Some passages of The Divine Diva Tour: A Fairy’s Tale were simply for fun, much like the accompanying bop by Madonna, which loosely ties in to the already-loose football locker-room theme seen here. Sporty cosplay before we even had words for it, bringing me back to the lighthearted nature of the world in 2005, when violent romps were mostly of the imagined sort, not playing out literally on our streets and sidewalks. Madonna, take me away…
Fans can make you famous,
a contract can make you rich,
the press can make you a superstar,
but only luv can make you a player…
The music was silly, the poses were sillier, and the wardrobe was the silliest. Try on different guises was the main pelvic thrust of The Divine Diva Tour: A Fairy’s Tale, and in 2005 I had the body to slide like quicksilver into just about anything. It allowed me to inhabit people I wouldn’t have otherwise encountered on a daily basis. It allowed me to grow.
Back then I was just on the verge of turning 30, which felt slightly old to me then, especially as a gay man whose community put an impossibly high bounty on youth and beauty. Twenty years later I’m about to turn 50, and feel more at peace about it, which is a lucky turn of fortune, as fighting the fact of getting older is a losing, wasteful, and foolish battle. Still, it would be lovely to fit into a 30-inch pair of pants again, but that ship has sunk. At least there are pictures to prove that it once happened.
The Buck Moon shone this week, fucking things up like only a full moon can, and Mercury will soon be in retrograde motion through August, so everything is about to get wonky. As if Mars entering Virgo wasn’t enough, Uranus is also in Gemini, so all hell is about to break loose for anyone toying with the idea of fucking with a Virgo right now. If you’ve seen the new ‘Dune’ movies, you have an idea of how I intend to handle the astrological sandworm monsters about to come my way: picture me harnessing all the energy and transforming all the fuckery into potent, piercing, damning empirical evidence like only a Virgo can.
A song then, deceptively mellow, for a deceptive summer.
I’ll dig my talons in like an eagle and ride those sandworms into the ground, as if I’d strapped a pair of great whites onto my feet and decided to surf the seal-heavy shore. Anyone can become a hunter when the moon enters their soul. Virgos are said to be entering their villain era with all of the astrological events currently in motion. Last fall I thought I might have turned to the darkness, but I ended up pulling most of those punches. This year that won’t be the case, and summer has me feeling all kinds of punchy.
Gloria Estefan has never quite achieved the respect she’s deserved, and perhaps it’s from videos like this. I love its ridiculous visuals, and the bop of a song behind it. Summer Fridays are a good fit for such a song. It’s happy music, somewhat silly music, and perfect music for a summer weekend.
There’s a party to be had on any given summer Friday – and that’s a vibe we should carry with us each and every day of summer. I’m trying to remember that – trying to slow these sunny days, to still the summer – perhaps even more than I willed such magic in my childhood. Maybe I feel the quickening advance of time, ticking away faster and faster. On some objective plane, time may be consistent. Most of us feel it going by quicker as the years pass, even when it’s not the case.
And so I say dance – make your wishes and dance – just like Gloria.
Chased by demons both real and imagined, he runs down metallic stairs that echo against their concrete walls. This song runs through his head, adding to the intrigue with its dramatic push and driving beat. It is mood music, the soundtrack to an action sequence that drives the narrative while engaging with an underlying tension. Summer crafts a different sort of drama – heightened, feverish, and slightly more sinister than perhaps any other time of the year. Summer is supposed to be easy, so when trauma does rear its head, it somehow feels a little bit worse. Or a little more exciting. Life depends so much on interpretation and attitude.
Back to the opening sentence, and our protagonist, always some version of myself either current or past or even future, is running through the stairs of a Russian hotel during the summer of 1990. I was chasing myself, seeking the boy I used to be, and the man I was on the verge of becoming, and not quite catching up to either. I was just beginning to understand the art of conjuring drama, of telling a story, of being of such peaked interest to people that you stayed on their mind even and especially when absent. And in the absence of apparent love, this is what the adolescent does to emotionally survive.
The art of making an impression.
And so I ran, in the movie of my mind, and on an actual day when my absence might have been a matter of interest had anyone bothered to notice. La Habanera danced before my head, and I found a means of escape, and exit. Outside the hotel, the air was warm. A Russian night unfurled in the forest beyond the hotel grounds. Summer demands exploration, and danger bound inextricably to the fabric of discovery. The point of innocence is often only seen in its unraveling.
