This year’s costume for the Boo-jolais Vampire Ball was the vampier, slightly-more-sinister sister of last year’s lace ensemble. I usually don’t veer so close to something I’ve worn before, but this one seemed to take that one to a new extreme, with its full-six-hoop bottom and high-collar decadence. Its color palette was a complete shift as well. Next year I’ll conjure some head-spinning act that is truly outré. (Which in my case may very well be jeans and a t-shirt.)
Baz Luhrmann has created the holiday promotional video for ERDEM X H&M’s new collaboration/collection, coming next month. This site is big on flowers, as am I, so this looks intriguing enough to get me back in the store. It’s not spring, so florals can be groundbreaking again.
As for this collection, I’m intrigued and impressed, and I only hope H&M delivers something slightly above its average/poor quality for such an enterprise. There’s promise here, but not all flowers are as pretty as they appear in pictures. We shall see.
Andy was good enough to drive Suzie and me to the train station while it was still dark. And chilly. A welcome chill in the relative heat of this autumn, and one that would quickly dissipate, like the fog rolling over the Hudson River as we rushed by en route to Penn Station. It was an other-worldly journey, clouded by the early hour as much as by the strange weather that had portions of the river shrouded in fog and cloud cover, with only a few floating vessels and trees appearing through the haze, illuminated by the morning sun. A magical beginning to a magical day. I wore my grandmother’s sapphire and diamond star-shaped ring on my pinky – a bit of bling that would have made her proud. We brought some lost family members along with us in our talks during the day, as we tend to do only when it’s just the two of us.
We started with a rather unproductive stop at Century 21. I found a stunning Emilio Pucci coat which was marked down to $1260 (from $4000 – which is a bit of a steal when you think about it, but not so much when you really think about it). In the end, Suzie found more than I did, but on a day trip without a hotel home-base, I didn’t mind being empty-handed. We walked along Central Park as it neared lunch time, making our way to the Plaza.
In the past, I’ve discounted this corner of New York as a tourist trap, and it still is, but there are nooks and hideaways that can get you away from the masses and into the embrace of a cocktail. The Rose Court is one such place, slightly hidden up and away from the Plaza’s Lobby. We found a velvet banquette in the corner and set up shop for a ladies-who-lunch moment. A martini and a burger are a great accompaniment for a conversation with an old friend (so is whatever froo-froo champagne concoction Suzie ordered off the menu). The latter came with an orange peel that occupied her. Food and service were both impeccable, and you pay for both. We finished and made our way to Broadway for a matinee preview of ‘M. Butterfly’ with Clive Owen. I was eagerly anticipating the visual sumptuousness that director Julie Taymor usually brings to her work, but it was sorely lacking. The jewel-box description of the show made it sound more beautiful and intricate that it is, but the cast did their best with it. Even when Broadway doesn’t shine at its brightest, it’s still a nice escape.
A walk back toward Penn Station and some shopping stops later (Suzie tried out a few pairs of Doc Martens as if it was 1994 all over again) and soon we were at Keen’s for a final cocktail before our train ride home. It’s our old pre-Madonna concert stomping ground, where we’d always grab a burger before the strenuous gauntlet of a Madison Square Garden show. On this night, a sleepy Sunday evening that had us peering up at the Empire State Building on a breezy but balmy balcony a few moments before, we paused at the bar, holding on to our last moments in the city.
For two weekends in a row, I made a trip to New York. That’s usually the extent of my travels to that not-quite-fair city in a year, but I’m coming around to its appeal after quite some time of general antipathy. It still fatigues me, it still wears on my nerves, and it still wreaks havoc with my social anxiety (it’s not exactly the place one can avoid people), but if I can seek out quieter spots and safe havens, as well as the escape of a Broadway show, I can usually enjoy it.
