And I heard that there’s a special place Where boys and girls can all be queens every single day…
In my daydreams and night-dreams, I can dance without the annoying tinge of a bothersome and aging back. I can sing without the heaviness of loss or lamentation. I can ride a pink pony into the summer dawn, bounding along shores of ocean and gliding over edges of sky. Summer is so largely imagined, so grandly envisioned. Summer… so much in my head.
I’m up and jaws are on the floor Lovers in the bathroom and a line outside the door Blacklights and a mirrored disco ball Every night’s another reason why I left it all…
God, what have you done? You’re a pink pony girl And you dance at the club Oh mama, I’m just having fun On the stage in my heels It’s where I belong down at the Pink Pony Club
All sparkle of sun and sea, all shine of dew and drops, all summer sweetness and soft sighs. A melancholic meter keeps steady time – the hollow cadence of minutes and hours droning on beneath the welcome heat of the sun, already different than it was in June, already less. And so we dance, and we keep on dancing, and the pink pony prances…
I’m gonna keep on dancing at the Pink Pony Club I’m gonna keep on dancing down in West Hollywood I’m gonna keep on dancing at the Pink Pony Club, Pink Pony Club
When a COVID cough has me up all night, and I’m isolating in the attic, where I’ve been in solitude for the past five days, this cradle song – ‘Yurikago No Uta’ – is the only spot of solace or semi-comfort there is to be found. It’s a traditional Japanese lullaby, often sung to babies to help them sleep. Physically, I am feeling better – a slight side-effect has me in the bathroom a bit more than I’d like, but if it means I don’t die from lack of breath, it seems a fair trade-off. Still, I wasn’t expecting the plunge back into social isolation to take such an emotional toll, and I understand it’s the culmination of the weeks and months of this summer, which had me helplessly hoping that the anniversary of Dad’s death might bring about some sense of closure, some somewhat-happier-ending of that dreadful year of firsts, all the while knowing such an arbitrary deadline of grief was a fever-dream. Born out of desperation and survival and coping, it was a wish that I knew in my heart was foolish, but that same heart couldn’t do anything but hope it might prove true. When at least it came and went, and there was no real relief, no erasure of emptiness or loss, it proved a different sort of chill than when it first happened. A lonelier chill. And then I placed my finger on the root cause of the periodic crying spells that have unexpectedly cropped up at the strangest times this past week: loneliness.
Loneliness in the very real sense of being isolated and alone – when I spent my days and nights secluded in the cozy little attic room I made for our home a few years ago – a room that now functioned as bedroom, office, dining room, living room, reading room, lounging room, dressing room, every room – where largely-sleepless nights were only partly drowned out by the hum and occasional rattle of the window air conditioner, where rain would sound almost melodically on the roof right above my head and rather than sour the mood it would give me comfort because it meant maybe the rest of the world would slow and stop while I was gone instead of carrying on in cherry, sun-drenched summer fashion. A selfish notion, but sickness brings out our selfishness, as much for survival as for pettiness.
Here, in this little room, I fitfully try to sleep without any comfort of Andy beside me. Here, I sip on tea and lots of water and take the occasional meal – eating alone without a husband or companion. Here, I study the bouquet of flowers my Mom left on the front porch along with some breakfast rolls and a dessert, touched by her love and care, realizing how much a son still needs his mother, and shocked at how sad this bout of sickness has suddenly made me feel.
What a ludicrous scene I have painted: a man who will turn 49 years old in four days, weeping like a baby and listening to a cradle song, looking at the animals on the cover of the video and remembering his childhood bedroom. Is it sacrilege to wish it away if it meant a lesser sting of missing it? Is it wrong to wish any of our days away?
Well.
The folly of youth.
Or the folly of middle age… assuming this is somewhere near the middle. We never really know, do we?
