It’s not a particularly favorite state of mind, as wildly familiar as it sometimes seems.
A melancholy summer seems a bit of an oxymoron, an unfair alignment with an emotion that seems the antithesis of what should be the sunny happy season. My infuriating pathology is such that it goes against the happy grain when sunny days are expected. I’m as much a dark cloud as a hoot and a half – it’s generally a pesky problem for all who try so hard to love me.
In the high heat of summer, after a night rain, the day begins in hazy focus or lack there-of. The eye moves in on water and light, while the grass rises to shake it off, slowly bending upward and letting any remaining raindrops fall into the ground. Summer awakens and rights the day.
I like the silence of early summer mornings when the birds aren’t even singing and the cicadas haven’t started their incessant moan. The pool is still, the air doesn’t move, and even the fountain grass that moves in the most slight of breezes stands frozen as if in sculpture. It puts me in mind of a favorite poem by Pablo Neruda, which features a favorite word.
As all things are filled with my soul you emerge from the things, filled with my soul. You are like my soul, a butterfly of dream, and you are like the word Melancholy.
I like for you to be still, and you seem far away. It sounds as though you were lamenting, a butterfly cooing like a dove. And you hear me from far away, and my voice does not reach you: Let me come to be still in your silence.
And let me talk to you with your silence that is bright as a lamp, simple as a ring. You are like the night, with its stillness and constellations. Your silence is that of a star, as remote and candid.
I like for you to be still: it is as though you were absent, distant and full of sorrow as though you had died. One word then, one smile is enough. And I am happy, happy that it’s not true.
Today it signifies my current state of mind, which I caught to put in check just in the nick of time.
An explanation of that sentence then, awkward and stilted and inelegant – all the things I try not to be: my mind was already racing toward fall, planning and plotting out a fall theme for this website, figuring out the fall wardrobe, and breaking in a special pair of fall boots. Summer is but a few days old, and I was already working on fall – and that was simply madness.
As I said, I caught it just in time to realize how stupid I was being to jump ahead and lose the present moment of the sunny season, especially this week when summer turns to high. And so I put the fall on rightful pause, and indulged in the pool and the garden and the summer at hand. Bringing myself back to the present moment and taking myself out of the phone and out of the future felt like a remarkable relief.
Way back in the 1980’s, when I was but a wee lad, I don’t recall the crop top craze for guys, but I was so young that fashion hadn’t yet crossed my brainwaves. I’m told, and grainy photos will attest, that men did indeed enjoy their crop top moment – and I wish I had done so when it was easier to maintain a svelte figure than it is at my current age. Regardless, some decent lighting and trick angles, along with sucking in the gut at precisely the right moment manage to convince the world that things are all still somewhat presentable for the masses.
This post kicks off our July, in which this wayward country celebrates its 250th anniversary – such a shame we have such a moron sitting in and defiling the Presidency. The patriotic posts you’re about to see are all tongue-in-cheek, as I can’t genuinely celebrate what we’ve become right now, and America has always been about keeping the right to criticize. At least, it was.
There’s a Fourth of July post coming up here, if I choose to post those jockstrap pics – it’s so hard to decide what best personifies the USA right now, but if it’s not a jockstrap I’m hard-pressed to find something more fitting. Come on back to see that show if I’m brave enough to do it (and I’m always brave enough to do it).
One of the very first garden plants I obsessively coveted was this evening primrose, which is blanketed in beautiful yellow flowers this time of the year. They have a short blooming period, but it’s a blockbuster show while it lasts. Such a bright and cheery color is welcome no matter how brief its stay might be. How you can you be mad at the world when little drops of sunshine peer up at you from the ground?
My social media engagements these days are usually far less than most people I know, coming at the three times in a day when something new is posted on my website. Those are regularly scheduled and happen without much thought or input, so it looks like I’m more regularly engaged that I actually am. That’s because I learned long ago how far removed from reality social media too often is. Even Madonna seems to have come around when it comes to something like Instagram, where she previously spilled (overspilled?) every aspect of her life.