For the first weekend, I stayed at the rather atrocious Marmara Hotel. The less said about it the better, but I’ll reveal a contradictory complaint to whet your appetite. As some of you may know, I’m not shy about showing almost everything here and getting completely naked at the drop of a hat and/or outfit. I have no hang-ups about nudity or such, but I like to be in control of how it’s done, and how much is actually revealed, and I’m never naked in public in person. (You won’t see me parading around Times Square a la the naked cowboy or that frightening over-size adult baby.) In person, I’m rather shy, and almost always fully-clothed. (There are notable party exceptions, but there’s never full-on nudity of any sort.) So it was with shock and dismay when, in the midst of my changing for dinner, housekeeping barged into the room unannounced and saw me in all my middle-aged paunchy glory. My hands instinctively cupped my cock before I gave up the ghost and shrieked that someone was in the room, but the first woman likely got a full-frontal eyeful. Good for her, I guess, but who enters a room at 5 PM right after a guest has just checked in, and without knocking first? You can find the rest of my hotel review on Trip Advisor, but dirty carpet and sticky balcony doors won’t win anybody over.
Thankfully the rest of my first trip was rather wonderful. The main impetus was to try Tom Ford’s Ultra-Limited Private Blend “Fucking Fabulous†– as first reported here. I’d uncovered hints that Andy might be working on that as a Christmas gift, but its hefty price tag demanded an in-person test for confirmation that it was as exciting as its cheeky moniker. On Saturday morning I made my way up the plush, carpeted circular staircase leading to the fragrance room of the Madison Ave flagship store, and promptly sprayed my arm with the new scent. Happily, it’s exquisite. While it’s described as an Oriental Chypre, I got a much lighter feel from it. Softer than expected, it floats around one rather than stomping about like ‘Tuscan Leather’ or ‘Amber Absolute’ – the perfect bit of subtle sparkle and pizzazz for the upcoming holidays.
With my Tom Ford mission accomplished, I had time to take in a preview of ‘The Band’s Visit’ – the new Broadway musical that got rave reviews when it first opened in Connecticut last year. Those reviews were largely correct – it’s an enchanting little show with two lead performances that are lock-ins for Tony nominations. The music was glorious, the storyline quirky and unexpected, and despite a relatively stark and drab set (intentionally-so to fit the storyline) I was completely transported to another world. Initially and outwardly it appears as a dreary stop on a way to better places, but soon reveals itself rich in the wonder and beauty of the human experience. To be taken away from our own demons for a couple of hours is the greatest gift of a Broadway show.
The next weekend, Suzie would join me for another one…
It struck me as our train was speeding toward its over-an-hour-late arrival in Albany-Rensselaer at one o’clock in the morning. Suzie was asleep next to me and we had just enjoyed a marvelous day-trip to New York. Most of me was exhausted and supremely spent after departing before the break of day and arriving well after the fall of night. But a small part was not quite ready to stop, a part that didn’t want the carefree Sunday to end. A reminder that once upon a time the one AM hour was just when things started to get good.
At 42 years of age, I mostly find that those days have passed. A week later and I’m still trying to recover the sleep that was lost. The body doesn’t bounce back as quickly as it once did, the energy no longer replenishes itself instantly, and getting a second wind is a thing of miracles and dreams. When Miley Cyrus sings this strangely melancholy song of non-stop partying, it means something different to me. Hidden among the distorted vocals and modern machinations is a gorgeously sad melody that celebrates and bemoans not wanting the party to end. Defiant all the way into the first light of morning, we keep our hands up in the air, reaching for something that will always remain elusive, grasping for the final feather in the cap of a perfect day. We never seem to realize that by the time we are trying to capture the moment, it has already gone. Sometimes it’s enough to remember, sometimes it’s not.
And so we draw back from getting too serious, as if by keeping things silly and superficial we can tame the ticking of time, roll back the encroaching years, stop the loss and hurt that age and growing older inevitably bring. In ‘The Great Gatsby’, Daisy Buchanan staves off her sorrow by inhabiting a flimsy atmosphere of sheer, ephemeral glamour, lost in her soft cadence of whimsical words. I wonder if that’s the best way to deal with the world. Turn a blind eye. Escape in the fantasy of beauty and riches. Throw off heartache with the turn of a bracelet. Maybe Daisy was onto something. Maybe she knew things that we don’t.
Our train trundles onward, speeding us toward the final destination, trying to make up for lost time, whether we want off or not. In the still, dim compartment, young people parade by, former versions of ourselves. They’re just beginning, and in their wide-awake smiles and cheery countenance in the face of a very late train, I can see they have yet to be beaten down by life. It warms the heart. They don’t want to stop just yet either, and they have the energy and expanse of a long future to sustain them.