My therapist told me at our last session that just about everything had aligned for me to have a mid-life crisis at this moment. I looked at her incredulously, my jaw literally dropping, then said perhaps a little testily, “Umm, when I started seeing you four years ago it was because I was having my mid-life crisis, so I thought I already did that.” She laughed a little, and I fear it’s because I thought there would only be one.
“You know,” I continued, “I survived the one and I’d rather not do it again.”
She acknowledged all the work that went into those early months of therapy, and was rather flippant and nonchalant about another one coming, when my quizzical look of concern must have registered, because she then said I shouldn’t worry about it because I was at a place where I could handle it in a healthy manner.
Huh.
That was when I gave myself a rare internal pat on the back.
It’s one thing to pretend I’m strong and great and amazing – quite another to even partly believe it on the inside.
As for moving through the rest of the summer on a demure and mindful note, I can’t think of a better way, especially since I’ve been feeling anything but those things of late. As I write this, I am holed up in the attic with a bout of COVID, trying desperately not to give it to my husband in the likely-vain hope that my upcoming birthday might be a happy one. So let’s focus on some music with a coquette slant, like this ditty from current Femininomenon, Chappell Roan and this gorgeously-ambivalent take on coffee. (Because it’s never just coffee, and coquette is never just demure.)
Sitting in solitude in the attic, I’m having a moment of loneliness – a rare phenomenon for those of us who adore our time alone. Sometimes that makes the loneliness more searing – the sheer unfamiliarity of the feeling like a stunning shock to the system, like something doesn’t quite compute, and it’s the pain and hurt of it.
What is the lesson here? What am I supposed to glean from this suddenly-annual turn of events? I don’t know.
While most of the celebration surrounding Madonna’s birthday has to do with fun and upbeat memories, some of my most meaningful Madonna moments are those rekindled by the power of a serious song. Often lost amid the controversy and fashion are her ballads, which I am revisiting here in the dour downtime adored by this current bout with COVID. Travel with me down this gently-rocking path, where tales are told through the magic of Madonna music…
Pick me up on your way down When you’re blue and all alone When the glamor starts to bore you Come on back where you belong…
Some songs become emblematic of our BroSox Adventures for obvious reasons – ‘Shipping Up to Boston’ has been a mainstay, and our early theme song of ‘Something New’ was perfect because our trajectory was, quite simply, still new. This marks the ninth year since we made our first joint trip to the Cathedral of Boston way back in 2015, so it’s not exactly new, but there are always new things to see and do. Starting with this ridiculous country song, which found its way into our trip at the tail-end of everything – arriving on the airwaves of our final rest-stop in Blandford. Pricking my ears up at the sound and the vibe and not giving a flying squirrel whether the lyrics were pertinent, I told Skip to get his phone out and work his song-detection app magic to find out who sang it. There were other musical moments that had accented the weekend (stay tuned for those), but this one gave the opening country-languid ease and relaxation that marked this fun BroSox Adventure…
It didn’t begin with such ease – while the company was true, the atmospheric conditions were such that the bands of rain from a passing hurricane made the drive into Boston a sketchy/scary one. We would tempt such wet fate for the first day and a half, bringing along the hoodies and umbrellas should the worst decide to hit. Before going anywhere, however, Skip was good enough to assemble this desk, which I originally thought was a simple job. Luckily it was simple for him, and his tool bag – I would never have been able to figure out how to make working drawers, so he was a godsend in the same way he was for the installation of the air conditioning unit that was still keeping us cool on this hot and humid weekend.
You may be their pride and joy But they’ll find another toy And they’ll take away your crown Pick me up on your way down
After last year’s Sunday game-day mishap/mix-up, we were starting the weekend off with the Red Sox game – they were playing the Houston Astros and we headed over to Fenway early to grab food at Hojoku, and a matcha ice cream at a Matcha Cafe I’d just read about. Boston had thus far remained rain-free, but the air was sticky and hot, and felt ripe for rain as we made our way to Fenway.
