The DG Tour: Flower Bomb Balm ~ Part 6

What holds dominion on this ever-evolving planet of ours: land or sea? For sheer size, might, and fury, I give the edge to our oceans. The egocentric plight of mankind wants to think that we control the water on all our borders, but we are really just on one big island. (And no, islands don’t float.) The sea holds the power, and all the battles are waged and raged on the shore. The crux of water and stone. The space of magnificent meeting. The interface of nature and humanity.

Long have I felt the pull of the water, and long have I wanted to heed its call. I’m drawn to the edge, but not compelled much further. The immensity of the thing frightens me. The thought of how far it goes, and how deep. If you’ve ever stood on a beach looking out over the ocean and trying to fathom how small you are in this universe, you know what a humbling and terrifying notion it can be. As it laps at your feet, and you feel yourself sinking into its pull, you understand what little impact we truly have. If given the chance – and if we so dare to defy its omnipotence – it would have its way with us.

Yet its beauty it unmatched. On tranquil days of sun and surf, it is a balm of supreme calm and contemplation. The cadence of its waves, the ballad of receding water, even the wind its temperature conjures from above – they sound the notes of a song of peace, of inevitability. Grace resides here, along with Redemption. Hand in hand, they walk along the shore. Let us walk with them.

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A Tour in Full Bloom

This weekend finds me in travel status again, as The Delusional Grandeur Tour heads West. I’ll be populating tomorrow’s posts with the next installment of the tour book, but as a reminder of where we last left off, here is a brief list of the most recent posts. We’ve embarked on the final section of the piece: Flower Bomb Balm. It will probably be the longest section, as it includes the Grand Finale. As much as I don’t like to draw out goodbyes and endings, this is the last time, so forgive the Lord of the Rings hesitancy to finish up.

The Delusional Grandeur Tour: Flower Bomb Balm ~ Part One 

The Delusional Grandeur Tour: Flower Bomb Balm ~ Part Two

The Delusional Grandeur Tour: Flower Bomb Balm ~ Part Three 

The Delusional Grandeur Tour: Flower Bomb Balm ~ Part Four

The Delusional Grandeur Tour: Flower Bomb Balm ~ Part Five

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Andy As A Baby

Since the first ‘Andy as a kid’ post was so popular, here’s a bonus one of some more baby photos. It’s the perfect dose of cute and cuddly for the middle of the day.

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The Madonna Timeline: Song #136 ~ ‘Graffiti Heart’

{Note: The Madonna Timeline is an ongoing feature, where I put the iPod on shuffle, and write a little anecdote on whatever was going on in my life when that Madonna song was released and/or came to prominence in my mind.}

IF GRAFFITI ON THE WALL CHANGED ANYTHING AT ALL THEN IT WOULD BE ILLEGAL.

IF SCARS COULD GO AWAY, WHAT WOULD YOUR BODY SAY, DON’T EVER HIDE YOUR FEELINGS.

DON’T EVER TRY TO TAKE MY FREEDOM, YOUR IMPERFECTIONS, THIS WORLD NEEDS THEM.

A throwaway bonus track from the brilliant ‘Rebel Heart’ opus, ‘Graffiti Heart’ is a wild ride, beginning with a sweet sing-song melody before transforming into a gloriously racing whirligig that reaches breakneck speed and velocity. It’s got a retro-80’s vibe to it, and the friends and figures Madonna invoke – Keith Haring and Jean-Michel Basquiat for example – are perfectly suited to its raw reminiscence.

Madonna once told the story of when she first arrived in New York City in her early twenties. Intent on being heard, intent on being seen, intent on being someone, she said she would walk through the city staring everyone straight in the eye, willing herself to be remembered by them because she was going to be somebody. We should have known then…

WHAT DO YOU GOT, SHOW ME YOUR BASQUIAT

HE DIDN’T KEEP IT ALL TO HIMSELF

EVEN WITH KEITH OUT ON THE STREET,

HE DIED FIGHTING SO YOU CAN DO IT AS WELL 

It was a different world, a different time. As raw and gritty as it may have been, there was a freshness tinged with innocence at the start of the 80’s, but maybe that’s just my nostalgic childhood shading things into something sweeter than they ever were. But if Madonna could feel like a virgin as she embarked upon her world-rattling career, why shouldn’t the rest of us join in on the shiny and new?