I still sometimes get sucked into the vortex of reels upon reels, and all the recommended videos are of course those that they intrigued your interest, your algorithm brilliantly capturing exactly what’s going to tickle your fancy – but it’s just a time sucker, a way to keep your brain and mind up way past your bedtime, scrolling past your necessary sleep cycle and taking up residence in spaces better suited for peace and tranquility. To that end, I’m limiting phone time to my waking hours, and even then I’m not on it as much as I used to be. It’s a healthier, happier space. I’m touching the grass and it’s lovely.
This season, however, I plopped one into a group pot and it’s already in bloom. Maybe it sensed we needed some cheer. Maybe it jumped the gun and wanted to steal the early glory for itself. Maybe it’s just a plant and doesn’t care either way. Whatever the reason, I’m glad it’s here, and I’m loving its vibrant color.
It’s a decent personification of the fire this week’s temperatures are set to bring. Burn, baby, burn.
Such is the message of the song at hand. Is it for you? Is it for me? Depends who is going to be the most brutally honest. Summer seers into the mind in this way, positing questions, the most torturous and debilitating questions for anyone the least bit susceptible to hiding behind prettiness and ease and the desire not to disrupt that which isn’t entirely broken down. We have come to accept the very lowest effort and behavior of others when it comes to how we are being treated.
YOU’RE GIVING LEADING ACTOR, YOU WANNA STEAL THE SHOW SHUT YOUR MOUTH, SHUT YOUR MOUTH, SHUT YOUR MOUTH YOU LIE WHEN YOU DON’T HAVE TO, THEY’RE GONNA FIND YOU OUT SHUT YOUR MOUTH
This latest Madonna song, to be featured in the FIFA World Cup halftime show it seems, is a collab with Feid, and the music propels this onto the field with a propulsive party vibe with a darker edge thanks to the lyrical bombast and indictment. I love dark parties. Especially in the summer. All that drama, all that intrigue, all that unnecessary strife – and on the hottest days of the year to make it so much more unbearable.
I DON’T BELIEVE A WORD THAT YOU SAY I WONDER IF YOU LIKE IT THIS WAY I KNOW, I KNOW, I KNOW, I KNOW
Today Mercury goes into annoying retrograde motion, and there is also a full moon, so welcome to hell at the height of summer. Temperatures are also set to soar up to 100 degrees this week, so my aim is to lay low, keep to the pool and the AC, and lean into my daily meditations lest I lose what little is left of my middle-aged mind. Also, I’m completely out of fucks to give, so should anyone ask for one with annoying nonsense, I won’t be responsible for my response.
READ MY LIPS, TELL IT TO MY FACE AND YOU CUT ME WITH YOUR LIES ‘CAUSE YOU HURT ME WITH YOUR KISS AND I REALIZE YOU’RE JUST BROKEN, BROKEN UP INSIDE BUT I WILL SURVIVE
It’s kind of cruel to tell someone they’re broken and basically tell them to fuck off in the same breath. But maybe cruelty is the kindest way to send certain messages. Madonna has always been one for summer drama, and this week her new album comes out. I’m planning on dancing the Mercury and full moon troubles away…
Mercury moves into retrograde motion today, and if its pre-shadow mayhem is any indication of how this one is going to go, we are all royally fucked, minus anything royal about it. As if that wasn’t enough, we also have a full moon. The less said these days, the better, so on with the weekly blog recap…
Keke Palmer is one of those thrilling multiple-threats on the entertainment front, having conquered movies and television and music and Broadway, easily earning her this Dazzler of the Day crowning. Her popular appearances with Hot Ones host Sean Evans have endeared her to him, and her to us, while her engaging personality is a natural for hosting gigs and podcasts and interviews. I would watch her read the phone book (which dates me more than I’d like since no one even knows what a phone book is anymore).
A friend recently asked if I was still on Cloud 9 after some happy outcome, and I replied without thinking or knowing what I was even saying, “Maybe Cloud 7.”
I was going to look it up for you, to share the origin of the term ‘Cloud 9’ but after a half-hearted Google search I gave up because I just don’t give a shit. If you’re reading this, you have access to Google. Do your own research.