Our seats were great – though we both noticed they were right on the very edge of where an overhang ended right above our heads. Should it start raining, we would either be barely protected, not protected at all, or right in the spot where the torrential run-off would tumble down like Niagara Falls. Sliding my very bad back into the very rigid seats, I braced for the worst.
The game began and the weather held for the start – we had our Fenway franks, and the Red Sox volleyed with the Astros for a run here and there. I looked up at the sky and saw the clouds begin to move in dramatically. The visage was stunning – the prospect of what those clouds may have been portending was more bothersome. But I was comforted by the fact that the clouds were moving up and away from our overhang – if rain was to come there was a good chance we were in the right location for it to blow just over us and hit the seats a few rows below.
It was tight for most of the game, but then Houston opened it up at the top of the 7th.
When I asked Skip to write that assessment I sent it out to all my friends. Here are a few choice responses:
“Who is this?”
“Did you even have a clue what the hell was going on?”
“Dude. You’ve been hacked.”
“Excuse me, who is this?”
My friends’ complete lack of faith in my baseball lingo notwithstanding, the Red Sox blew it, and by the time ‘Sweet Caroline’ was sung the rain had already begun, but by the sweet grace of God it was blowing just beyond our row of eats. Two rows ahead was getting soaked but we remained for the most part perfectly dry, except for the walk home, but it had been so hot and humid all day it was more refreshing than annoying, and the company of Skip and the relaxed ease of another BroSox Adventure once again at hand lent it a charm that last year’s rainy proceedings could barely muster. The boys were back in Boston, and life was good…
Yes, they’ll take away your crown Pick me up on your way down…
Two Augusts ago I told the truth, oh, but you didn’t like it, you went home You’re in your Benz, I’m by the gate Now you go alone Charm all the people you train for, you mean well but aim low And I’ll make it known like I’m getting paid
That’s just the way life goes I like to slam doors closed Trust me, I know it’s always about me I love you, I’m sorry
The blush is mostly off this summer’s coquette rose, but we’ll always have the music. And as long as we can hear it, the beat will go on. And as long as the beat goes on, the heart has the capability of feeling full. A coquette summer leads with longing and ends with something else… this post is leading us to that something else. This post leads to what might be next. My niece Emi tells me this next song is coquette. I listened to it – well, the quick snippets of it that she had the patience to play. I sent her a text asking her to send me more coquette song ideas. She never replied. Silence and a song.
Two summers from now We’ll have been talking, but not all that often, we’re cool now I’ll be on a boat, you’re on a plane Going somewhere sane And I’ll have a drink Wistfully lean out my window and watch the sun set on the lake It might not feel real, but it’s okay, mh
‘Cause that’s just the way life goes I push my luck, it shows Thankful you don’t send someone to kill me I love you, I’m sorry
Summer sunsetz… August on the cusp of waning. This strange season of healing and hope, where deluge has followed dream, leaves me with an empty and dull ache. A classic coquette conundrum: balm of beauty and hurt of heart. There is no extricating one from the other. Summer winds around itself like some self-defeating vine, twirling tendrils and unfurling flowers that have only ever appeared in fantasies and fables. We weave our stories with summer’s light, retelling tales and rebuilding the past.
You were the best but you were the worst As sick as it sounds, I loved you first I was a dick, it is what it is A habit to kick, the age-old curse I tend to laugh whenever I’m sad Stare at the crash, it actually works Making amends, this shit never ends I’m wrong again, wrong again
An August sunset is a story in and of itself, but you have to learn how to listen, and you have to know how to wait. Entire books can be written in the time the sun takes to put itself in hiding for the night, but that’s a secret I’ve only glimpsed in bits and pieces – the whole trick remains elusive and out of reach for my greedy hands. I want it too much; my thirst is too desperate ~ another aspect of the coquette.