LOVE IS PAIN AND PAIN IS ART!

SHOW ME YOUR GRAFFITI HEART

LOVE IS PAIN AND PAIN IS ART!

SHOW ME YOUR GRAFFITI HEART

Madonna has spent a lifetime surrounding herself with artists – gypsies, shape-shifters, chameleons, and tricksters- soaking up their inspiration and creativity, taking it in and transforming it into something new, or at least hybridized. Singers and actors and writers and models have remained constant in her world, and after three decades of success as an artist, she in turn has inspired others. It can’t be said that she hasn’t been selfish at times – a great degree of that is necessary to have remained such a potent force for such a long time – but as she eases into this stage of her career, the collaborations and investments in artists other than herself are becoming more apparent.

On her recent Rebel Heart Tour, during the emotional centerpiece of the show (an almost-acoustic straight-forward reading of ‘Rebel Heart’), she introduced a series of fan-made art of her various guises through the years. As much as Madonna has made her relationship with her fans the one real lasting romance in her life, her acknowledgment of that in her concerts and interviews has always come off as somewhat trite and obligatory. This brief moment of sharing the stage with those who have loved her the most was one of the more authentic and genuine shows of affection that she’s given to us over the years.

FRIDA SHOWED HER FEELINGS, PAINTING FROM THE CEILING BACK IN THE BEGINNING.

NOTHING’S WHAT IT SEEMS, SHE PAINTED ALL HER DREAMS, SHE MADE HER OWN REALITY.

DON’T EVER TRY TO TAKE MY FREEDOM, YOUR IMPERFECTIONS, THIS WORLD NEEDS THEM.

‘Graffiti Heart’ does a little bit of that too. Madonna is nothing if not the lucky vehicle for her muses. This song brings back the early eagerness and hunger for making an impact through artistic expression. It’s very much a sentiment of youth, but one that Madonna has managed to retain throughout her ever-extending run. Her best moments come when she is thirsty for that explosion of art and music, when she remembers walking down the streets of New York wanting nothing more than to make a memorable mark.

Whether you love or hate her, you cannot deny that Madonna has contributed a magnificent amount of pop art to our culture. Her amalgamation of music and image paved the way for every major artist today, and she made herself and her image into her own work of art. The world will never be like it was in the 80’s, when Madonna and Michael Jackson and Prince could hold the pop culture trinity in their hands and gain the collective focus of a moment. We have splintered into too many pieces, with too many options, and it’s unlikely that any single entity will hold the rapt attention of the world as a whole in such a manner again. That won’t stop Madonna from trying, and every now and then she’ll do something (like calling out the so-called president on his bullshit) that acts as a lightning rod moment.

THEY CAN BREAK DOWN AND TAKE DOWN

BUT THEY CAN’T DESTROY OUR HISTORY

THIS WALL, IT MUST FALL

TO MAKE ROOM FOR OUR MASTERPIECE

She’s never been afraid to express herself. There is a boldness and a rebellion to that, especially at a time when some of us are being told to be quiet. It is the job of the artist to push against that, no matter what the consequences. Our graffiti hearts bleed a little every time we put our art out there. It’s something the more wisely-guarded and private people never have to experience, and for every rare success there are a multitude of painful failures and misunderstood endeavors that have left their scars. We cry, we wail, we scream, we fight, and in the end we are battle-worn and sometimes defeated. A true artist doesn’t stop there, though. We rally through. We create until the death – of our impulses, our visions, or the imperfect vessels of our human form.

IF GRAFFITI ON THE WALL CHANGED ANYTHING AT ALL THEN IT WOULD BE ILLEGAL.

SONG #135: ‘Graffiti Heart’

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Paperwhite Abstract

A scent leading to a memory.

