why I had to be here. I don’t know what I’m supposed to find. I don’t know if there’s anything here for me to discover. I only know that I am. In this cavernous room, I observe the surroundings.

There is money here – literally – on the walls. Huge, blown-up prints of our US currency, such as it’s worth these days. So that’s the Bond of the namesake, not some British guy named James. Four large chandeliers dangle over the corners of the immense room, while an enormous one hangs directly in the center. Dripping with countless crystals, they sparkle against the dark ceiling like a starry night. A table of four is in the corner – they are the only other customers at this early hour. Meanwhile, five or six black-clad staff members seem designed to be a distraction, some trick of the Matrix.

The Hendrick’s was a good choice, and my cologne for the evening – Jean-Claude Ellena’s ‘Angeliques Sous La Pluie’ – with its subtle hints of pepper, coriander and juniper – is the unintentionally-perfect partner for the martini in hand. For once I did not plan it that way.

Certain evenings demand a special fragrance, and it is my usual practice to ensure a good match. This one snuck up on me, yet it all worked out. When the universe conspires, we should go with the flow.

One of the bartenders sets a small bowl of crisps in front of me. I eye them warily, and don’t partake right away. I am enjoying the cocktail and the atmosphere, content to take it all in – a pause in the daily drudgery.

I notice the ‘Federal Reserve Bank of Boston’ medallion embedded in the floor in the very center of the room, beneath the glittering chandelier. There was once a vault here – somewhere. We are encased by stone walls, the former fortitude of a bank lending cold security and sinister elegance.

A pair of tourists in shorts and sneakers enters and settles into a couch in the lounge section. The dress code clearly is not in effect just yet. They order a Bloody Mary and a beer, but are too far away for me to catch any snippet of conversation.

A second martini materializes, made by a different bartender, but just as good. Tiny shards of ice float on its surface, bits of the chandelier’s light reflecting on tiny shimmering waves. Yet it feels like I am here for more than a martini. Never have I felt such a strong push to be somewhere. I’ve had places and circumstances that have been memorable and important – spots of sacredness – to which I return time and again to honor, to remember, to reveal. This is my first time here. It doesn’t make sense why there was such a striking force drawing me to this place. What am I meant to see?

Another couple enters and bellies up to the bar, ordering a Taj Mahal beer and a “Pinot Grigio or something light and white.”

What am I doing here? The bartender who set the chips down, Cameron, has returned with a squeeze bottle of something that looks like milk or cream. He offers me another martini, and says they have blue cheese olives if I’m interested, but I stay true to the traditional. He also asks if I’d like a glass of water, which I always assume to be the bartender’s friendly admonition, a nice way of saying, ‘Don’t get too fucked up, pal.’ But there’s no worry of that. Three is my limit.

I feel that my time is running out, and the reason for my being here has yet to be explained. I was so sure something would come out of it, some clue to finally figure out the man I’ve become – a man on the verge of thirty-six and still so unsure of so many things.

The bartenders share some small talk and tell me I should come back later in the evening when the DJ arrives – that the place picks up then – but that is not what I am after. I have enjoyed the quiet, I have waited for what was never going to come, and I have no interest in dancing to a DJ tonight. One of them mentions Ogunquit and I recommend that he visits immediately, that it’s one of my favorite places in the world. A little more chatting and then it is time – to settle up and walk home.

There is nothing for me here.

There never was.

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Hollow Sidewalks

After a shower and a change of clothing, I make my way back from whence I came. A woman in the Southwest Corridor Park wearing a vibrant floral blouse and a straw hat is walking a black poodle. She smiles at me.

“It’s a beautiful night,” she remarks. “Not so humid.”

“Gorgeous,” I say, returning her smile. I am exactly where I am supposed to be, I think, heading to where I will find answers and resolutions.

At the Back Bay T-station a man stands at the foot of the stairs playing a guitar. He finishes the last bars of ‘Life Goes On’ and then it is briefly, eerily quiet before be begins a plaintive folk song. It is hot on the platform, and the T stations will hold this heat until October.

I get off at State Street and retrace my steps. The way to Bond is shorter than I remember, but a few lonely stretches of sidewalk still separate us, and the ghostly litter seems sad and poignant.

A stray feather and what looks like the remnants of an office lunch. Someone’s cut-up credit card and a crumpled sticky-note. The day-to-day debris of people going about their lives – the people I wanted to be – the normal ones, the simple ones, the ones who do what they’re supposed to do. There is a nobility to those lives that I’ll never achieve, a certain grace and dignity to be able to do it all without falling apart. Even at their sneaker-clad power-walking messiest, they have it more together than my impeccably-attired ass ever will.

I skirt the park again. Beneath a vine-covered arbor, a newly-married couple poses for their wedding photos. Another sign, another totem. The reception is taking place in the hotel, changing the previously-quiet atmosphere into a buzz-filled zone of static. Luckily, the celebration is not at Bond.

The stairs rise before me…. The hostess says hello… The evening is about to begin… I ascend.

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Faces of Pain

Like a signpost, this sculpture stands at the intersection of several streets. This is one of the only times I can recall seeing it in the daytime. It came to me in a dream, where I keep searching but never find. Down dark streets, criss-crossing paths, and winding circles, I’ve been here before.