The way life goes Joyriding down our road Lay on the horn to prove that it haunts me I love you, I’m sorry The way life goes (you were the best but you were the worst) (As sick as it sounds, I loved you first) I wanna speak in code (I was a dick, it is what it is) (A habit to kick, the age-old curse) Hope that I don’t, won’t make it about me (I tend to laugh whenever I’m sad) (Stare at the crash, it actually works) I love you, I’m sorry
The sunset behind us, we drive into the deepening night of a darkening summer. The fade to black is beautiful at this time of the year.
Much of the coquette-themed music we’ve heard this summer has been culled from the knowledge and taste of my niece Emi Lu. This mix veers slightly away from that true coquette aesthetic and into my own zany interpretation of coquette madness, hence its common title of ‘Coquette-Me-Not’. Here are songs that branch off from that pure theme into something hopefully just as fabulous, with a little harder beat to help get you onto your feet. So much of a coquette lifestyle is about lounging and longing – this one is about silliness and frivolity and dancing your ass off when things get vulgar…
While things get hot on the dance floor with cuts such as ‘Murder on the Dancefloor‘ and ‘Padam Padam’, there is a delicious cool down in a trio of coquette insta-classics: ‘Cherry’, ‘Rain’ and ‘Hot’.
And the summer begins with the taste of your lips While it’s getting hot inside you Think you’d burn through your dress if you kiss me again And it’s getting hot inside…
July… one of those months you don’t want to end, no matter how stifling and hot it might get. July is summer at its zenith. It’s vacations and pools and blurry asphalt, it’s bike rides and tomatoes and childhood nostalgia, it’s lilies and daisies and hydrangeas. It’s also a moment to stop and take a breather. It gets hot out there. Sit beside me in the shade and listen to this song.
Where are we in this summer? I’m probably not the best person to ask. We are very near the one-year anniversary of my Dad’s death, and my grieving has come back, if it ever really went away. It’s too soon to gauge whether summer has been irreparably wounded by the events of last year, but how could it ever be the same again? I wouldn’t want to erase all that has happened – if you take away all the sadness you take away all the love.
Is it all in my head? ‘Cause I keep getting scared That I’ll always be lost forever But I don’t give a shit if I’m too delicate When you hold me, it’s always better
Still, summer burns and summer heals. Grieving in the barren stark dimness of winter night have proven unbearable. This might be the best and most forgiving time to experience loss. The outside world, with its beauty and the floral balms in bloom, offers comfort, the way beauty always eases our time on earth. A song like this lends its own bit of help in assuaging melancholy. Happiness, ever elusive and always out of reach, is summer’s vicious promise every year.
Now your lips start to taste of pink lemonade As I jump off the roof into your pool Laugh and run from the heat ’cause it’s burning your feet And it’s getting hot inside
Is it all in my head? ‘Cause I keep getting scared That I’ll always be lost forever But I don’t give a shit if I’m too delicate When you hold me, it’s always better
Much like the way ‘Vulgar’ energized last summer with a chaser of ‘Popular‘ (before the summer all went wrong), this season’s surprise gay jam comes courtesy of Kesha, whose ‘Joyride’ is stampeding across all the social media trendsetting scenes. It’s providing the precise level of stupidity and ridiculousness – the very breath of fresh air – that this moment requires. Having fallen into a bit of a funk lately, I’m doing what I can to stay emotionally afloat, and this nonsensical ditty was designed as an escape, led by an ear worm that’s crawling about in my head and driving me absolutely crazy.
That’s the kind of hubris for which I was once hailed, hated and harried. That’s the cheeky side of me that once charmed and seduced and thrilled. If it was all in my mind it was no less successful for its escapist salvation. And that’s the sort of spirit that seems to have slowly drained from me over the last year. Sometimes the silliest trifle of music brings us back to ourselves.