Like an obedient dog, I follow.

To a fall, and a trailer, far out in the country.

The sweetness of the paperwhite narcissus subsides, and the acrid smell of burning leaves explains the smoky air.

In a claustrophobic room, a pile of kittens suckles their mother.

I pick the one with tiger stripes.

A mischievous little thing.

You never know what the kitten will become.

More importantly, you never know what’s on the mind of a cat.

The fragrance fades.

The memory recedes.

I will revisit it another time.

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A Pancit Birthday Dinner for Mom

We left it in the hands of Mom as to what kind of birthday dinner she wanted, and she chose a traditional Filipino one of pancit and adobo. I made those dishes (the latter in a slow cooker, which I’m still not completely sold on as far as cooking adobo goes). Andy made the sensational lavender cake depicted here, and it was a fun evening that I won’t bog down with excessive verbiage. The photos tell most of the story. (Cheese board by Suzie Ko, so there’s no otherwise-likely litigation in the future.)

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The Power of Simplicity

This dish was one of the first I ever learned to make, way back in Andy’s kitchen in Guilderland circa 2000, and was one of the first dinners I ever cooked for him. It’s simple enough, and very forgiving, so I won’t waste time with exact measurements or ratios. It begins with a sweet onion, diced and cooked in some olive oil on medium heat to the point of translucency. To that, add some garlic and a can or two of tomatoes, diced or chopped however you like. Boil this for a bit, then add a serving of vodka, and let boil off a bit more. Add some cream and Parmigiano-Reggiano and a decent bunch of roughly-chopped fresh basil. That last piece is the most important part, lending it a pesto zing that sends it soaring. Serve with penne and you’re done.

Food is the way to the heart.

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Dedicated to the One I Love

The main problem with Valentine’s Day is that it tries to negate the love that should be present and celebrated throughout the year. To that end, here are a few photos of the guy that I love, seen through a number of years. Cute kids often grow into cute adults, and Andy was a very cute kid. I even like his questionable shag/stripe phase (not an easy look to pull off).

We found this treasure trove of photographs while cleaning up a few weeks ago, and though I don’t often enjoy looking back, I paused to peruse these gems. Seeing your husband as a little kid is a heartwarming thing.

I’m not sure how he’ll take to his (much) younger self being paraded on this salacious blog, but the perennial rule of marriage is that it’s easier to ask forgiveness than to ask permission. Besides, what’s not to love here?

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Music for the Broken-Hearted

Truth be told, I’ve never particularly minded nor celebrated Valentine’s Day. I’ve enjoyed the artifice of it all – the red and pink and flowery doily aspects – but the day itself, coming as it does in the heart of winter, didn’t change my life in any way. For some, though, this day can be harsh and unpleasant – a reminder of love when maybe all they really want to do is forget about such madness. This collection of links is for those sensible folks (and for anyone who loves Madonna).

Love is a bird, she needs to fly. Let all the hurt inside of you die.

Yet you never do anything to make me want to stay.

You need so much but not from me, turn your back in my hour of need.

I won’t recall the names and places of each sad occasion, but that’s no consolation here and now.

Deep in my heart I’m concealing things that I’m longing to say…

Your heart is not open so I must go. The spell has been broken, I loved you so.

In my heart, I know we’ve come apart, and I don’t know where to start.

Don’t explain yourself cause talk is cheap.

Don’t play with something you should cherish for life.

Somehow I destroyed the perfect dream.

I’ve been on that ledge before, you can’t hide yourself from me.

When I let loose the need to know, then we’re both free, free to go.

Hold me in your arms until there’s nothing left.

It can’t be fun to always be the chosen one.

You took my love for granted, why, oh why – the show is over say good-bye.

If this is the end then let it come.

I’ll cast a spell that you can’t undo ‘til you wake up and you find that you love me too.

