Monthly Archives:

October 2012

Halloween – The Gateway Holiday

Halloween is traditionally my day off as far as costumes and get-ups go. I do enough of that throughout the year (recent baseball photos for example).  However, in honor of the holiday, and the very first sneak peek of this year’s Holiday Card, I’m putting out this early promo to give you a bloody taste of what’s in store for those on my Christmas Card list. Having been family-friendly and too-damn-safe-for-work these past two years, I decided to do something different and slightly edgy. Not exactly Christmas-like, unless we’re talking Christmas massacre, which was one of the inspirations. That and a little Janis Joplin were all that I needed.

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The Beauty of the Beekman Boys

As I mentioned, it took a while to get into the groove of Sharon Springs. A few co-workers had looked at me quizzically when I said we were spending the weekend in that quiet town.

“What are you going to do there?” they asked.

“If all else fails, I’ll just read and relax,” I replied, though in the back of my head I was counting on there being more than that to do – a couple of bars, a cafe, a bookstore, a few markets, maybe some hotel lobbies.

It turned out I was wrong – so what then is there to do when there is really nothing to do?

While the scenery was certainly picturesque enough, with the last leaves of Fall still putting on a show here and there, and the final asters valiantly blooming in the chill, the gray drabness of the day did little to mitigate our restlessness. It would turn out to be the American Hotel itself that seduced and brought us around to the charms of the town, and a couple of stores that transformed simple living into an art form.

To be honest, up until this day I had only been peripherally aware of the Beekman Boys, and their Beekman 1802 brand. It always seemed a bit out of my reach, a tad too perfectly Martha Stewart-like for those of us without an elegant home in the Hamptons – or an impossibly grand mansion in Sharon Springs. Yet walking into the Beekman 1802 Mercantile immediately set my mind and heart at ease, beginning with the sweetly-scented surroundings and the tiers of handmade soap all around us.

The entry-way greeted guests with these mossy goats (a nod to the fact that the Beekman Boys – Josh and Brent – are goat farmers), and the intimate space welcomed visitors with a rustic elegance, wrapping its comforting arms around weary travelers.

The woman behind the counter smiled and asked where we were from – a trademark friendliness found in all the storekeepers we encountered. She asked if we watched ‘The Amazing Race’ that the Beekman Boys were currently competing on (we weren’t, but we will!) and went on to explain a bit about the handmade soaps on site. There were soaps for every month, created specifically with the season in mind, and made from the freshest goat milk and essential oils.

Here, in the midst of the smallest town I’ve ever visited, was beauty, and goodness, and simplicity ~ a way of life largely forgotten in the hustle and bustle of all that comprises modern-day living. In a single bar of soap was a reminder of all that we really need to survive, to live, and to love.

I think it was then that we turned the corner from our rushed existence into the sacred pace and space of Sharon Springs. At that moment we came to understand and honor the magic at work here. This wasn’t a place that was stuck in time – this was a place that had mastered time.

While the ‘After the Sun’ soap was designed for a day following full sun exposure, it seemed just as fitting a soap for a Fall moment as any other, and the fragrance of it – imbued with lavender and tea tree oil – was exquisite. They’d conveniently cut it into ten travel-size pats, a great idea of you’ve ever tried traveling with a new bar of soap. One of these lasted us through the weekend, sweetly scenting our shower experiences, and the bag where the remaining soap resided. If there’s one thing that makes and solidifies a memory, it’s a special fragrance. I’ll hold onto this one for those moments when I need to slow down and remember what really matters.

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A Favorite Halloween Costume

Though these days it’s all about a bunch of annoying brats ringing the doorbell right in the midst of cocktail time, I once enjoyed Halloween as much as any kid. Oddly enough, I didn’t do anything over-the-top or all that unusual as far as costumes go (again, Halloween has always been a sort of day-off for someone who dresses costume-like on any given day). I was a devil (duh), an old man (save it), a pirate, and the Phantom of the Opera – but it was my younger costumes that I enjoyed the most – particularly my year as a skunk (with a white marabou boa as my stripe, and pink make-up on my nose) – my year as Winnie-the-Pooh – and… wait for the irony… my year as a beaver.

As a kid, I adored beavers – I was as obsessed with them then as I am by Madonna now. Every school report, every diorama, every book I read had something to do with a beaver. For my birthday we went to Beaversprite. So it was only fitting that for Halloween I would be a beaver. Strangely enough, there weren’t many readily-available pre-made costumes for those of us looking to transform into the supersize rodent, so Mom had to make the outfit. The most important part was the tail – a wide, flat bit of fluffy fur that served as the sole bit of glamourous trapping in an otherwise rather-drab brown outfit. I didn’t care – I loved it. Further proof that it’s not what you wear that counts, but how what you’re wearing makes you feel. Even if you’re a gay boy pretending to be a beaver.