I’m just looking for a joyride, JOYRIDE I’m just looking for A GOOD TIME TONIGHT Baby, I want you to rev my engine ’til you make it purrrr KEEP IT KINKY, but I come first Beep beep bitch, I’m outside. Get in loser for the joyride. Making every motherfucker turn Fell from heaven no, it didn’t hurt Beep beep BEST NIGHT OF YOUR LIFE Get in loser for the joyride Joyride GET IN LOSER for the joyride
Blaring the music in the air-conditioned confines of my Mini Cooper, lip-syncing this song saucily and trying to convince myself that it’s all super-duper, summer passes more swiftly than I think I want it to pass. I’m not sure if I’m happy or disappointed by that. Last summer I just wanted to speed through it.
And so summer heals – in a sunny day, in a silly song, in a simple swim. You laugh again because you can, and there are still funny things in this joyride of a world. Maybe your laughter isn’t as loud or as long as it once was, so you turn up a song like this as high as it will go, until you can’t hear yourself think those bothersome thoughts. You lean into what silliness you can find, grasping at whatever easy comfort or fun falls like a feather from the sky, and you pray to not go through something sad again, knowing what a futile prayer it will eventually prove to be. You lead with a laugh, desperate to trigger happiness, even if you have to enter from the end, even if your laughter is false and forced; sometimes the physical act is enough to elicit an echo of all the happiness that real laughter once inspired.
Joyride, joyride I’m just looking for a good time tonight Baby, I want you to rev my engine ’til you make it purrrr Keep it kinky, BUT I COME FIRST Beep beep bitch, I’m outside. Get in loser for the joyride. Making every motherfucker turn FELL FROM HEAVEN no, it didn’t hurt Beep beep best night of your life Get in loser for the joyride
First it was my neck, then it was my back – both victims of trying to pull up tree roots that had taken ten years to take hold. My body was no match for such stalwart and stubborn strength. A household with two bad backs falls quickly to mess and disrepair – it’s only a matter of time before we round the turn to the fast-track to ‘Grey Gardens‘. With only one month to go before I hit the age of 49, I’m feeling all the years.
After visiting with friends I’ve had since childhood, I had a Big Chill moment, thinking back on where we are now compared with where we were then. Comparison is still the thief of joy but I couldn’t stop myself. And it didn’t steal all the joy, just a bit of it, because the passing of time does take things, no matter how careful we try to be. It also reveals what didn’t come to pass, turning our dreams against us, or endlessly and elusively taunting us with their ongoing existence.
The back cries out, the neck stiffens, and the walk becomes stilted.
Slipping into the pool for some relief (gravity does bad things to backs when they’re at their worst) I let the spine elongate and relax, decompressing those discs or whatever might be going on to cause the pain. The relief is cruelly temporary. Outside in the air, in a strange breeze of early evening, the chill caused my back to hunch up again. The spell has dissipated. The dull ache returns. Middle age haunts us in different ways. I’m trying to make that ghost into a friend.
There was a time when I wanted to be just one of the boys of summer, whatever that might mean, and it’s meant something different with each passing year. I am very clearly no longer a boy, and haven’t been for quite some time. My childhood withered decades ago, probably much earlier than my physical appearance would have anyone guess. I’ve felt like a very old soul since I first became aware of myself. It’s part of why childhood proved so seemingly difficult for me: relating to other kids was never easy, because I never truly felt like a kid. I never had that carefree confidence because I always knew, on some level, how very different I was from the other kids. That makes you grow up quickly. That makes you old even when you’re not.
I can see you Your brown skin shining in the sun I see you walking real slow and
Smiling at everyone I can tell you, my love for you will still be strong After the boys of summer have gone
These days I feel a little more tired and weary than usual, a state in which I’ve uncomfortably become more comfortable, for worse and far from better. I see it in this picture, and more keenly I feel it within my own body and mind. Approaching the age of 49, I don’t mind growing older – it feels like I’m coming more and more into my own, that this long journey is just starting to make a little sense – but it still takes its toll. There are days when it’s exhausting, when the business of being who the world thinks I am – the person I’ve made the world think I am – feels overwhelming, and I just don’t want to do it.