Summer sun saps the way our eyes take in light, and whether it’s the chlorine from the pool or the overtaxed stimulation of the pupils, near the end of the afternoon everything is hazy and drained of color. Sepia-toned memories from an isolated island of our own creation push against the encroaching reality of a world gone mad. A song sounds from a dusty antique boombox, the voice of someone long dead and still celebrated, a song of hope and defiance and love – a song of summer.
Sunday nights in summer are a strange time. They feel less wicked than they do in the winter, perhaps a residual PTSD trick from my school days. They are quieter in a different way – somehow even the light lands differently. Let the weekend linger, they seem to whisper, leave the work-week troubles for another day. Let the relaxation run on a bit, let it bleed into the wee hours of Monday.
Technically Provincetown is at the tip of a peninsula, but in many respects it feels like an island; happily isolated and apart from the rest, it is a place of magic and wonder, the kind of space that only exists in that one special location. On my first trip there with Suzie, just about thirty years ago, this song was one of her selections, and my late introduction to the Blondie classic in no way diminished my instant love and adoration for it. (Suzie knows a good song.)
It ties in splendidly to our summer island theme, conjuring images of anemones and mollusks hanging on for dear life as the tide comes in and threatens their hold. It also brings to mind the resilience of anyone who loves another person who may not love them back. That’s a ripe little topic for summer, but I’ve written enough stories on that to fill a book. This one is about something more hopeful, like the feeling of possibility that rode on the salty sea air which greeted us as we wound our way along Route 6 and entered the sandy environs of Provincetown on a rainy summer afternoon…
Wait, I already wrote about this long ago, so rather than reassemble the whole thing, let me do some searching and copying and pasting and call this post finished:
The Paradise of Provincetown
There is a paradisiacal place on this earth where the sun both rises and sets over the ocean, where sexuality is irrelevant, and where a pizza party begins at 1AM every morning. It’s a place where one can lay on the beach, bask in the sun, drink in the sights (and the cocktails), and dance the day away on the beachfront. The sky is more blue than anywhere else, the light enchants artists and lovers of beauty, and the atmosphere is one of easy acceptance, warmth, and love. The place is Provincetown ~ that magical point at the very tip of Cape Cod ~ where the ocean surrounds, protects, buffers and belts the sandy shores of a world unlike any other.
My first trip to Provincetown was at the end of the summer of 1995. Dragging our August feet a few weeks before college began again, Suzie and I took an impromptu drive along the curved arm of the Cape Cod peninsula, winding our way into town in the middle of a gray drizzle. The whole trip was hazy that way ~ clouds overhead, but still bright, windy but emanating warmth ~ it lives in my memory dimly yet implacably. I don’t remember much about that first trip ~ a photo of one perfect sunflower is framed somewhere, taken behind our guesthouse looking over the bay. Suzie and I mostly did what we do best ~ a lot of nothing. We read books on the beach, browsed lazily through the boutiques, and feasted on lobster salad and fried clams. At night I strolled alone down Commercial Street, passing a long line of leering men ~ terrifying and exciting all at once ~ a thrilling, unsettling glimpse into my own future. I thought I was such hot shit in my linen pants and tight black T?shirt, holding off insecurity with aloofness, putting myself above everyone so as to be hurt or rejected by no one.
We departed Provincetown unscathed and untouched. The next five years do not prove so fortuitous, and when I return to the Cape in July of 2000, I am battle?weary and worn from a few serious relationships and subsequent break?ups, and a dizzying series of one?night?stands.
~~~
My friend Kristen and I board the ferry at Boston harbor. The wind is strong, the sun is stronger – it is the perfect July day. The jaunt to Provincetown is a rocky one, quick to be sure (at 90 minutes), but bumpy – people are getting sick right and left.
Thank God for the foresight to have taken Dramamine. We arrive at our guesthouse and unpack. It is a slow, peaceful, relaxing entry, with the good spirits of Kristen buoying me and the tranquil pull of the ocean guiding our journey. That night we head out to the Gifford house, where there is a group sing?along to ‘Delta Dawn’.