I just want to reach the soft comfort of my bed, and the moment after a long hot shower when I can sink under the covers and inhabit the only place I want to be at one AM these days.
The Boojolais Vampire Ball takes place tonight – starting at 6 PM at the Albany Capital Center. It’s the big dress-up day of the year for some of us – for me it’s just another Friday in bloomers. This year’s outfit is reminiscent of last year’s, but with a darker spin, and a bigger circumference (and I don’t just mean my stomach). It’s always a good time for a good cause. Tickets are still available, so I hope to see you there.
Never thought I’d be so moved by a couple of kids and their parents, but watch this all the way through and get the tissues handy.
Then check out the rest of the work that Landwirth Legacy is doing.
You’re gonna hear me roar, because I have nothing but accolades and excitement to report on my first season growing the lion’s paw plant you see in these photographs. Scientifically christened ‘Leonotis leonurus’ – oh what a beautiful bit of Latin alliteration! – the more common name for this beauty is the lion’s paw, based on the fuzzy petals of its monarda-like flower form. (It’s also called the lion’s tail plant in some circles, but I find the paw reference more fitting and accurate.)
I saw it in the corner of a Faddegon’s greenhouse earlier in the year and read about its size and orange color. For some reason, with the notable exception of a self-seeding butterfly weed (Asclepias) I have a hard time getting orange into the gardens. (I’m not a fan of marigolds.) The small photo on the plant marker promised that would change. It also promised a big, bodacious, space-filling annual that would astound in a single growing season.
I planted it in full sun, as was its listed preference, and waited. And waited. And waited. Slowly, it grew taller. Then wider. Then taller again. Finally, in the last couple of weeks, it flowered, and it was well-worth the wait. I took these photos in the late afternoon sun, and hopefully you will get the lion’s paw resemblance.
What I didn’t manage to capture, and therefore can’t completely convey, is the size and stature of this plant. It stands at a good five feet tall, and sprawls out just as wide. It’s a doozy of a plant and deceptively appears rather inconspicuous until the floral fireworks begin. That’s also where, at least for this season, things got the slightest bit problematic.
This specimen didn’t get going until late September. Luckily for us, we’ve had an extended run of summer weather so we were able to enjoy it, but for most years such gorgeousness would have been lost to the cold and frost. I’m not sure if its super-late-season blooms are normal, or if the spotty summer had something to do with it. From what I’ve read it enjoys a hot and dry atmosphere, similar to its native Africa, so perhaps our relatively rainy early summer set it back.
Hopefully I’ll be able to find a few of these again next year. I was going to see if I could capture some seeds, but I fear the frost will arrive before they have a chance to ripen. We shall see. Until then, you’re gonna hear this roar.
It was a promise I made after taking this summer’s break from blogging: no rules, no restrictions, and no obligation to blog for any other reasons than inspiration and desire. On this Monday, I’m writing one quick recap, because I spent all day yesterday in New York with Suzie. We shall get to that later in the week. (Everyone loves a Suzie Adventure.) First things first.
One of the very first Private Blends by Tom Ford was Tuscan Leather. All these years later, I finally came around to it.
Ease on down the yellow brick road.
Andy celebrated the first birthday since losing his father, and though it was a relatively somber affair, there was cake and pie and shrimp cocktail.
Get your Boo on at the upcoming Boojolais Vampire Ball this Friday, October 27.
A quarter of a century ago, Madonna released ‘Erotica’ and ‘Sex’ and my world would never be the same.
It’s a sad day when I end up defending children from a cashier at Lowe’s.
Hunks of the Day included Billy Eichner, Lewis Hamilton, Philip Fusco and Diego Arnary.