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A Simple Valentine Song

I DON’T KNOW WHAT IT IS THAT MAKES ME LOVE YOU SO

I ONLY KNOW I NEVER WANT TO LET YOU GO

‘CAUSE YOU STARTED SOMETHING, CAN’T YOU SEE

THAT EVER SINCE WE MET YOU’VE HAD A HOLD ON ME

I HAPPENS TO BE TRUE, I ONLY WANT TO BE WITH YOU

This year we’re going for something simple and less cynical than previous Valentine’s Days. In the past, I’ve featured a poem or two (usually Dorothy Parker), and a couple of years ago I did a pair of posts that were both slightly ironic and tongue-in-cheek. Last year I tried to get more serious, with this one and that one. This time around, I’m offering a more straightforward V-Day dedication, of a cheesy love song sung in earnest, a bird that seems to grow rarer as the years pass. I believe that we need a little more love right now – and this is a song that always makes me smile and want to dance.

IT DOESN’T MATTER WHERE YOU GO OR WHAT YOU DO

I WANT TO SPEND EACH MOMENT OF THE DAY WITH YOU

LOOK WHAT HAS HAPPENED WITH JUST ONE KISS

I NEVER KNEW THAT I COULD BE IN LOVE LIKE THIS

IT’S CRAZY BUT IT’S TRUE, I ONLY WANT TO BE WITH YOU

 

YOU STOPPED AND SMILED AT ME

ASKED ME IF I’D CARE TO DANCE

I FELL INTO YOUR OPEN ARMS

I DIDN’T STAND A CHANCE

 

NOW, LISTEN, HONEY, I JUST WANT TO BE BESIDE YOU EVERYWHERE

AS LONG AS WE’RE TOGETHER, HONEY, I DON’T CARE

‘CAUSE YOU STARTED SOMETHING, CAN’T YOU SEE

THAT EVER SINCE WE MET YOU’VE HAD A HOLD ON ME

NO MATTER WHAT YOU DO, I ONLY WANT TO BE WITH YOU

(And for that extras helping of cheese-Louise, check out the Bay City Rollers doing their hair-tastic version below. It’s a hoot.)

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Andy Cohen’s ‘Superficial’

There’s a certain art to the act of seeming superficial, and Andy Cohen masters that art while delving deeper into another diary of a year in show business. The latest (last?) edition of the Andy Cohen Diaries, ‘Superficial’ takes up pretty much right where Cohen’s first diary left off, and continues in much the same vein. The core cast of characters in his NYC family is gloriously intact – a loyal bunch including Anderson Cooper, Sarah Jessica Parker, Kelly Ripa, John Hickey, long-time pal Grac and a possible love interest endearingly emblazoned as #BAS (BrazilianAndySamburg) – and their antics brings the city alive, making it seem both boundlessly exciting yet intimately quaint.

While there’s no real need for extra comic relief in this light but enjoyable read, his parents offer their bit, including MY FAVORITE PART OF EVERY BOOK HE’S EVER WRITTEN: his mother. She offers her own hilarious insight into her son, the funniest of which seems to be ENTIRELY UNINTENTIONAL. Such interactions ground Cohen even as he’s casually texting with Madonna or sniffing up on Dolly Parton’s decolletage.

His one almost-constant companion remains his beloved dog Wacha, who’s undergoing some soul-searching too, to find out what is at the root of his behavioral quirks. It’s a bit of a theme, as Cohen’s diary becomes its own form of therapy. His new apartment is under construction, and his personal life seems ready for improvements too. To that end, we see his restless FOMO syndrome finding some sense of reconciliation as the book concludes. Keeping a diary is hectic business, and, much like our social media output, sometimes it seems to supercede the actual inhabiting of the moment. Cohen becomes more and more aware of this as the book progresses, and though the reader is never given a dull moment, one gets the feeling that he’s already eyeing the next thing. The saddest passages of the book are those moments when Cohen realizes he’s not quite connecting with someone – whether it’s a guest or the audience, a stranger on the street, or even the possibility of a romantic relationship. It’s a striking contrast to see someone still searching for more when they have such an otherwise-enviable existence. While on its surface everything is all glitz and glamour, fame and hard-earned fortune, Cohen delves a little deeper as he reaches the last pages, positing the possibility that his three-year docu-odyssey has come to its close, and that maybe there is more to the unexamined life after all.

