This year marked the tenth anniversary of the first time Skip and I traveled to Boston for a Red Sox game, and it feels like a good point to encapsulate as many of those adventures as possible into one post for posterity. The first five years of adventures were wild and crazy; these were weekends of escape and getaway, and maybe we both went a little harder in some vain attempt to hold onto our youth.
When COVID hit, and I stopped drinking, we crossed deeper into our forties, and the tone and atmosphere of these adventures shifted. These were big changes, and they took some adjusting. The last few years brought further issues and loss, but we were changing with the times, and this past weekend it felt like we were finally comfortable in our skin in ways that didn’t seem possible just a couple of years ago. Perhaps we are a little wiser too. Check out our progression in the decade of links below.
Some BroSox Adventure weekends are so epic they demand two blog posts – and this ten-year anniversary of the tradition was epic on every level, and a few new ones to boot. We extended it by one day, allowing a more relaxed pace, so by the time Sunday arrived I had entirely eased into the weekend vibe, and had one belated surprise birthday gift to give Skip: a golf shirt to go with a scheduled round of miniature golf at Puttshack in the Seaport. It was designed as the one new element to hallmark this trip, but we had started some other new things, including jaunts where I went off on my own to try more cologne or Skip went out to the local convenience store for a sweet treat.
After a Sunday brunch at Metropolis, we were back at the condo, and Skip wanted to chill there while I went for a walk on my own. The heat of the day was on the rise, and I found myself back at the Boston Public Garden, lost in happy memories of the place where we had recently spent a wonderful anniversary weekend.
I returned in time for an early afternoon siesta and some snacking on the remains of our charcuterie dinner, then it was time to head to the golf course – or in this case Puttshack at the Seaport. Donning a striped golf shirt of my own, I was ready to meet the moment and whatever shredding Skip had planned for me on our first mini-golf match. As someone who’s played real golf many times, he had the edge going in, but the last time I played mini-golf I beat my whole family (including two children, thank you). I can’t take all the credit – I really think the fuchsia golf ball that I selected to play with that day made all the difference.
Nine holes later, a winner was crowned.
Yes, you read that correctly – I won, with 4 holes-in-one. (Including one Supertube, whatever the hell that means – and if it’s sexual harassment, I’ll take it.) While in the Seaport, we had dinner at Pink Taco, which was apparently a euphemism unknown to me. As Skip explained it, I’m not sure how appealing it sounded to my decidedly-gay nature, but the food was stellar, and Skip’s Michelada (a beer-based Bloody Mary that sounded ghastly to my ears) was his favorite drink of the trip.
The evening was still very young, the sun was still out in its golden hour splendor, and we decided to take the long walk back to the condo, stopping along the way to hit some places that played parts in previous BroSox Adventures over the years. We’d already paid respect to a pirate-themed adventure with our stop in the Seaport to honor this sea-themed trip. Crossing the bridge back toward downtown Boston, we weaved our way through a mostly-closed Fanueil Hall and Quincy Market, a nod to this infamous song and dance moment from last year.
From there, we stopped for a drink at the bar that kicked off our 2018 hunt for a serial killer. This time around, as I was reaching into my pocket for my ID, the bouncer just waved us in saying he didn’t need to see it. Rude! And a telling sign of how much has changed in the last ten years. We’ve gone from stoop gazing to wild Chinatown jaunts and back again, and on this tenth anniversary of our very first trip to see the Red Sox we honored our past, while peering slightly ahead to what might come next.
At one point in our talks over the weekend, Skip mentioned candidly and somewhat in passing that he was a bit of a mess – and there was something poignant in this admission, especially coming from someone whom I’ve always sort of viewed with a certain awe in how he managed his children and life (second only, and by a long shot, to his wife). Meanwhile I still wasn’t quite ready to voice aloud how much of mess I could still be, but it didn’t need to be said to be understood – and in our joint failings over the last decade we found some solace in not being alone in being perhaps less than we thought we might one day be.