As for the ‘Cloud 7’ answer, it feels more fitting than originally intended. Some summers are Cloud 7 summers; they can’t all be Cloud 9. That’s life. We deal with it.
DON’T YOU FEEL THE SUN HOPEFUL HEARTS OF THE HUMAN RACE SHINING DOWN FROM ABOVE…
Golden hours in summer hit differently than at any other time of the year. The sun is still burning its heat through the air, you can feel it warm your skin. You’re reminded of your golden worth – the way true gold reveals itself in the end – and you suddenly see through all those flimsy gilded superficial wanna-bes void of substance. Their empty, albeit shiny and new, vessels of temptation and flash always out themselves in the end, and if you’ve been smart and careful you never took them too seriously in the first place.
WE’RE GOLDEN BURN LIKE THE STARS STAY GOLDEN STRAIGHT FROM YOUR HEART
Gold can be one’s heart and constitution, or gold can be one’s deceptive covering. Only you can accept and acknowledge which gold you are, because only you in your heart truly know. And we all know, even when we don’t want to admit it to ourselves. We always know. The soul will see to what the brain might try to avoid – and the heart… well, I don’t know why any of us even tries to fool the heart after a certain age.
WITH A VOICE SAYING, “I’LL NEVER GIVE IN” GET KNOCKED DOWN, BACK UP AGAIN WE’RE GOLDEN, GOLDEN THAT’S WHO WE ARE
Sometimes I forget, and it takes a fleeting glimpse of myself in the glass reflection of a summer afternoon by the pool to remind me of all that I am, the man I’ve worked years to become. Sometimes I have to call a friend and ask them to remind me of who I am, because unlike the way it’s supposed to work, the older I get sometimes the more I doubt myself. My friends are all good enough to oblige on these rare moments of faltering and questioning. They prop me up when, weary and bedraggled, I have those moments of pause. We all have them.
LIVE YOUR LIFE LIKE YOU’RE STEALING EVERY LITTLE MOMENT IN TIME INFINITY GOES ON FOREVER LAY YOUR LIFE ON THE LINE
Summer brings me back to the little boy I used to be, the boy who had the confidence and power and a belief in himself that he was already all that he needed to be. How strange that as our lives go on, they bring us further and further from the truths with which we are all born. Maybe I’m at the bend of a boomerang, and it’s time to start returning to those childhood truths. There are so many tantalizing ways to veer off our path, so many seductive wolves in granny’s guises, so many illusory traps whispering false words that meant nothing to anyone other than a way to pass the time. Many speak of the folly of youth – when so much more folly follows us into adulthood. Maybe growing up doesn’t involve losing ourselves to adulthood, but rather finding our way back to who we were in the beginning.
And play this fucking song as loud as you can fucking stand it, because I’m regressing to my teenage dreams in a teenage circus… and if you stick around these parts you’re gonna get something on yourself.
RUNNING AROUND AGAIN… RUNNING AROUND AGAIN RUNNING FROM RUNNING…
WAKING UP IN THE MIDDAY SUN WHAT’S TO LIVE FOR WHEN YOU COULD SEE WHAT I’VE DONE? STAYING OUT OF MOTION IN THE LIGHT OF DAY I WAS HIDING FROM THE THINGS THAT YOU’D SAY
So many f-words, so much vulgarity. Reminds me of a time I was on the bus coming home from religion class of all places. (That’s what comes when you try to make kids religious.) I was in the back of the bus being bad, swearing my ass off with every dirty abominable word I could think of to say out loud and shock my religious classmates after our extra-long Tuesday afternoons when all the non-religious kids got to home early but those of us godly idiots had to go to the run-down Catholic school and pretend to pray and other shit. A lovely nun named Sister Agnes taught us (lovely in spirit, not in the dark bags beneath her eyes). We didn’t buy half of it, we didn’t believe, and behind her back we were atrocious to one another. The furthest thing from whatever goodness they were trying to instill.