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Room #8

At first the quietude is disconcerting. After Heidi – the friendly young lady who booked us the room – escorts us upstairs and shows us our quarters, we are left to inspect the bedroom. Soothingly painted in delft blues, with bedding in stark white, the room is softly bright, but the quiet, even in an afternoon nap, remains ever-so-slightly uncomfortable. We are not used to the silence.

This is the wearying effect of modern life on the soul ~ the things that matter, the things that are truly beautiful and good ~ get lost amid the frenzy. Maybe we have arrived here for a reason.

There is just a small stretch of activity outside the hotel, and in half an hour we had exhausted the few stores on Main Street (and I had gifts for all the babies in my life). The people we meet along the way are uniformly friendly and welcoming, and we are even chased by a particularly embracing storekeeper, who generously offers a few magazines for us to peruse as she was just going to get rid of them anyway.

Andy jokes that this is how every horror movie begins – the strangely over-affectionate welcoming characters of a small town masking the dark and unseemly underside that comes out  when things start to go bump in the night. As the grayness of the day passes overhead, it is not a  pleasing thought, but an afternoon nap manages to erase the unease.

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The American Hotel

A dying tangle of hops winds itself all the way up to the second floor porch, and slightly beyond, its brittle brown fruit dangling like papery pine cones. The sign for the American Hotel is half covered in another vine, the remnants of a fruitful and verdant summer. A long line of grand columns runs along the porch, leading us to the front entrance.

Rocking chairs and seats open their arms, while pumpkins and corn stalks stand sentry at the steps that lead up from the sidewalk. It is a welcome visage, if slightly ghostly: there is not a soul in sight, and only the occasional car trundles along Main Street.

This, then, is our first glimpse up-close of the American Hotel, and a charming one at that. On this perfectly Fall weekend, amid the gourds and the mums, the stillness of Sharon Springs shouts giddily at us.

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Entering Sharon Springs

The winding valley that leads into Sharon Springs draws the traveler in with careful, deliberate steps. It’s beautiful in its somber autumnal way, but it’s the sort of beauty that slowly smolders, rather than exploding with gaudy color and instant awe. The hues are more nuanced, subtle gradations of shades – purples and plums, raw umber and slate, and the sky all sorts of gray and steel blue. There are some spots of color that remain – the warm crackling pops of pumpkin and squash, of lingering maple leaves and entwining bittersweet, and the lone garden flower bravely putting itself out in the midst of the dangerous frost.

I was raised close by – in Amsterdam, NY – and though I thought that was a quiet town, it was nothing compared to the stillness of Main Street in Sharon Springs. That said, it was a bit of a culture shock – not just for me, but for Andy as well. It actually took about a full day for us to gain our bearings and get a feel for the pace of the space, the way the town breathed, the way we would need to slow ourselves down, and readjust our pace.

It was a necessary realignment in perspective, and perhaps we both needed it more than either of us realized. The town, and specifically the American Hotel, had its magic to work, and we were soon enthralled to every enchantment it cast. Time passed differently here.

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The Springs in the Fall

We departed at mid-day, and the sky, with its intermittent cloud cover and brief glimpses of blue, could not decide whether it would be nice or nasty. The foliage was already past its peak, but a few maples and birches held onto their leaves of golden yellow, brilliant in the scattered bits of sunshine, fluttering like golden coins on some belly-dancer’s get-up. Over the rolling hills and farmland of New York, we traveled West from Albany, along Route 20 – a simple and straight shot, and, off the Thruway, a peaceful and lazy drive.

Small groups of crows – solitary ones too – flew across the barren landscape, over the brown expanse of dried cornstalks, the tilled soil of beds turned over for winter rest, and one lone, shocking cover crop of mustard in bright lemon-hued bloom. A stand or two of pumpkins  was all that appeared for miles, and the houses came fewer and further between. The patches of blue sky were slowly covered by a thick gray cloud cover, and the day grew darker. Though we were in no danger of not arriving before nightfall, I grew anxious for warmth and safety, for a bed and bathroom, for a home-cooked meal. Soon enough, we wound our way into Sharon Springs, a sleepy little town that seemed to have already gone to slumber. Turning onto Main Street, we followed a curving road until the American Hotel winked at us from the right…

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A Storm Named Sandy

We returned from a wonderful weekend at the amazing American Hotel in Sharon Springs, just in time for the arrival of Sandy. Who the hell knows what she will bring to these parts – I only know that last time we lost power for any length of time, I high-tailed it to Boston, which is where I’m scheduled to be on Friday anyway, so perhaps this will force an earlier trip than planned. (I don’t do well without electricity or heat.) A full write-up of the wonder of Sharon Springs will be coming up later this week, but anyone who’s been to the American Hotel knows that is is absolutely enchanting.