On the last page is a message that could be read several ways, and Cohen’s occasional gift for multi-layered meaning comes into beautiful focus: “In this year, as I’ve been going back through what I’ve written to make it ready for publication, I’ve been forced to think a lot about where I am in my life. That ability to reflect does not come naturally to me. I’m usually too busy having fun! But what hasn’t been great about writing the diary is the feeling sometimes at the end of a busy day that there’s still one more thing to do.”

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A Super Snowy Recap

Who knows whether the snow will have stopped falling by the time this post goes up and I have to ride into work. My office doesn’t close for snow. Never has and never will. [Sigh.] On with the recap, because on Monday mornings like this one, all I want to do is rewind. Just to Friday…

It all began with a bang: Zac Efron in a Speedo.

Not quite hiding my family jewels.

A Queen fails to live up to her name.

Sneak Cheesecake peek.

Color me excited!

My ass got the glorious Cheesecake treatment here.

Art for inspiration.

Blank me.

Winter poem.

Hot hunk Saturday.

Cold snow Sunday.

Hunks of the Day included Matt Lister, Dev Patel, Marcus Balliette, James Gao, Paul Richmond, Spencer Rahal & Arad Winwin.

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On Sunday It Snows

The Suite for Flute & Jazz Piano Trio Jean as performed by Pierre Rampal & Claude Bolling (and written by Bolling himself) plays on the stereo. The living room is flooded with white light – from the snow, not the sun – and through the green branches of a Norfolk Island Pine I watch it fall down, heavier and heavier.

On the stove, a batch of Sausage, Kale and Potato soup is simmering. This one uses the chorizo sausage called for in the original recipe, and already that has made a difference. Not that that first attempt wasn’t good – I just wanted to see how it was meant to be. The chorizo rendered so much more delicious fat too – the lovely paprika-hued kind that soaked so gorgeously into the pale potatoes and translucent onions. Once again I was struck by how a simple tablespoon of Balsamic vinegar can have a profound effect on a pot of soup.

The music plays on, and more snow falls down. I move onto the conversation couch, and open up the Harry Potter play – billed as the 8th story, told nineteen years later. In one sitting, I devoured the first half. (You can too – it’s very much a traditional play, and moves as quickly on the page.) Harry Potter, a snowstorm, and soup simmering in the kitchen. Hello to a perfect Sunday.
And still, the snow falls.

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A Winter Poem

THE SNOW-STORM
By Ralph Waldo Emerson
Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,
Arrives the snow, and, driving o’er the fields,
Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air
Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven,
And veils the farm-house at the garden’s end.
The sled and traveller stopped, the courier’s feet
Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit
Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed
In a tumultuous privacy of storm.
Come see the north wind’s masonry.
Out of an unseen quarry evermore
Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer
Curves his white bastions with projected roof
Round every windward stake, or tree, or door.
Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work
So fanciful, so savage, nought cares he
For number or proportion. Mockingly,
On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths;
A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn;
Fills up the farmer’s lane from wall to wall,
Maugre the farmer’s sighs; and, at the gate,
A tapering turret overtops the work.
And when his hours are numbered, and the world
Is all his own, retiring, as he were not,
Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art
To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone,
Built in an age, the mad wind’s night-work,
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A Blank Post

A non-traditional post, minus a picture, and I’m sorry for that.

It’s just that this is always a difficult time of the year when you live in the Northeast.

This is what makes the spring and summer so luscious.

But as you’re going through it, it simply sucks.

Hence the lack of motivation to come up with anything all that profound or original.

I will get up in the morning and try to do a bang-up mid-day post.

In the meantime, grab a book. Find a spot by the window.

Wrap yourself in your coziest robe.

Put some tea on the stove.

Grab your loved ones a little closer.

It’s winter.

This is survival.

Let’s get through it together.

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