Opening the new month with a full-frontal spread by Harry Styles wasn’t on anyone’s radar, but here we are and who are we to deny the people what they want?
Freshly celebrating his ‘Kiss All The Time. Disco, Occasionally‘ album, Styles has given us a scintillating new era, with new images and exciting sounds, expanding his sonic landscape to include some flourishes of disco while retaining his signature Styles style. As for the full-frontal pics, keep scrolling, scrolling, scrolling… and going down, down, down…
Actress, activist and model Hunter Schafer has made a name for herself by fighting for trans rights – a fight more important than ever as this country seems hellbent on denying basic human dignity to all of its denizens. Schafer studied painting and design before working as a model and making her way into acting, where she has since been mesmerizing audiences in ‘Euphoria’. She earns this Dazzler of the Day for refusing to be anything other than her authentic self, and doing it with beauty and grace.
“I’m the nerd on the sales team,” the man at the table nearby says to his female companion, who doesn’t seem to understand.
“The nerd?” she asks, as I realize English isn’t her first language.
“Do you know… nerd?” he asks again.
I can’t hear what she says, and they seem to move on awkwardly.
This is very clearly a first date. Exploratory questions like ‘Where are you from?’ and ‘What do you do?’ and the difficult-to-read-what-it-means, ‘Do you see yourself here forever?’ are stilted and awkward, but mostly I wish the guy had steamed out the bold horizontal wrinkle in the middle of his short-sleeved sweater. But maybe that’s a good sign – at least he cares to fold his sweaters neatly instead of jumbling them up in a ball. Or maybe he’s a serial killer. Always so hard to read a first date… Still, a little steam on a wrinkled sweater never hurt anything.
With English not being her first language, some of his jokes are falling flat, taken literally and then followed by her questions on what was said; repeating a joke takes all the life out of it. (At one point she said she was traveling to Puerto Rico soon and he said he was jealous. She earnestly asked why he was jealous of her, and he awkwardly said, “Oh, of your going to Puerto Rico…”)
Ahh, first dates… are they still for finding lifelong love? Are they just perfunctory foreplay for sex? I have no idea, and no interest in really finding out. They talk of what they did during COVID, where they went to school, former roommates… and I think that the lives we lead seem so mundane when put into bullet points for first date fodder. And at the same time, how absolutely fascinating all those things become when you are interested in the person sitting across from you.
I can’t tell if this minutes-old couple is feeling any of that. Does love at first sight exist? The closest I’ve come would be Andy. It was pretty instantaneous for my part (though he’s the one who said ‘I love you’ first, in the very bar where we first met, and in his own special way).
Listening to this couple it sounds as excruciating as it does exquisite, if they are into each other. Abruptly, it ends. She says something and he exhibits a surprised look. They put on their coats and walk outside, separating and going to their respective cars. Based on his look of dejection, I don’t think it went well.
The weekly blog recap that usually appears first thing on a Monday morning is pushed back until now in order to get early birthday wishes out to my niece and nephew. I’ve also been sidelined with a nasty sinus cold thing that has thrown me off-schedule in too many respects. Enough excuses, on with the weekly recap for those who actually care about such things…
Happy 16th birthday to my niece and nephew! Emi and Noah are officially driving age, which feels officially impossible, as I don’t know how sixteen years have passed since they first came into the world on that warm, rainy day at the end of March. Did I know then that they would become such wonderful additions to our family, and that as they grew we would become friends? I don’t know… I don’t think so. In the beginning, I wasn’t sure what to expect, and for the first few years I didn’t really know them well. But once they started talking, and spending time with Andy and me, I understood the richness and magnificence of being an Uncle – especially to such a good pair of people.
Today they embark upon their sixteenth year, and in spite of the last year of life rearing its often-ugly head, they’re still holding on to being two of my favorites people in the world by continuing to be good and kind in a time when such virtues are rare.
Our annual look back at the birthdays that came before…
#2 and #1 ~ In which the birthday blog posts were part of all those lost in a revamp. We lived then, offline, and in all the glory that being off the grid entails.
Anyone whose childhood inspirations were Cruella de Vil and ‘Beetlejuice‘ was born to be a Dazzler of the Day, and Jamie Lee Reardin fulfills that destiny with this crowning. Her exquisite artwork has garnered praise and adoration worldwide, resulting in notable stints with Dior, Burberry, Dior Beauty, Prada, Teen Vogue and the New York City Ballet. With a formidable background in fashion and design, Reardin has translated her talent into illustration, where her unique style and eye have garnered a following from all who enjoy whimsical beauty and fantastical elegance. Visit her enchanting website here.