As far as the storm goes, I’ve got something in the crock-pot that will be done by the time it arrives, and that’s about it. We’ve also baked a pie that my Mom brought over before we left, so we should be set for provisions. (All that matters is that the bar is full.) As for possible storm activities, I suggest you procure a libation of your choosing, get comfortable, and check out a few things that you may have missed in the revamp of this site, starting with The Pictures, moving through  The Writings, and winding up with the temporary (and admittedly incomplete) Projects page that we will hopefully be updating very shortly.

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The Catcher, The Pitcher, or the Hitter

“You see it in the drive-through at Wendy’s. Some people actually care about what they’re doing and some don’t. I care. Everybody cares, but it’s obvious some care a lot more than others. It just seems like the ones that care the most are the ones that stay around the longest.” ~ Greg Maddux

“Less than a foot made the difference between a hero and a bum.” ~ Pete Alexander

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The Baseball Jockstrap Shot

A word on the jockstrap: never has there been a more functional piece of sports paraphernalia that also plays into the gay man’s idealized notion of what looks good on a guy. As far as form and function go, this may be one of the best examples of the two combining for a combustible homoerotic home-run. The way it gives support, while simultaneously framing the butt – I defy you to find something that speaks to so many on such different levels. While it’s not quite the turn-on for me that it is for others (they run perilously close to looking as ridiculous as a thong), I do like the support and freedom afforded during a workout or a run (with a baggy pair of gym shorts on top of them).

“Bullpen conversations cover the gambit of male bull sessions.  Sex, religion, politics, sex.  Full circle.  Occasionally, the game–or business–of baseball intrudes.” ~ Jim Brosnan

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A Baseball Bat and No Shirt Required

Our day of celebrating America’s Supposedly Favorite Past-time continues (with a jock shot coming up soon…) In honor of that, a few baseball quotes, and this silly shirtless photo shoot. What would Yogi Berra say about all of this? We’ll never know…

“Baseball is almost the only orderly thing in a very unorderly world. If you get three strikes, even the best lawyer in the world can’t get you off.” ~ Bill Veeck

“There is no room in baseball for discrimination. It is our national pastime and a game for all.” ~ Lou Gehrig

Stay tuned, because in the next post I’m going to slip into something appropriate for the game – like this ridiculous jock strap. Hey, if I can do it for the Super Bowl, I can do it for the World Series. (I probably shouldn’t be doing it at all, but anything for the fans. Oh, and if you’re interested in purchasing this now that I’ve worn it, hit me up with an offer. There’s nothing more American than that. Where’s Pete Rose when you need him?)

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Take Me Out

“In the seventh inning fans all get up and sing ‘Take Me Out to the Ball Game,’ and they’re already there. It’s really a stupid thing to say and I don’t know who made ’em sing it. Why would somebody that’s there get up and sing take me out to the ball game? The first person to do it must have been a moron.” ~ Pitcher Larry Anderson

“Baseball is the only field of endeavor where a man can succeed three times out of ten and be considered a good performer.” ~ Ted Williams

Take me out to the ball game,
Take me out with the crowd.
Buy me some peanuts and cracker jack,
I don’t care if I never get back,
Let me root, root, root for the home team,
If they don’t win it’s a shame.
For it’s one, two, three strikes, you’re out,
At the old ball game.

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The World Series of Love

My first brush with the World Series came in 1986, when the Boston Red Sox went against the New York Mets (and Bill Buckner fumbled his way into the history books for all the wrong reasons). I was in the sixth grade, and the only kid in my class who was routing for Boston, so Mr. Buckner left me with pie on my face when they came so close to winning but didn’t. While personally unscarred from that experience (I gave the kids more to hate than my love for the Red Sox), I stayed clear of baseball stuff until the Red Sox were again in the running in 2004 (when they finally beat the curse). Aside from those two years, the closest I came to the World Series was in the lyrics of Prince’s ‘U Got the Look’ ~ Boy versus girl in the World Series of Love.

This year the San Francisco Giants are squaring off against the Detroit Tigers – two teams I remember from my all-too-brief baseball-card-collecting frenzy of 1985. In honor of that, I’ve borrowed a bat from my brother, slipped on a sports jock, and will bring you those photos in a few posts. It may not match the heights of this year’s Super Bowl excitement (without Madonna nothing can come close), but I’ll do my best. As for who I’m rooting for, I’m going with the Detroit Tigers. Don’t ask me why – I felt closer to them in 1985, and I feel closer to them now.

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Two Acorns, Two Photographs

These photos were taken one right after the other, with an accidental shift of the focus. On their own, neither of them particularly speaks to me, but taken together they work. I like the metaphor invoked by that. As the great A.A. Milne wrote, “It’s so much friendlier with two.” Or, in modern-pop-rap vernacular, “It takes two to make a thing go right, it takes two to make it out of sight.” Hit the beat now, Mr. Bass.

 

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