It’s a sad day when I, of all people, have to defend children at Lowe’s, from one of their own cashiers no less. Let’s set the scene: a sleepy weeknight at Lowe’s Albany-Northway, Store #1973, about 7 pm. I needed one thing: a paintbrush. A single paintbrush. Finding it within a couple of minutes, I hurried to the register area, where a guy with a bunch of shelves and brackets on a cart was just checking out. I moved over to the self-checkout area because the woman was having trouble getting the brackets to scan. Reclaiming my time…
Usually, I don’t do the self-checkout. Having worked in retail for a number of years, I have the scanning bug out of my system, and I’ll happily wait a few minutes so as not to deal with all the glitches that invariably accompany my luck with self-checkout. For a single paintbrush with an easy-to-locate bar code, however, I tried to make an exception. I passed another Lowe’s worker and when none of the scanners seemed to be working I asked if she could help.
“Those aren’t on,” she said dismissively.
“Oh, could you check me out then?”
“There’s a line already open,” she said, then went back to doing nothing.
I got back in the line and there was still an issue with the scanning. Andrea the cashier was trying to scan and check the customers out, but it wasn’t happening. Minutes ticked by. People joined the only line in the store. Now, I have to give credit to Lowe’s because up until this night they were usually great about making sure that there aren’t lines or long waits (with the very annoying exception of the garden center in spring). On this night, however, they suspended that service for some reason. The line grew to nine people (of which three children were a part).
Finally, I said something, “Can you call someone else over – you’ve got nine people in this line.”
Andrea gave me a smug smile before saying, “There’s not nine people in line.”
I looked behind me, including at the kids. Andrea looked too. “The kids don’t count,” she said, almost under her breath.
For the most part, when someone says ‘kids don’t count’ I’m all on board with that. Normally I would be 100% behind the sentiment. I mean, sign me up for the kid-bashing ball. But not this night, not when I’m waiting in a line and explaining to the lady at the register that there’s nine people in the line and she says there’s not. At that point we have a problem.
“Umm, kids do count,” I said, somewhat taken aback at the words that were coming out of my mouth.
She then went further, with a little condescending smile: “They only count if they pay.”
Nope. Sorry, Andrea. They’re in line standing there, they count. She proceeds to give me the snottiest look ever, and I know snotty looks. I’ve been giving snotty looks for years. I know them well. That’s cool though – if I can give them I can take them. I can also call Andrea out on this blog. She is an awful employee, and not such a great person based on how she acted.
Finally, someone else came over to open another register. (The line really was ridiculous.) I checked out, thankfully not having to deal with Andrea (who still seemed unable to finish up with those original customers) and left with a single paintbrush.
It better be one damn good paintbrush.
A cardinal has been visiting our seven-sons flower tree for the past week, alighting among its salmon seed-heads. We’ve never seen them feast on this plant before, but there it was, a little crimson beacon against a bright but sky. Andy’s Mom must be watching over him during his birthday month. There are always signs that lost loved ones are around, and as I watched the magnificent bird come back for a few days I realized that this will be a difficult time for Andy.
He has never been one for a big birthday celebration. He’d prefer dinner with a select few at his favorite restaurant. This year he wanted something even more low-key: a dinner at home with no one. As it was his birthday, I obliged, even though I was a bit puzzled because he usually wants at least a dinner out. Then I understood: this was his first birthday without his father too.
I did what I could. A big bouquet of pink roses. Tickets to a show at Proctor’s. A slew of birthday cards. A cake and a lemon pie. And a shrimp cocktail – a favorite of his. He was appreciative, but I could tell he was down. The first birthday as an orphan, no matter how old one gets, must make for a conflicting state of emotions. I felt a profound sadness in being so helpless to make anything better for him.
The next day he was in better spirits. Temperatures had risen. The sun was out. Our pool was heated and might just give us one more day of use. A chipmunk sat on the back patio, perched on a lawn chair. Life continued on, and I realized that Andy must feel a sense of relief that another birthday was done. Sometimes the pressure and expectation of a day to be happy and fun takes away all of its genuine joy.
We moved on with the hope that next year will be better.
Somehow we have twisted fate into finding an agreeable dinner date for a gathering with four of my favorite people, and I’m about to begin planning an adults-only dinner with a Gold Rim theme. (Everybody wants to go for the obvious rim-job reference, but it’s really just based on the cocktail glasses you see here. Sickos.)