At the time of this writing I am felled by a sinus/cold thing that has my head stuffed and throbbing. I’ve had to miss a day of work and the No Kings rally. The world feels separate, removed, muted – more like winter than spring. And I don’t want to rush, but I don’t want to remain…
Dreaming of lilac trees, and the way their gnarled trunks last from year to year and the beauty that only age can create. Their perfume and flowers are the showiest and shortest part of their annual cycle. The most seemingly wonderful things don’t usually last, but when you learn to find beauty in the venerable gnarled trunk as much as the fleeting flower, you can find beauty everywhere and always, in sickness and in health.
Starring in the new revival of ‘The Rocky Horror Picture Show’ on Broadway, Luke Evans leads with his, ahem, prominent package, bulging in a black lace jockstrap costume that is a reminder of all his assets. Let this serve as a basketful of previous Luke Evans posts:
Notoriously difficult to translate to a wearable perfume, the fragrance of a lilac is not one that likes to be captured with ease or success. It is probably best experienced in person, for the fleeting time they are in bloom at the magnificent mid-point of spring. For those who don’t live in a climate suitable for lilacs, or for anyone who wants more of their precious perfume at other times of the year, there is a decent-enough approximation in the ‘French Lilac’ perfume by Pacifica.
Personally, this will only be used in times of extreme desperation – when the lilac harvest isn’t a good one, or when winter weather stalls and spring hesitates to warm up. It will do in a pinch, when one needs a little nudge toward nostalgia.
Rainy mornings with sprays of lilac drooping over the neighbor’s fence…
When The Body Shop announced it was bringing back their ‘Dewberry’ line from the 90’s, my heart took a nostalgic leap as I hurried to the nearby mall to pick up a fragrance that I felt certain would bring back some questionable memories from my youth. As I approached the area where I remembered the store was located, it was nowhere to be found. It’s been a while since I was in a mall, or at least since I was paying attention to the stores rather than just walking through to the movies. Apparently all of The Body Shop stores had closed long ago. Alas, we live in an online world, and within days I had a bottle of ‘Dewberry’ body wash and body butter in my possession, where I kept them for a bit, saving them for one of the early moments of spring.
On a recent evening, when the hope of this new season tickled the senses in a warm night wind, I rubbed the Dewberry between my hands and inhaled the sweet aroma as it surrounded me in the shower. Suddenly, I was transported to the days of ‘Always Be My Baby‘ and ‘Waiting in Vain‘ and ‘Be My Lover‘ and the freaking choo-choo train… the music was cheesy and awful and I still remember every song like it was yesterday…
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b9McVO9hpUE
Back in the 90’s, I didn’t place much importance on colognes, at least judging from the small arsenal of scents I had at the time – Curve, Cool Water, Eternity, Safari. Of greater relevance was the fragrance of my skin and haircare products – I was keen on specific shampoos and body washes, and one of my favorites was the ‘Dewberry’ line at The Body Shop. (I also loved their tea tree oil products.) ‘Dewberry’ was vibrant, fruity, and sparkling in a way that said spring and summer to me. By the spring of 1996, I was living alone in Boston, and focusing on what made me happy rather than trying to impress anyone else.
Beginning with just a brief bit of paradisiacal birdsong, Melanie Martinez’s fourth album ‘HADES’ jumps right into its gorgeous hell-storm of musical majesty with opening track ‘Garbage’. Plucked strings, gun shots and church bells swirl to usher in this theatrical feat of wonderment – a grandly beautiful entrance for the ‘HADES’ era.
No stranger to dramatic and visually-arresting images, literal and sonic, Martinez paints a conflicting soundscape of America at this most perilous moment as ‘Garbage’ winds its introductory way down a dark and mesmerizing path:
Militant freaks hovering over the sky So you better run for the forest And we’re all under their cold watchful eye So you better hide what you’re growin’ Lookin’ out for yourself won’t get you far Better make peace with your people There can be beauty among trying times We can push through all the evil
A beautiful Jesus-looking figure named Hades is the treacherous temptation on display in ‘Is This A Cult?’ before Martinez lets loose with some of the most deviously diabolical lyrics, backed by equally-demoniacal music:
All of my girls wear whatever they wanna No men allowed ’cause they wanna control us We grow our own food and don’t need no money Everything’s free, and we have our autonomy Is this a cult? Or is it home? We see the future and get what we want We killed the leader, and now we’re on top Is this a cult? Can I come home? We make the rules, and we love on the land We fuck ourselves better than they can.
A dystopian vision is being built – insidiously, viciously, gloriously – and with a certain element of undeniable delicate beauty thanks to Martinez’s voice – ethereal, soothing, tender, and heartbreakingly human, even amid the ruinous machinations at work here. Fairy tales get turned on their fairy heads, the string-tastic one-two-punch bombast of ‘Disney Princess’ and ‘Grudges’ promising a world that wants to defang our prettiest monsters – and the pretty monsters refusing to blunt their incisors.