The faces lead me onward, steering my course and whispering the way. Are they warning or welcoming?

I am not there yet, but I am close. The surrounding buildings rise higher, making it difficult to discern location and direction. I find my way to the park where I once sat reading ‘The House of Mirth’ by Edith Wharton, waiting for him to finish work at the hotel across the street. It is the Langham Hotel now, and the Cafe Fleuri, where he waited tables, is still there. I have never set foot in this hotel. Even back then, I only ever waited outside, watching from afar.

He is not what I am seeking. He is, as far as I know, not in Boston anymore. I don’t know where he is, and I stopped looking for him years ago. My search is for something else.

I step into the lobby from the side entrance. No one is around. I sit down on a velvet couch and examine the room. Elegantly appointed, it is draped with sumptuous curtains lined with thick fringe. Behind me an escalator and a staircase rise to the Cafe Fleuri, already closed for the afternoon. The escalator is still, and a velvet rope cordons off access.

I sit there for a moment, trying to recall what was going through my mind in 1994, back when he was the first man I fell for. This is where he worked. This is the place from which he once called me on a late summer afternoon. I still remember the dying orange light of a sunset creeping along the cement walls of my castle room at Brandeis as we spoke. We seemed so far apart – Boston was but a miniature capsule in the distance from the vantage point of Waltham – and yet so close.

Somehow he is not the reason I am here today. Inadvertently, perhaps, and technically, maybe, but there is something greater at work, something about that whole time period that has drawn me back to this location. Walking through the lobby, I take a turn into a side hallway that leads to an open door and a grand flight of stairs. It is dim here, but above the stairs I can just make out the top of a bar, and a couple of chandeliers suspended grandly. It is a great room, with a ceiling that disappears skyward. I am overcome with the sense that I have found it – the place where all will be revealed.

The hostess returns and welcomes me to Bond. I ask if there is a dress code later tonight. In my shorts, half-buttoned shirt, and flip-flops I am nowhere near ready to step into the room. She says only after nine o’clock is it enforced. I thank her and say I’ll be back for an early cocktail.

Back outside, in the afternoon sunlight, I am relieved. This is where I will find it, whatever it is. I couldn’t even tell you why, but I just have this feeling that Bond is the place to be tonight. There’s something in that space that might unlock secrets that go all the way back to 1994. I’m strangely certain about this…

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Books Among Bricks

Following a cobblestone path downtown, I am drawn into a religious store, where I inquire about a rosary bracelet. I found an antique one in Sheridan’s many moons ago, back when it was in Downtown Crossing. Now, a pair of nuns mulls around a hot store trying in vain to find a similar model. We don’t have any luck and I leave empty-handed.

I do not notice until I am almost past it, but between the tall buildings a space has opened up and rows of books stand to my left. It’s like a bookstore has risen out of the cement, splitting a brick building in two, raw red clay piled high on each side of the new space.

This is the sort of magic that can happen in Boston. It is a miracle of Dickensian proportion and style, recalling some lost Curiosity Shop or run-down library. The faded perfume of Miss Havisham rots in these corners, and the dusty pages of musty books refuse to yield their own secrets.

I will save this space in my head for later. Something else is driving me on, impelling me deeper into the city. What I am looking for is not here, but it might be someday. I will come back. I will return. I will seek this out again…

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Remembering the First Man in My Life, Circa 1994

Sitting on the bank of the Charles River, I am watching the runners and bicyclists go by. It is a sunny summer Saturday – and my journey in Boston continues. The morning was spent strolling through the Public Garden and lazily perusing the shops along Charles Street – and though it’s a tax-free weekend I have not yet made any purchases. I ended up here again, after crossing the walkway to the Charles River – a stop I seem to make once a year.

When I lived in Boston full-time I didn’t frequent this area as much as I should have. Partly because it was off the beaten-path, partly because I never thought to visit, and partly because of its connotations to the first man I ever kissed. Yet invariably, I find myself back here, always at this time of the year, always as the summer days wane. It is the path that we took after our eyes first met in Copley Square – the walk back to his place in Beacon Hill. Today it is the portal to my past, to that fateful day seventeen years ago, when my nineteen-year-old self met a thirty-six-year old man, and everything changed.

Now, all these years later, I am about to turn thirty-six. The same age of that first man in my life, the one who set me on a trajectory that has repercussions to this day. And while we are in such very different positions, I wonder what my life would be like if I weren’t married, if I didn’t have a home, if I lived in a tiny apartment in Beacon Hill and picked up a boy half my age. Would I be able to do what he did to me?

Shirtless men run along the path before me, sweaty and sunburned, their eyes fixed in the distance. Pony-tailed women pass swiftly by. A bi-racial couple and their two sons walk as a chattering group, simply seeming to enjoy one another’s company. The father puts his hand on the older son’s back, and the gesture is easy and natural. I wonder if I ever brought that kind of joy to my parents, or if I was too different.

We are so needlessly tormented.