The next morning, we returned to where we started with a quick breakfast at Charlie’s, and a road trip home. Before we even made it to the Mass Turnpike, I already missed Boston. Until the next adventure…
I HEARD THAT THERE’S A SPECIAL PLACE WHERE BOYS AND GIRLS CAN ALL BE QUEENS EVERY SINGLE DAY
The mark of a good trip is best measured by how you feel about the place once you’ve returned home. Upon stepping into the usual routine and taking a deep breath before the shortened work-week began again, I found myself feeling homesick for Boston – and for the relaxed and easy way the mostly sunny days passed last weekend. This was a good trip, with a good friend. We honored the past ten years of fun trips, and forged a new laid-back style fit for someone about to enter his fifties, and for a pair of pals entering the autumn of their lives.
My intentions and vibes for the tenth anniversary of our BroSox Adventure, which I texted to Skip the night before we were set to depart, were as follows:
Casual, relaxed, and unrushed
Embrace the downtime, the quiet, and the rain
Enjoy the company
Be interested in everything, and everyone, in Boston
Those were met, and then some. On the morning of our departure day, I picked up some market items and had this run-in with one of my very first directors. Somehow it set the stage for a trip that found us looking forward as much as we were looking back.
We began in usual fashion – after a road trip with French sandwiches and a coffee stop, we made our first motions along Newbury Street, then backtracked through Eataly with food stuffs for a charcuterie dinner at the condo. Gone are the days of multiple pre-game bar hops and extravagant multi-course dinners. Skip and I haven’t been to many movies lately – we could barely figure out the last time we’d actually seen one together – and catching up without the distractions of servers and loud fellow diners was its own luxury. As dusk descended, Skip was beat, but the night was so nice I took a solo walk in case there wouldn’t be another nice night (rain had been forecast off and on the entire weekend). It was a change of pace for us – we usually don’t go our own way unless it’s a quick trip to 7-11 or something nearby – but it made sense for our extra-long weekend. A little of me can go a long way, and in his own estimation Skip has acknowledged he can be a lot.
Happily, Skip and I don’t usually veer into seriously annoyed territory despite our tendency to talk smack about each other. Over the years, Skip has become like a brother to me – a brother who actually enjoys my company and wants to hang out, no matter how infuriating and extra I might be. That is refreshing, which speaks of something sad in its own way, but it makes a sound argument for the importance of a chosen family.
Walking on a beautiful summer night is one of my favorite things to do when I’m alone, and it’s been a while since I’ve been on my own in Boston. It no longer feels as haunted as it once did.
The next morning was spitting a bit of rain, so we walked the single block to Charlie’s for a simple diner breakfast. Casual simplicity was the order of the weekend, and our only plan for the day was some cologne sampling before the Red Sox game that afternoon. While hopes were high for adding another Louis Vuitton to my cologne cabinet for my 50th birthday, there wasn’t a single one that stood out for me. Skip was partial to ‘Afternoon Swim’, which most people love, until they realize its lacking of longevity and staying power. My attention shifted to the Amouage line we sampled at nearby Neiman Marcus (and their glorious ‘Purpose 50’ bottle), and with Skip all but confirming the bold selection (“It’s… something.”) I understood I’d found this birthday’s Holy Grail. After an all-too-brief siesta at the condo, it was game time.
The past few years have not been kind to our Red Sox games – this one got rained out and several simply stunk because they lost. Win, lose, or rain, Skip and I have always managed to have a good time at the game (hello Fenway Franks!) but it’s always better when they’re kicking ass. With a 14-1 spread this was a very good time – with runs coming in regularly and the usual delights. For some inane reason, I never noticed the dance-offs that were on the big screen, or maybe there weren’t any that were as impressive as the one we saw on this day. The crowd was getting very into Chappell Roan, and suddenly the park was filled with the joyous beat of ‘Pink Pony Club’ as everyone danced along.
It was a great game, made emotionally powerful by the opening pitch, thrown out by the son of someone from Niskayuna that Skip and I know – a boy who had survived a scary bout with cancer – and as the crowd rose to its feet and the roars for this youngster grew, it felt like the world still had the power to heal.