For a Gold Rim glass, one needs a proper gold-themed cocktail to go with it. This is a perfect match:
We’ll also have sidecars on hand, and lots of gold, including a new pair of curtains I bought specifically for the season. Yes, I’m that anal. It’s a Gold Rim party. What did you expect? The only question is which Tom Ford Private Blend best goes with gold. I’m torn between Amber Absolute and Rive d’Ambre. A delicious dilemma.
Hard – very hard – to believe that this marks the 25th anniversary of Madonna’s ‘Erotica’ album and ‘Sex’ book. What a heady time the fall of 1992 was – I still don’t know if I ever came to terms with that period of my life, and I’m certain no good would come of it making any sense at this point. Adolescence is a rocky time in one’s life – coupled with everything else a burgeoning gay boy goes through, it’s a wonder some of us survive (and the sad fact remains that some of us don’t). I don’t think I’ll ever know what got me through it, but I do know that part of it was thanks to Madonna.
The ‘Erotica’ period has a darker underside that I don’t always acknowledge. At the time of its release I was going through my own dark period, and in a weird way it kept me alive. I wanted to hear it. On one rainy night I held onto that thought as I careened through wet leaf-strewn roads and tear-stained eyes. I wanted to feel alive in the way that only Madonna’s music could make me feel. Most of us have one or two artists that do that for us, touching a chord that rings in the specific tone that feels destined only for own experience. Something in their delivery, and the way a song resonates at the exact point in time when it means the most. The right song at the right time can save your life.
Coming as it did as my own sexual self was awakening, I was not immune to the work at hand, nor was my cock immune to the stirrings of seeing those naked guys at the long-defunct Gaiety preen and pose in naked abandon. Sex was life. It was vital to it. It literally created it. The idea that Madonna’s book, and her whispered coos and orgasmic sighs on the ‘Erotica’ album, would elicit cum from men the world over was a thrill in and of itself. That both men and women would find a sort of orgiastic release from the joint project lent a hedonistic abandon to the whole affair, like some love-bead-festooned 60’s free-love-for-all fuck-fest in which we could all participate – jointly, singly, collectively.
It was there in the ‘Deeper and Deeper‘ video and its first live performance in The Girlie Show. It was there in the ‘Erotica’ video too, where peeks into the shooting of the ‘Sex’ book became a grainy art form in itself. It was there in Madonna’s Dita Parlo persona, presiding over proceedings with a whip and a gold-toothed smile, both in charge and demanding to be taken from behind.
At their gritty best, the ‘Sex’ book and ‘Erotica’ album personified a multi-faceted look at their subject matter – good, bad, ugly, uncomfortable, beautiful, tender, raw and rough – and most people couldn’t take such complexity without revealing their own discomfort with the idea that sex wasn’t necessarily dirty (or that its dirtiness was a form of gorgeousness). Today, the images are no more extreme than the ads that populate any number of fashion magazines, not to mention the veritable pornography on standard television.
Back then, though, ‘Sex’ was a big deal. For Madonna fans especially. My friend Ann’s mother had procured the book for me and I descended into my basement lair to view it in the bright and harsh double fluorescent tubes of the early 1990’s. Turning each page and taking in each image was an experience that was seering itself into my head. The smell of those stiff pages, the shiny cold metal of the covers, and the provocative poses within aroused all my senses. As the mylar-encased CD single of ‘Erotica’ played in the background, my mind journeyed with Madonna on her sexual adventures- from the dungeons of New York City to the tropical playground of the Florida shore – and the rapturous appreciation of such a work of art inspired me on a path that has led to all my creative endeavors, from writing to photography to this very blog.