A man walks by and he has no arms. The empty shirtsleeves hang limply at his sides like folded wings. A jogger passes him, arms swinging strongly, giving him weight and balance, and, it seems cruel to say, purpose.

It is time to leave this place. Whatever I was looking for cannot be found here… it is somewhere else. The trail continues…

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Afternoon Cocktail at the Mandarin

I hadn’t been in the Mandarin Oriental in Boston since we scoped out possible suites for our wedding weekend. It was definitely one of my favorite spaces – the suites were amazing – some of the finest in the city. I should have returned much sooner, as one of their watering holes M Bar is just as fantastically elegant as you would expect. (They have also added a bit of sidewalk dining space – which is perfect for watching the world go by on Boylston Street.) I went in through the backdoor, as is my wont.

Through the unassuming back entrance from one of the Prudential walkways, I enter an oasis in the midst of the city. There is a bit of hushed finery at work here – an atmosphere that promises the best of the best – a hint of pampered refinement around every corner. Descending to the lobby, I make my way to the bar area and sit down before a very pretty, very blonde, and very pregnant bartender. She is all smiles and engaging conversation, and she makes me a Monsieur, setting a small bowl of sweetly-dusted almonds beside it.

Made up of Grey Goose la poire vodka, St. Germain, and prosecco, the Monsieur is a refreshing pear-tinted cocktail garnished with a lychee – a seasonal treat to restore and revive the weariest shopper. There would be just one for this time – as it was a pre-cocktails cocktail before I met up with friends later on.

For me, heaven will always be a hotel bar. There’s just no place where I feel more at home. With the flow of visitors and vacationers, business folks and pleasure seekers, a hotel bar is more interesting than anything on television. You can choose to take part in the goings-on, or simply watch from a safe distance. On this day, I prefer to observe, unobtrusively taking in the scene around me while sipping the remainder of my drink. A lovely way of spending the early part of a lazy afternoon in my favorite city.

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Camp Crush

I only went to summer camp once (not counting Bible school – and that’s an entirely different story). The camp I attended was a CYO thing (I didn’t even know what ‘CYO’ stood for… actually, I still don’t…) Suzie used to go for all four weeks of the program and loved it. She knew everyone and was social and friendly, and I knew no one and wanted nothing to do with it. My brother was there though, so we hung out together and by the end of the week I had made a few friends – and developed a crush on a counselor.

He must have been a teenager, but to my childhood eyes he was the older man – apparently I’ve always liked them older. I distinctly remember watching him play softball inside the gym on a rainy day. A line of dark sweat ran down the blue shirt on his back as he ran around the bases. He lifted the shirt to wipe the moisture from his face, offering a tantalizing peek of his belly. His curly brown hair was damp at the ends. And every once in a while he caught me staring. Mostly, though, my attention was not detected. I watched from afar.

He seemed so at ease in his masculinity. He moved casually and comfortably through the hall, slightly cocky, but always at ease. It was a style I wanted to emulate and capture. I wanted both to be him, and to be with him.

He had blue eyes that smiled when his mouth did, and around them a crinkling of fine lines that I took as kindness. Some of the counselors were mean – drunk on their little bit of authority – but he never seemed to be. I almost wished he was, I so badly wanted to hate him. It was the only thing I could think to do with my confused feelings.

In those early days, I exhibited my like of someone in extreme outward dislike. I only hurt the ones I loved. I tried explaining him to my Mom. I went into a deep discussion of how much I hated him because he was so sweaty and gross, but that I was trying to like him because it was wrong to judge people based on appearance. (The mind of a child.)

In reality, I just wanted to talk about him, to anyone who would listen. I wanted to bring him into my life in whatever small way I could. It eased the ache of being ignored. Far too young to understand or access true desire, I only felt the very first stirrings of attraction. It was very real though, and important enough to have stayed with me all these years later.

Whenever anyone questions whether or not people are born gay, I think back to those first crushes. I wasn’t old enough to know what sex was, but I knew who I was attracted to – and it was always the men.

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The Lavender Martini

By all accounts, I was not expecting to enjoy this cocktail, and I only made a batch because we were holding a Lavender-themed party. However, it was a revelation, and I would definitely make it again for its own merits as a cocktail.

Aiding in my enjoyment is its base of Bombay Sapphire gin, and accompanying bit of dry vermouth. Already the elements of a traditional martini are intact, and hold their own, but the addition of a lavender simple syrup and a few dashes of orange bitters transform it into something floral and effervescent, yet still manage to defy any notion of a turn to sweetness.

 

The recipe is as follows:
– 2 oz. Bombay Sapphire gin
– 1/2 oz. dry vermouth
– 1/2 oz lavender simple syrup (See * below)
– 2 dashes orange bitters
– Sprig of lavender for garnish

To make the lavender simple syrup:
– 1/4 cup lavender flowers (stripped from stalk)
– 1 cup sugar
– 1 cup water

 

Add ingredients to pot. Heat while stirring with a spoon until the sugar dissolves. Bring to a boil, turn off heat, cover the pot, and let sit for two hours. Strain into a bottle or other container, and store in the refrigerator. (Unopened purple flower buds are optimal since they have the most flavor, although opened flowers and dried lavender can be used.)

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