We walked back to the condo, then headed to the South Street Diner, closing out the night in strange, vibey ‘Twin Peaks’ fashion. Normally this would be where our BroSox Adventures end, with only a quick breakfast and trip back the next morning, but we’d scheduled an extra day and night because these weekends just fly by too quickly, and there were still surprises to be had, even ten years into this favorite tradition…
Having already hailed Brian Sims as Dazzler of the Day here, I have nothing more to crown him with other than further accolades and words of appreciation for all his fine work. That includes posting these fun photos that he put up in celebration of Pride. We need this sort of self-celebration now more than ever, when the country seems intent on pushing us back into the closet and stripping us of humanity.
For anyone over the age of 45: don’t put your glasses or keys down, or you won’t find them. Even if you think it’s going to be just for a second. You will not remember where they are. Keep them in your hands or pockets at all times.
‘A Garden after the Monsoon’ is an exquisite fragrance from Hermes, crafted by the brilliant Jean-Claude Ellena. I reach for it whenever we’ve had a tropical storm, as it eases the pain of the rain – olfactory beauty as a balm. After the wild maneuverings of the weather these past few days, I ventured out into the garden on a sunny morning and surveyed the wet remains of the storm that came before. There is often joy in the remnants of rain, sparkling as they do under the promise of a sunny day.
The hosta plants have begun their blooming season. It feels early, when so many other things (our patio plants for instance) are so far behind (a banana tree that I overwintered in the garage has only just started poking its timid leaves from the ground – just in time, as I was about to toss it out). Now I’m getting sidetracked by tales of woe and disappointment, and the point of this post was to appreciate the pretty aftermath of a summer storm. Back to that in this last photo from the morning.
I usually describe myself as a hot-house flower, but a hot-house flower would always appreciate heat and humidity, so I only mean it in the sense of being temperamental. Enjoy this glimpse of an electric pink Monarda – just a little extra in the best possible way, not unlike the writer of these words, and a step away from what we once enjoyed as Coquette.
This is a somewhat pink moment in the garden, which makes for a lovely echo of last summer’s Coquette theme. Pink will always be welcome in these parts, especially when the heat begins ramping up and the humidity starts lashing out. There’s something soothing about the softer color palette that pink provides – the same way that blues or purples cool the mind’s eye.
It’s a good place – a pretty place – to pause at the midpoint of a hot day. This is the butterfly weed flower – one that happened to seed itself from some bird or rodent that dropped it into the garden, as I’ve only ever grown the orange version. Magic happens if you let it grow. With that, we fondly remember Coquette…
A storm blew through the afternoon, just as I was getting home from work yesterday. Storms are best for sleeping, and meditating. I’ve already done the latter, and the former is up just as soon as I finish writing this post. It’s summer, but it’s still new. We haven’t had a rain-free stretch to really feel the season yet. Our recent weekend in Boston – a long and lovely relaxing break – will be shared in a few. For now, I’m coasting a bit, breathing slowly and deliberately, somewhere between meditation and sleep, and carrying elements of relaxation into the middle of the week.
A few bare branches add extra drama to the already-dramatic sky behind them, because summer is often a soap opera, even if it’s just bubbles floating in the sky.
We are less than two months out from my 50th birthday, so if you want to look into loans and shit, now is the time. This may be an evolving post, as tastes and whims shift so often around here, so bookmark it and revise for the most up-to-date wishes. To be honest, I don’t feel like punching up the typical fanfare and hoopla that something like a 50th birthday might typically inspire. My first idea was to ask my Mom and Andy for a single birthday night at the relatively-new Raffles hotel in Boston in one of their Emerald Suites – as an experience and a memory are priceless. (I spent my 40th birthday in the Judy Garland suite at the Lenox, and it remains one of the most magical birthdays I’ve had, and our stays for our wedding and 15th anniversary in Boston were equally enchanting.)