WE ARE NOT WHAT YOU THINK WE ARE WE ARE GOLDEN, WE ARE GOLDEN WE ARE NOT WHAT YOU THINK WE ARE WE ARE GOLDEN, WE ARE GOLDEN
I remember the kids listening to me as I swore – one fuck right after another fuck, and maybe even a c-word slipped in at such a young age. It thrilled me to appall them; even the older kids seemed impressed or horrified, and I would spend the rest of my life confusing the two.
I WAS A BOY AT AN OPEN DOOR, WHY ARE YOU STARING? DO YOU STIL THINK THAT YOU KNOW? LOOKING FOR TREASURE IN THE THINGS THAT YOU THREW LIKE A MAGPIE I LIVE FOR GLITTER NOT YOU
Even then, I understood that I would be the one brave enough to say the things we shouldn’t say out loud. That I would be the one to bear the brunt of childish hubris, the one to burn up from flying too close to the sun. I knew it was my destiny to fall. Lucifer whispered sweet seduction in my boyhood ears, and I listened; dancing with the devil in the pale moonlight to a song like this would become my habit.
WE ARE NOT WHAT YOU THINK WE ARE WE ARE GOLDEN, WE ARE GOLDEN WE ARE NOT WHAT YOU THINK WE ARE WE ARE GOLDEN, WE ARE GOLDEN
TEENAGE DREAMS IN A TEENAGE CIRCUS RUNNING AROUND LIKE A CLOWN ON PURPOSE WHO GIVES A DAMN ABOUT THE FAMILY YOU COME FROM? NO GIVING UP WHEN YOU’RE YOUNG AND YOU WANT SOME
As we neared the end of the bus ride, I realized that my voice was the lone voice that was carrying to the front. All my bravado, all my evil words, all my brazen audacity – how much had reached the bus driver’s ears? As we squeaked to a stop and filed out, I suddenly panicked at the idea that the driver had heard what I was so foolishly screaming. I left a healthy length between myself and the kid ahead of me, so that I could rush past the driver in the event that they tried to scold me or say something. Even after I’d hurried by and stepped off the bus, I worried my actions would catch up with me, that a call would come in that night to my parents and I’d be belted for spewing such language from my lips. Religion class might have been working after all – the guilt was wreaking havoc with my head, fucking up any possibility of a carefree childhood.
NOW I’M SITTING ALONE AND I’M LOOKING AROUND LEFT HERE ON MY OWN, I’M GONNA HURT MYSELF MAYBE LOSING MY MIND, I’M STILL WONDERING WHY I HAD TO LET THE WORLD, LET IT BLEED ME DRY
No call came into the house that night. And the next Tuesday afternoon after we finished another religion class, I heard my mouth release another torrent of bad words in the back of the bus, and watched some of the kids again thrill at what they would never have the courage to say or do. I worried a little again at whether the bus driver would finally hear or notice, but again no call came in, no comeuppance. And then all I felt was empty.
WE ARE NOT WHAT YOU THINK WE ARE, WE ARE WE ARE NOT WHAT YOU THINK WE ARE, WE ARE WE ARE NOT WHAT YOU THINK WE ARE WE ARE GOLDEN, WE ARE GOLDEN…
Before anyone settles in and starts to celebrate summer fun, I have some terrible news. We are in the pre-shadow of another episode of Mercury in retrograde motion, which officially begins June 29 and runs until July 23, and things are already ridiculously wonky. It’s the very last thing I need right now, so of course it’s arriving just on schedule in the way the universe so adores fucking with me this year. For some of us Virgos, this is said to be the time we are moving into our super villain eras, and at this point I’m fucking here for it. Virgos always bring the receipts, we shoot to kill, and leave no regrets.
Word of advice: don’t come for me unless I call you.
Second word of advice: don’t come for me if I call you. It won’t end well.
To combat the inevitable pain and harm I will cause (because I’m only human and when pushed too far I push back) I’ve been focusing on my daily meditations, as they’re often the only point in the day when I can feel calm and at peace. The rest of this pre-shadow period has been icky and weird and agitated. There’s a general uneasiness to the atmosphere, and unsteadiness and tension that shouldn’t be part of the start of summer.