Then I think back to when I was a boy. If I could do it then – unprotected, untried, unknown to my own self – how could I not do it now? Or at the very least, how could I not try?
A little voice inside my head said
“Don’t look back, you can never look back” I thought I knew what love was, what did I know?
Those days are gone forever
I should just let them go but…
Oh dear. This was supposed to be a calming and peaceful post. But when the skies are unsettled, pretty though they may be, the heart and head feel unsettled too.
Let us return to the sweetness of this song then, originally made famous by Madonna – which reminds me we are long overdue for the next Madonna Timeline installment. Any requests? Just kidding, I don’t take requests for that, other than what the random shuffle feature deigns to land on next. Does this sound as crazy as I think it does? Don’t tell me. I already know.
So if you should ever doubt, wonder what love is all about, just think back and remember dear, those words whispered in your ear…
I’ll be your baby There’s nothing better I’d rather do I’m lost completely I might as well be over the moon
I’d like it if you tried Before you change my mind Are you gonna be here with me I know you better
The perfume of the pink lily is potent – exceedingly floral and cloying in its sweet richness. It’s a lot to take, especially on the hotter days. But that’s the sort of whoozy, dizzying, decadent indulgence that personifies the coquette notion – something sweet and nostalgic, that is somehow too much and never enough at the same time. The coquette lifestyle is pretty but too often unsatisfying – tantalizingly out of reach – an obsessive state of longing and unfulfilled promise.
This momentary ride This fire by my side Are you gonna be here with me You know that
I’ll be your baby There’s nothing better I’d rather do I’m lost completely I might as well be over the moon
Pink moods, mirrored and mimicked by lilies and clouds at sunset, run deceptively deep. At first sight and sensation, they may feel frivolous and foolish, something to be dismissed or denied – the very impetus of what drives the melancholy of a coquette moment – but how surprisingly resonant they remain, outlasting the ephemeral and fleeting nature we think we know.
The pink lilies glow as the night arrives, but only if the moon is present, which brings out the lighter shading of their throats. On warmer nights, the perfume becomes deliriously potent, an intoxicating lure for all creatures seeking sweetness and beauty. It is the sigh of a summer evening.
You call me up at night Imaginary lines Are you gonna go back to sleep I know you better Than you know yourself I’m only saying play your hand with someone else (someone else) Don’t tell me how to be your baby There’s nothing better I’d rather do I’m lost completely I might as well be over the moon I might as well be over the moon
This post is much too moody for daylight hours, so I’ve hidden it in minutes leaving up to the bewitching hour of midnight. A half-moon dangled between the pine boughs, and some star or planet was right beside it, keeping it company on a calm sky of the deepest ocean blue. A song then, for a day and evening that has been bewitching, bothersome, and bafflingly bewildering – a song that has been posted here before in Ella Fitzgerald’s brilliant rendering of it from sunnier days that seem to have taken place ages ago…
It was a bothersome day because of the bugs – even with a heavy spritzing of insect repellent, and a preliminary yard fogging, they would not leave me alone as I attempted to clear up our side yard. Upwards of ten years have passed since I last tackled that section of our property, and that’s much too long to let anything go. The vines have soared fifty feet into the pine and oak trees – the bane of bittersweet and Virginia creeper – both taken a hold of the entire area. Sprouts of little shrubs have become trees, and pulling them up by the roots took its toll on my neck last week, and my back today – another bothersome aspect of the day. I know enough not to pull too hard, I really do, and still I find myself thinking I can do one more, that my back is the same supple thing it was in my 20’s, and it’s simply not.
The bothersome grows into the bewildering, as the news reports of an assassination attempt on a possible dictator come onto the television, as if the news couldn’t get any more depressing and worrisome. That one evil, corrupt, indicted felon can so destroy a country with half the country’s blessing is still a bewildering mystery to me.
Now I will move into a midnight meditation, to shake off the mucky emotions of the day and hopefully find a place of peace for a calm stretch of slumber.