But then I realized I’d probably have to be the one to do all the planning and reserving and logistical maneuvering and it just exhausted me, so here’s a different set of asks. They’re a lot, and I’m a lot, and the world is a lot right now – in addition, a lot of people don’t say what they want and that’s why they don’t get what they want. Here’s wishing…
With my anniversary request to Andy already in (‘Pacific Chill’ by Louis Vuitton), I thought another LV option might be nice to round out my 50th, but on a recent cologne sampling at the Copley Place location, there was nothing worthy of that price point, despite going through an exhaustive trial. Instead, the number 50 would be whispered from a different house – the House of Amouage – esteemed fragrance house that has only barely skirted my periphery up until now. They have an exquisite fragrance in the form of their bottle of ‘Purpose’ here – a great name as I embark upon the second half of a century, still searching for some purpose in the world. When I sampled it, I found it challenging and scary, but this is the time to conquer my fears. More enchanting is their newest extrait version of it, named ‘Purpose 50’, which seems almost too perfect for a 50th birthday gift, and has the crazy-expensive price-tag to go with it. Either ‘Purpose’ will suit a gentleman about to turn 50.
Vibrato by Sospiro is a new fragrance to me, but it sounds like a more-lasting take on the beloved Tygar by Bulgari (which is, at $460, too much for me to request for a second fragrance after Purpose, even if it is a 50th birthday – see, I have reason!) The notes of Vibrato are grapefruit and ginger, two of my favorite notes ever, and it’s said to have some staying power – rare in a grapefruit fragrance. It’s also available at a markdown here from one of my favorite sites.
For a more reasonable sniff-see for the Le Labo collection, a line which I’ve neglected for no good reason, here’s a little sample box of their current offerings, and who doesn’t love a sample, especially when trying things out for the holiday season 2025. (If you fail to plan, you plan to fail.)
The promised ‘Celebration Tour‘ release, the promised ‘Bedtime Stories‘ re-release, the promised ‘Veronica Electronica’ release, the promised ‘Confessions on a Dance Floor 2′ album… which of these is actually happening anymore? Does anything mean anything, or have we as a culture just accepted promises and lies and decided to collectively shrug and move on with nary a shred of accountability? I speak as a disappointed fan, and as a disappointed human, and only about half-seriously. Because why hold myself accountable in a world that no longer values, well, anything?
Anyway, here’s a relatively new photo of Madonna for… Instagram I guess.
It is not typical of me to approach someone I think I recognize, because there’s a good chance I recognize them for all the wrong reasons, or, worse, they may recognize me for all the wrong reasons. On a recent morning at Hannaford however, as I loaded Andy up with pudding and coffee before Skip and I departed for Boston, I saw a man whom I was fairly sure I worked with years ago at the Department of State. Intrigued, and on a Bette Davis/’Now, Voyager’-inspired intention to be interested in everything and everybody, I asked if he used to work for the State. His eyes gave a smile of reluctant bemusement, as if unsure whether his answer would be good or bad for whatever might follow. He said yes slowly, then I asked him which agency and he said a few. I asked if one was the Department of State, where I started. He affirmed it was, and then we placed the year at 2001, which confirmed it.
My memory bank flooded open, releasing thoughts of that very late summer of 2001, when I started my first state job on the verge of 9/11, at the bottom of State Street in downtown Albany. I remembered the name of the awful woman who ran that office, and he remembered her as well. He told me the rest of his state career story, involving Spitzer and the end of his time as governor, and then left me with some golden advice that seemed to be a message from the universe: “The first day you are able to retire… do it.”
Mentioning that I have about six years until I’m eligible, I pointed to my gray hair and said I definitely was feeling it. He said it will fly by, and I am certain it will. Until then, I will be interested in everything, and everybody, and do the best job I can do, listening to the whispers of the universe, and going with the flow.
How we have already reached the end of June makes no sense to me, other than that summer tends to move quickly. Here’s a weekly recap, a bit later in the day thanks to a fun long weekend that we shall recap in another post…
The weekly recap that usually populates this space on Monday morning will arrive later today, after I’ve returned from Boston. For now, a summer food offering to see us out of the month of June. There’s nothing very boat-like about this dip, and nothing truly island about our living, but both live and breathe in splendor this summer, despite our sea-free and landlocked state of reality. This dip recipe is simple and easy, and packs its flavorful punch thanks to two seasoning packages filled with what can only be awful things that taste good. I added a couple of chopped scallions for some color and freshness.
The recipe, as follows, is malleable enough for whatever suits your fancy this summer.
Boat Dip
1 package cream cheese (8 oz), softened to room temperature