It’s so easy to get laid in Provincetown. Sex is in the air, on the beach, in the dunes, at the bars ~ it’s everywhere. But it no longer interests me. Of course, once that is the case one instantly becomes a hot commodity. In the past I would have jumped into bed with the first suitor who glanced my way, but things are different now. I’d rather play double solitaire with Kristen and have a real conversation with someone at the bar instead of going home with some beautiful but anonymous stranger.
Still, beauty casts an intoxicating spell, and a few days later I succumb to a gorgeous guy whose name is Chris. He will be my only one?night?stand for the whole week. Back in my room, there is moonlight streaming in through the window. The light is gray, our bodies just dim outlines in the hushed night. As we undress, he compliments me on my underwear. I laugh a little and kiss him.
When it’s over I ask him his last name. I don’t remember it now, but back then it was important. It is the perfect Provincetown one?night?stand ~ sweetly poignant, ferociously sexy, and a little bit sad. I see him on the street the next day. He gives me a smile and a handshake and that is the end of it. A slightly apathetic ache is all that remains. I don’t really care, but still, it might have been nice…
Suzie arrives a day or so later – we head out at night and a super?hot, and super? cool, lesbian drags us along as she crashes a friend’s party. Provincetown casts a seductive spell on most of her visitors ~ a spell of summer, of sand, of ocean and perfect sky. She embraces all outcasts and for a few days everyone lives this enchanting utopian vision. You find yourself swept away, doing things you never thought you would do.
In spite of this harmony, it is still possible to feel alone. Walking out along the pier with the moon hovering over the ocean, I stand in the night wind. Surrounded by the cries of seagulls, remembering the love of my life, I mourn. And then it is done. I return to the shore, to the lights, to the music and the drinking and the dancing. I do not know then that in a few weeks I will meet Andy. But for that moment, I am alone, and it’s okay.
~~~
By the end of the week the bartenders simply set a Tanqueray and tonic in front of me without waiting for my order. I have become a small part of P?town’s transient family, and it feels good to belong. At the daily Boatslip tea dance I find the nerve to introduce myself to the Most Beautiful Man in the World, also known as David, who, I later discover, works for Gucci. He invites us to their new store opening in Boston the next week. I shake his hand and we say good?bye.
On our last morning in Provincetown, I arise early and walk down Commercial Street alone. I have a quick breakfast at a diner and buy a box of saltwater taffy for my parents. It’s early ~ there aren’t many people out yet. And even though I am alone, I find comfort in the overwhelming sense of acceptance I feel around me ~ not worrying about being ridiculed, or yelled at or taunted, or beaten or killed. It is a healthy feeling.
The town is like that ~ a place of refuge for some, a place of enchantment for others, and a temporary home for all. There’s no place like Provincetown.
We say, we say what we want and we say what we need And we love everybody, but we do as we please And when the weather is fine We go fishing, we go fishing in the sea We’re always happy to live life, that’s our philosophy
This will be a pool party no matter what. That’s a big and bold statement, and a daring promise given that we’ve had over half a year of weekend precipitation, but I don’t make such claims without reason. In the event that the weather turns on us, we have a pool table in the basement for the kids to play billiards, so there will be pool in some form, rain or shine. And that’s the plan for the whole summer, so stop on by…
It was the summer of 1990, and in considering almost half a century of living it may have been my favorite summer thus far. I was fourteen years old and had just finished my freshman year of high school. A group of friends and classmates had been accepted as part of a People-to-People Friendship Exchange with what was then the Soviet Union, and we were actively preparing for the three-week jaunt halfway around the world.
Madonna’s ‘I’m Breathless’ album was my musical obsession at the time, combining a love of Madonna with a love of Stephen Sondheim, and culminating with the majestic ‘Vogue’ (which was all Shep Pettibone, no Sondheim for that). Despite this aural treasure-trove, I decided against bringing a walk-man to the Soviet Union because I didn’t want to be distracted or taken out of the moment by music. Seems strange and more than slightly stupid, something I realized soon enough when I was sitting on the floor of JFK Airport on a 6-hour layover with nothing to do.
Suzie came to the rescue and let me listen to her music, which included what is now a summer classic playlist: the soundtrack to ‘The Mighty Quinn’. So yes, we have Suzie to thank for how reggae music came to shade that Soviet Union trip, as well as every summer thereafter.