‘Sex’ – the book – got everyone’s attention. It was the elusive party invite that everyone wanted but no one wanted to admit to wanting. Not unlike sex the act. Pretty genius on Madonna’s part, and everyone fell for it. The naked girl brings everyone to the door, but what’s going to keep us in the room? For me, it was the music. While lead single ‘Erotica’ was the headliner, it wasn’t close to being the strongest cut. That honor went to ‘Deeper and Deeper’, which picked up right where ‘Vogue’ left off, featuring a flamenco guitar bridge that impels the most staid person to move once that bass kicks back in. Let your body go with the flow, indeed. Giving ‘Deeper’ a run for its money, albeit a slower and more somber one, is ‘Rain’ – one of Madonna’s strongest ballads, and a beautiful foil for the heat and crackle of the album. Whereas tracks like ‘Fever‘ and ‘Thief of Hearts‘ burned, ‘Rain’ cooled and soothed the savage beast brought out by all the heavy breathing. ‘Bad Girl‘ tempered all the antics with a dose of self-blame and a brilliant David Fincher-directed video (with a guest turn by Christopher Walken no less). Deeper cuts like ‘Words‘ and ‘Secret Garden’ proved Madonna’s musical mettle and completed an album that was somewhat maligned on release, but that has proven a potent slice of 90’s dance-pop all these years later.
The backlash was swift and harsh. People get all bent out of shape when anyone steps beyond boundaries regarding America’s ridiculously puritanical public stance on sex. Madonna was attacked even more than usual, and this time some of it stuck, tarnishing her run as uncontested top-of-the-pop goddess. After the title track, the singles uncharacteristically stalled on the Billboard charts, failing to rise to her usual perch at number one. It was a career slump (even if it was a rather successful one at that) and the criticism seems to have stung Madonna more than usual. There’s sometimes a sad beauty to sex, so the dampening denouement felt like a fitting finale. It still couldn’t dim the fireworks that Madonna set off, and this period remains a favorite stretch for many a fan.
In my own life, it came at the jumping-off point for sexual exploration. It titillated in a safe masturbatory way, it took unabashed pleasure in itself, and it offered no apology for any of it. “A lot of people don’t say what they want,” Madonna wrote at the end of the book, “That’s why they don’t get what they want.” Simple and true, it was Madonna at her brazen best. Fuck you, literally, if you don’t want to get it. I was just beginning my trip down the rabbit’s hole of sexual wonderland. It was still shiny and new, but I now had markers and signifiers. I had hints of what sex was, stories and tales of arousal and excitement, images and songs of sexual events. Tied into love and romance, heartache and betrayal, sex was something sacred and serious, along with playful and fun. It was all there in the aural romp of the ‘Erotica’ album, there in the pages of ‘Sex’ – and if the woman whom I had idolized and worshipped could make matter-of-fact commentary on the subject, it might be safe to discuss all the questions and concerns I had.
One week from today, the Boo-jolais Vampire Ball swoops into the Albany Capital Center, promising a wicked night of delicious costumed devilry to kick off the Halloween season in high style. After trying out the costumed theme and shifting the date of this a few weeks earlier than previous years, it sounds like the Alliance for Positive Health has honed and refined the focus of this event, transforming it into a decadent Vampire Ball.
Albany is turning itself out for this evening, with local luminaries lending their culinary creations to the celebration at hand. The list is pretty impressive:
Also of note is the Silent Auction, which now includes a Tropical Island Getaway, a Mariah Carey Holiday concert, a weekend getaway at Gardner Farm Inn, a Burger 21 Food Truck party, a vodka tour and tasting, an Adirondack getaway at the Mirror Lake Inn, a day of pampering at Complexions Spa, and a Cocktail party put on by Experience & Creative Design.
Bare your fangs, and whatever else you wish – costumes are especially encouraged and appreciated, but any fancy get-up will do. Get your Boo on and join us for the fun!
Two score and a decade and half of years ago, a baby was born who would give his parents, myself, and everyone who knows him much joy. This is Andy’s birthday and, as is his desire, it will be a low-key event, without fanfare or pomp, but I’m still going to make some ado about it here because while he may not want a big bash, he’s more than worthy of some public gushing and online accolades. (He’s on Twitter and Instagram – @drewvanwagenen – so show him some birthday love and tell him I sent you.)
Since he’s not big on having his photo taken, he’s not on this site as often as he should be, but his spirit imbues just about everything I do, informing all of these posts in ways not often seen or blatantly explained. The truth is that I wouldn’t be half of who I am without him in my life, and maybe that should be said a little more often. Perhaps somewhat carelessly on my part, I’ve always assumed that everyone knew that. On this, his birthday, I’m taking a moment to confirm it.
Happy Birthday Drew – and many happy returns of the day!