“Don’t speed!” Andy warned me as I pulled out of the driveway with Skip. Not sure why he said such a thing, as it is my habit to subconsciously do the opposite of what anyone tells me to do, and within ten minutes of departing for Boston, I was being pulled over somewhere in East Greenbush for speeding. (And I was still going less than I’ve seen Andy go on the Thruway on the regular.)
After accepting the ticket, part of me let out a sigh of relief – at least our police interaction was already done for the weekend. Thus began this year’s BroSox Adventure – a happy tradition we started eleven years ago, and one of our favorite rituals to kick off the summer season.
We began with stops at Eataly and Trader Joe’s, where we procured the items for a substantial charcuterie board, then headed back to the condo where we set up food shop until it was time to get a car to Fenway. I asked Skip to keep his ears peeled for a song that would personify the weekend, and as we filed into the ballpark we noticed all the men in kilts. Scotland was in Boston for the FIFA World Cup, and the place was filled with men in kilts. A group fell in behind us, their accents and actions the stuff of gay porn and worthy of adulation. I listened as Skip laughed.
The game was a good one – despite their sucky season, the Red Sox managed to win 10 to 1 – Skip and I have largely been a good luck charm for this franchise, and this night continued that streak. Our dinner would be the Fenway franks, which Skip maintains are the best hot dogs in the baseball world – and he’s done all the testing.
A number of years ago, when we were sitting at Fenway watching a game, I had spit out a mouthful of beer on the two guys in front of us after something struck me as funny. They were not amused, and this year karma came back, but it delivered its blow upon Skip. A group of young fans behind us were attending their first game (I’m assuming, as they kept asking for relish for their hot dogs which five sellers kept telling them they didn’t have). They were a little obnoxious, but such is the province of youth. I told Skip that was likely us ten years ago; he disagreed.
As a wave made its way around the park, we stood and raised our hands, and one of the guys behind us knocked the beer out of the hand of another, which promptly spilled all over Skip. He was good about it; the woman next to us seemed more upset – she wanted us to raise a ruckus and demand that they buy him a drink. Thankfully, cooler heads prevailed. Maybe we have grown up a bit.
When the game was over we walked back toward the condo, stopping for gelato at Eataly and making the most of a perfectly-marvelous almost-summer night.
The next morning we slept in, at least what constitutes sleeping in for middle-aged men these days, and the day was already heating up. Sunny and mid-80’s was the happy weather plan, and knowing this we wandered along our usual path on Newbury Street and all the way to Beacon Hill for some future project ideas (let’s just say someone got a cowboy hat). At some point Skip saw a guy in a t-shirt that read ‘YES SIR I CAN BOOGIE!’ which was on the playlist for this summer’s theme – and suddenly we had our song for the weekend like Magic!
By midday Skip was lagging, and I was feeling the heat too, so we made our way back to the condo for an extra-long siesta. The older we get, the more we value the afternoon nap it seems. That said, I didn’t get much shut-eye, and I wanted to try a possible summer cologne so I left Skip to his rest, and made a quick jaunt to Saks where I found a summer fragrance by Guerlain.
When I got back, we readied for an appetizer and drinks at Pink Taco where we enjoyed an excellent dinner last year, then walked around while World Cup madness seized the city. For the first time in a long time Boston felt alive and vibrant, caught up in the excitement of all the visiting Scots, and we found a Mexican bar in the South End where we set up to watch the game.
The weekend of sports didn’t end there, as we managed to catch the final minutes of the Knicks game playing in another bar, where we watched with a few other NY fans from the sidewalk, then found a pizza joint that had Skip claims is the first decent pizza we’ve had in Boston for all these years.
Walking in the twilight and stumbling over the uneven brick-laden sidewalks of the South End – tree roots like earthquakes buckling the ground beneath our feet – we made our way back toward home. Two men spilling over into the second half of their lives, still searching for what it all means, still finding ways of adapting, still embracing the friendship that makes it all worthwhile…
