Category Archives: General

ME: Turn out my car needs four new brakes. How many brakes does a car even have?

SKIP: Uhh, four.

ME: Oh my God, then that’s all of them!

Last year marked the tenth anniversary of our BroSox Adventures, so Skip and I went all out with an extra-long weekend documented here and here. This year we are getting back to basics – no extravagant theme or agenda, no months of planning – just me and my good friend taking in a Red Sox game (no matter how badly they might suck right now – the Fenway franks are still the best anywhere).

Today we are headed back to Boston for our 11th year of this cherished tradition. Check out the links below to see how far we’ve come.

The BroSox Adventures

BroSox Adventure 2015: Part One, Part Two and Part Three.

BroSox Adventure 2016: Preamble, Part One and Part Two.

BroSox Adventure 2017: Part One and Part Two.

BroSox Adventure 2018

BroSox Adventure 2019: Part One, Part Two, Part Three and Part Four.

BroSox Adventure 2020: Canceled, like everything that year, due to COVID.

BroSox Adventure 2021: Part One and Part Two.

BroSox Adventure 2022

BroSox Adventures 2023

BroSox Adventures 2024: Part One and Part Two.

BroSox Adventures 2025: Part One and Part Two.

Some plants whisper.

Some plants shout.

And some plants scream and stomp and smash the senses until they gain notice.

This plant is one of the latter, thanks to its flaming florals and fiery foliage.

It’s a powerful combination, proving the old adage that more is so much more.

Whenever I shrink away from doing something that scares me, or wearing something I think might be too much, I think of a plant like this, and I feel empowered, and remember that adage.

It’s one of the best weeks in the garden, as most of our peonies are in full bloom. We usually miss part of the show because we’re typically in Maine when they start, but things are so late this year we got to see every bloom as they opened – a gift and a bit of a silver-lining moment for the delay in good weather.

This variety is probably the most color-saturated and vibrant of our collection, though it lacks in that heavy heavenly peony fragrance – one of nature’s trade-offs I suppose: to get something, you have to give something.

Pink dahlias front and backend this weekly blog recap, and if you’ve missed any of the posts for the past week this is your chance to make up for that, and you should, because they’re all so pretty at this time of the year. (It’s also been a roller coaster of a week, and some of that insanity bled into these posts – enjoy!)

It began on this fucking day.

Why are people this stupid?

The passion of this flamboyant flower.

A cosmic love.

A hibiscus for everyone.

A mid-week memorializing of a Maine weekend began here.

And it concluded here.

Floral flotsam.

A grandly gratuitous half-naked Ben Cohen post.

Call me Mama.

Forget-me-not Friday will not be a regular thing.

The Lilac Robe.

A trio of trillium posts began with this entry.

Part two of the trillium trio injected some pink into the petals.

The final entry of the trillium trio got things all wet.

The creep of thyme.

A peony variation.

He-Man in stockings.

These behind-the-scenes green-screen pics of Nicholas Galitzine as He-Man (and giving foot and stocking fetishists a field day) are just what this Sunday ordered.

On the last day I visited the only trillium patch I know, it was raining. Centuries after these two lads left a kiss on the lips of a trillium bloom, I sit on a bench sheltered by a silver maple tree, across a pathway beside the trilliums. Beneath my umbrella, the cadence of rain sounds like the drone of days and months and years – time marching across the graves and markers of those who came before.

The trilliums cry in the rain… or the trillium’s cry in the rain… and not much differentiation in the misery of either case.

Rain falls to match the mood – melancholy and resignation and regret that reaches back through the years. The trilliums look downtrodden, bowing their heads beneath their burdens. They’ve seen the many tales and travails of love, its tenderness and tenacity, the way it sometimes defies time and space – the way love is always worth the tears. They weep for the sheer beauty and rarity of love in a world so filled with everything but love. They weep from happiness.

You, Therefore

For Robert Philen

by Reginald Shepherd

You are like me, you will die too, but not today:   

you, incommensurate, therefore the hours shine:   

if I say to you “To you I say,” you have not been   

set to music, or broadcast live on the ghost   

radio, may never be an oil painting or

Old Master’s charcoal sketch: you are

a concordance of person, number, voice,

and place, strawberries spread through your name   

as if it were budding shrubs, how you remind me   

of some spring, the waters as cool and clear

(late rain clings to your leaves, shaken by light wind),   

which is where you occur in grassy moonlight:   

and you are a lily, an aster, white trillium

or viburnum, by all rights mine, white star   

in the meadow sky, the snow still arriving

from its earthwards journeys, here where there is   

no snow (I dreamed the snow was you,

when there was snow), you are my right,

have come to be my night (your body takes on   

the dimensions of sleep, the shape of sleep   

becomes you): and you fall from the sky

with several flowers, words spill from your mouth

in waves, your lips taste like the sea, salt-sweet (trees   

and seas have flown away, I call it

loving you): home is nowhere, therefore you,   

a kind of dwell and welcome, song after all,   

and free of any eden we can name

The trillium plays many roles in floral folklore. It follows the rule of threes – three leaves, three petals, three sepals. There’s an unconquerable primal aspect to the number three, and trilliums wield this property masterfully. While some have attributed a connection to the Catholic Holy Trinity, the trillium has also been celebrated as a symbol of bisexuality and sexual fluidity. With both male and female reproductive organs (stamen and pistil) technically the trillium flower could fairly be considered bisexual itself – but more recently it’s come to be viewed as a symbol of interconnectedness and connections beyond the strict historical boundaries societally imposed within a male/female binary prison.