My favorite cut was the second track, ‘Groove Master’, whose groovy horn bombast and electronic drum tempest set the celebratory tone for the first trip I was taking without my family. I think the fact that Suzie and her Dad were going eliminated the worry I would have otherwise had, but that first night in Washington, DC was still a little lonely.
The next day, I found my own groove with friends, quickly establishing connections that immediately dissolved any lingering loneliness or homesickness. Young people are surprisingly adaptable, even when we think we aren’t. It’s a sort of stupid strength, in the sense that we’re not really aware of it or its power – in the same way that itís easier for kids to pick up a new language instead of adults. (I have absolutely no more brain cells to learn anything new.) Back then, I could have a scary night and bounce back at the break of the next day, instantly forgetting the darkness that came before. The darkness doesn’t dissipate as quickly when you get older, partly because the troubles are more difficult.
In the summer of 1990, however, the only trouble was whether Iíd get caught sneaking out of the girls’ room at midnight. One haplessly envious guy asked me if I ever slept in my own room, hinting at a certain jealousy of the access I had to the inner sanctum of the girls he only admired from afar. On a certain level, my gayness, though unacknowledged and unrealized by myself more than anyone else, provided a sense of safety for girls, who spilled their secrets and tea to me because I was never a threat in the way that straight guys might have been. And girls would prove to be my best friends, starting with Suzie, whose shared summer memories went way back to when she shared her grape taffy with me beneath a grape arbor.
We started that trip in Washington, DC, right around the 4th of July and all its accompanying festivities. We had to learn the basics of America before becoming ambassadors to another country, and in the heat of high summer, backed by ‘The Mighty Quinn’ soundtrack, a set of new memories was being forged. When summer melds happy memories with happy music, it’s a gift that lasts as long as our minds allow it.
The Divine Diva Tour: A Fairy’s Tale gets its weekendly posting place with this kick-off – an interlude that reveals how much has happened in twenty years. First, the shoddy WordArt and cheap-ass costumes have aged about as well as my abs and hair color. Second, the amateurish posturing and my Zoolander facial contortions are laughable as well. About the only thing that withstands the test of time is this driving power-pop anthem from the 80’s. It gives the ultimate element of cheese-please that puts this into so-bad-it’s-almost-good territory, and that’s the best we’re going to get today.
Where have all the good men gone and where are all the gods? Where’s the streetwise Hercules to fight the risin’ odds? Isn’t there a white knight upon a fiery steed? Late at night, I toss and I turn and I dream of what I need
I need a hero I’m holding out for a hero till the end of the night He’s gotta be strong and he’s gotta be fast And he’s gotta be fresh from the fight I need a hero I’m holding out for a hero till the morning light He’s gotta be sure and it’s gotta be soon And he’s gotta be larger than life, larger than life
Somewhere after midnight in my wildest fantasy Somewhere just beyond my reach, there’s someone reaching back for me Racing on the thunder and rising with the heat It’s gonna take a Superman to sweep me off my feet, yeah
I need a hero I’m holding out for a hero till the end of the night He’s gotta be strong and he’s gotta be fast And he’s gotta be fresh from the fight I need a hero I’m holding out for a hero till the morning light He’s gotta be sure and it’s gotta be soon And he’s gotta be larger than life, larger than life
Up where the mountains meet the heavens above Out where the lightning splits the sea I could swear there is someone somewhere watching me Through the wind and the chill and the rain And the storm and the flood I can feel his approach like a fire in my blood
While we’ve already celebrated this song here, that was six years prior, and that’s an entire pandemic and lifetime ago. Before we end the month of June, let’s revisit this magical piece of music as performed by Julie London, as it comes with a happy recent memory. On our Memorial Day weekend in Ogunquit, the weather was often rainy, so we sometimes took our shelter in the title shops along Main Street. On one particular gray morning, we found ourselves in a charming little store with beautiful jewelry and pieces of art, a few antiques and some whimsical walking canes. This song came on, and though the sky felt melancholy, I looked over at my husband inspecting something and felt a wave of love wash over us, all these years after our very first trip to this Beautiful Place By The Sea twenty-five years ago. The moment felt magical…
Throughout the ensuing years, there were always magical moments that appeared quietly and when least expected, little times where I’d glimpse Andy doing something endearing, or simply going through the motions of the day, and I felt the reassurance and warmth of the life we created together. Many cycles of moons and suns have turned over during all these years, and in some ways many lifetimes. Depending on perspective a lifetime can be a day or a century, and time’s only way is forward. For this moment of moonlight and magic, we give respectful pause.