I just wanna burn bridges and kill bitches And pour their medicine in their mouth and give them a taste
In a musical time where the two-and-a-half minute song is a standard bearer for all that anyone under twenty can digest, ‘HADES’ is a magnificently fully-fleshed out world – the very illustration of album as art form – with songs that take their time to develop, and an overall arc that leaves one gratifyingly gasping for more. By the time the album reaches its apex and midpoint with ‘Avoidant’ and ‘Monolith’, love in its ambivalent and most heartrending ways arrives to temper the tempest at hand, and it’s almost enough to make one believe in an almost-happy ending.
If the fall of our memory comes to be true, then I’ll know I did everything I could do To show you the depth of what love can pursue When you’re out there talking to someone new Think of everything that I have given you Maybe she can get some of that, too, that’s what my love can do
Alas, love would never prove such a savior, not when it could cause such hurt, not when it could inflict such pain – and never in a world where things like ‘Weight Watchers’ and ‘The Plague’ exist. One of Martinez’s greatest strengths is balancing the tension of how to push through and make sense of such a mad world – how to be human when we are hellbent on being superhuman or inherently evil. As disturbing as the imagery and lyrics are in a song like ‘The Plague’, the music carries us along, a cough or two working perfectly in each of the dance breaks. It shifts seamlessly into ‘Batshit Intelligence’ where things get even more dystopian, and the sonic wind is so enthralling you almost don’t mind where we’re headed, or perhaps where we’ve already landed. Around us the discarded inhabitants of the ‘Gutter’ are paraded to jail, or worse, as Martinez begs that we “don’t get immune to this” over a vaguely circus-like musical meandering.
A haunting choir opens ‘The Vatican’, defiantly setting up the last section of ‘Hades’ – and this banger is a majestic fuck-off highlight of religious indictment:
Money power got its chokehold on humanity Nothing gives these motherfuckers quite a boner Like religion, Catholic, Christian, kissing Jesus, licking AR-15s
It’s so homoerotic, the way you pray to men And treat your women like the Leviathan Come out the closet/ Sip my holy water/ Pray to this pussy/ Confess your sins
Oh Melanie, now you are speaking my language and I’m down on my knees and waiting for you to take me there. Weaving in the patriarchal hypocrisy and evils inherent in all the evangelical bullshit, ‘The Vatican’ is this generation’s ‘Like A Prayer‘ taken to an incendiary extreme – precisely what this space in time needs. Finally descending to ‘Hell’s Front Porch’, Martinez gives in to the awfulness around us – because there’s no more denying that we’re fucked and there may not be a way out of it anymore – and the music swells to the point where we’re just “Fuckin’, sweatin’, dancin’ on hell’s front porch, baby…“
‘Chatroom’ may be the most perfect encapsulation of how people connect (or more pointedly don’t quite) in today’s online world, and as grim as some of the observations are and how deeply they pierce the heart, the music retains some small bit of hope among the disappointment and anger at constant work.
When I stare out the window, crying It’s ’cause you’ve made me hate my reflection In another reality, I could’ve loved myself, I could’ve been myself But here I am cramming all of your words deep into my veins till it kills me
Burning boldly right up until the very end, ‘The Last Two People on Earth’ brings us to the final days, and the only thing left to do is carnally express ourselves, blowing up “like a volcano/ Catastrophic orgasm that can wipe out a whole nation.” The one act that is creation and destruction at once – the one act that is love and hate and desire and annihilation – the one act that brings us heaven and hell, fire and ice, rendering words and music into mere echoes: the act of the fuck.
Part of my efforts to be more mindful and present, while returning to more primal roots of writing, has been to write out these blog posts (and project work – shh!) by hand in a lined notebook. I’m already on my fourth or fifth volume of nonsense since last fall. Writing things out by hand was the best learning trick of high school, when I had to remember anything historical or scientific. It serves a different purpose now – it connects me to words more directly, like they are actually a part of me now left on paper for as long as paper will last.
The act of hand-writing forces me to slow down, as it takes longer than typing or dictating. Perhaps more importantly for my situation, where there is no one to edit or rein in the hubris, I find the re-typing of these entries from notebook to blog back-end a helpful opportunity to refine and improve what rough stuff initially pours out onto the page.
Reconnecting to a physical, real world endeavor, and a chance to revive my cursive (a dying art) are small antidotes to the social media disconnection plaguing so many of us. Writing things out at a cafe while sipping herbal tea and munching on a cookie or muffin is another way to connect – whether it’s in small talk with the barista or accepting a compliment on a coat from a fellow customer or overhearing conversation of tables nearby; humanity is all around us, providing little time to be truly alone.
And sometimes there is no lonelier place than a crowded cafe.