The trillium offers another alternative – the idea of a love not bound by time or gender or distance. Which brings us back… centuries back… to a love that at the time dare not speak its name, on a lush lunch gathering just for two.

Two lads.

Two lads on a beautiful, ephemeral spring day – the kind of day you know will never last, so part of you wants to weep, and part of you doesn’t want to be there at all because you know it will never be like this again, and you’re certain you can’t handle the heartbreak of having sipped such loveliness only in order to never have it again, and part of you knows that to not taste of heaven won’t make hell any more bearable when he is gone, so you partake of it – the day, the spring, the lips of a lad who only just said he loved you.

Two lads… and time – a tricky trio, a throubling threesome, if you’ll indulge the wayward bending of words. Time is safely and ruinously their only witness – when the lads have grown old and forgetful, when age has erased the once-indelible grooves of memory – only time will remember them there, beside the trilliums – their laughter, their gaiety, their happiness – the way they slumped gratefully against the trunk of an oak tree, one nuzzling into the neck of the other and closing his eyes, one looking languidly into the distance, into the future, into the nodding heads of the trilliums.

Two lads – one younger, one older…

Two lads – one shorter, one taller…

Two lads – one light-haired, one dark-haired…

These two lads sat beneath an oak tree centuries ago – an oak tree that must have been in close proximity to a stream or brook or some bit of babbling water that made for easy conversation or none at all. It was so long ago that lads and oak tree are again part of the soft earth that once gave slight way beneath their collective weight on this beautiful spring day. The moss was cool and soft, and nearby a patch of trilliums was in full ephemeral bloom.

Some love survives centuries, cropping up generations later in the petals of a trillium. The tender spot of mossy ground where they once sat together, taking their lunch and laughing, resting from the high heat of the day, shifts and alters under the great bearing wall of time. Watching their ease and intimacy from a distant vantage point of modern-day existence still feels obscene – like we are intruding, even if they cannot see us, even if they are already gone.

What brings two young men to such a point? What connects one human being to another in a way that stills time? Maybe it was as simple as a shared lunch. Maybe it was as easy as the spring day. Maybe it was just that he was he, and he was he.

Who knows every single intricate step it took to reach the state in which they slip into each other’s thoughts so nimbly and easily, the seconds and minutes and hours spent learning and observing, or the specific cadence of expanding affection that led them to this late spring lunch they’re sharing with the trillium?

Love – true love – doesn’t operate or appear by design or planning, nor is it mere destiny or luck. It’s a confoundingly complex series of the smallest moments that eventually coalesce into something more – sometimes friendship, sometimes respect, sometimes basic tolerance – and sometimes, when the world decides to grant us awful humans a momentary reprieve of kindness – sometimes… love.

If you know me at all, you know I’m always gonna be that Mama Bear…

Up there in the airplane…

Putting my oxygen mask on first…

Not only because I hate the children, but because it’s the safest thing to do.

Be safe, people.

Are traffic circles on the driving test?

Because what the actual fuck, people?

We cannot blame the full moon for all of the stupidity.

(Is it still ‘National Say Something Nice Day‘? Asking for a moron.)

It’s supposedly ‘National Say Something Nice Day’ so I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.

Da fuq…

June arrives.

May recedes.

Summer peeks around the corner, then disappears, frightened away by the fucking weather of the past week.

Here’s to sunnier days, warmer temps, and this traditional weekly blog recap…

A moment aflame began things on a fiery note.

It ended, began, and continued in rainy fashion.

Tea cup for a rainy day.

This little linden grove.

The very first peony bloom of the season.

Riding into the sun begged the question, ‘What sun?’

This reminded me of you.

On the wings of Columbine.

An almost-full evening.

A moonless patch of sky.

A springtime visit to Dad.

To pass the day, a pretty little flower.

At our most skinny-dippingly beautiful.

A little purple star.

The bluest moon.

Rooms of leaves and living.

The final day of May.

A full, Blue Moon, a last day of May, and a resuming of cafe culture in a steaming cup of peppermint herbal tea. It’s bee a while since a proper cafe culture moment has been documented, and with the insanity of the past month – admittedly mostly in my mind – I pause to re-group, re-evaluate, and rethink some things I thought I already knew.

Every moment can be ripe for a rest, and often that helps clear out the cobwebs, recalling what’s important and what matters, especially at a juncture such as we have reached between May and June. A more magical time of the year may not occur again until the magnificent return of fall.

The madness of today’s full moon is making the writing here a bit clumsy, a tad awkward. It’s not flowing the way I know it can, and it isn’t converting what I’m trying to say. Best to put it to bed when that happens. When things stall, let them be still for a while. Sleep on it. Sometimes they just need time. And silence. Let’s regroup here tomorrow.

Tomorrow’s full Blue Moon is reportedly one of the most powerful for manifesting, whatever you might take that to mean. It’s simultaneously one of shedding, where you can let go of whatever is holding you back. That’s a lot of pressure to put on a little Blue Moon, even if it is full.

This is the second full moon of May, which may explain the craziness some of us have been feeling this entire month. The past few days it’s been nothing but red lights, crazy drivers, computer cock-ups, and a bunch of things that went balls-up. If we can move the blame to the moon, maybe it’s not us. If we can harness some lunar energy in the process, so much the better.