Our island summer is in full swing, despite threatening skies and rainy days – and an island summer will not be stopped by weather or other happenstance. Island is attitude, and frame of mind. It is imagination and fantasy and can exist solely within the brain. That means it is not bound by the typical constraints of physicality or topography or meteorology.
Today Skip and I are scheduled to return to basics for our annual BroSox Adventure, heading to Boston for a Red Sox game at the start of the season, just like we did exactly ten years ago. This song is a song of promise and possibility – the very beginning of a summer of adventure and fun. Jury’s out on the sun, but I remain foolishly hopeful. Summer welcomes fools, and I welcome the opportunity to be the fool.
The day opened and closed, almost precisely 13 hours apart, with a double-dip in the pool. It’s been a very long time – years probably – since I’ve taken a swim before work, but on a day scheduled to up to 98 degrees, I thought it best to start off as cool as possible, and take that loveliness with me through the day.
A cat bird joined me for the morning dip, silently perched on the wooden fence beneath the seven sons’ flower tree. I recognized its silhouette, the jaunty way its back feathers turned up and the inquisitive tilting of its head. It didn’t sing so early in the morning, perhaps enjoying the hushed early hour as much as me.
Rise up this morning, smiled with the rising sun Three little birds pitch by my doorstep Singing sweet songs of melodies pure and true Saying, “This is my message to you”
Already into the 80’s, the day looked to be an impossibly hot one, and the only way to trudge through it would be to take it slow, and keep this cool moment in mind. At some point in the summer, the heat will seep so deeply into everything – every place and every space – that it will be impossible to escape other than in one’s mind.
We were not yet there, and I will not complain at this early stage.
Singing, “Don’t worry about a thing ‘Cause every little thing gonna be alright” Singing, “Don’t worry about a thing” (Don’t worry) “‘Cause every little thing gonna be alright”
Summer slams onto the scene with an oppressive wall of heat and humidity. After a disappointingly rainy spring, this sun and heat is not entirely unwelcome. It’s all a bit much, but with rain set to return for the last half of the week we’ll take it, and embrace the hot and humid island weather. It ties into our summer theme divinely, and that’s worthy of an exclamation point!
So slow your roll, pause your day, and dip into what already feels like a deep summer day. Let the sweat roll off the brow, let the heat batter you down, and let the summer have its way.
At the time of this writing – approximately 10:24 PM – it is still raining, and it’s been raining the entire day. This is reportedly the 29th consecutive weekend of precipitation being recorded in the Albany area. That just about broke me. Andy walked in during a tirade that included more f-words than I’ve uttered in a while because I’m so behind in the garden that I’m leaning into a jungle theme this summer because it’s already too late to prune the shit back. So much needed to be dug out several weeks ago. Oh well.
Feels like a crappy way to begin June, so I’m finding a song of comfort to see us through the night. Give this one a whirl. It’s the emotional finale of ‘Maybe Happy Ending’, one of the most charming things on Broadway right now.
“Those sunny afternoons you spent with me, they’ll still be happening, just somewhere in the past. Each simple moment was a luxury – they’re not less valuable just cause they didn’t last.”
Yes, sunny afternoons feel far away in such dreary times, but somewhere they’re still shining. A comforting thought.
Friday night, and the lamp is low, but the music is on, and the evening is young.
A young evening, wanting and waiting only to unfurl its splendor, whatever form that might take, whatever fun or love we might make – and an especially young point, as the weekend is an extra-long holiday weekend, making Monday into Sunday – and Sunday a glorious bonus.
Dream beside me in the midnight glow, the lamp Is low Dream and watch the shadows come and go, the lamp Is low While you linger in my arms, my lips will sigh “I love you so” Dream the sweetest dreams you’ll ever know Tonight the moon is high, the lamp is low
