They wheeled her into the room during a tense time. I can’t put my finger on what was wrong, and this was, after all, just a dream, but even in dreams the ominous can be felt. The atmosphere just felt worrisome, the way you feel when you’ve forgotten something but don’t yet realize what it is. She looked tiny, much smaller than the childhood memories I have of this grand woman, who always seemed larger than life. Now, in my dream, her hair was shrunken like the rest of her, and her legs were so diminutive that at first I thought they were gone.
My grandmother, gone from this earth for a few years, now visiting my dreams, and looking, despite her size and wheelchair, full of color and life. Her skin was no longer pale or addled with veins. It glowed a healthy color. Around her head an aura glistened like sun on the sea. Yet it was her eyes that transfixed me most: they sparkled.
Then the dream was done, and the uneasiness that has plagued my nights of late returned in the dark and empty room.
Blog posts are traditionally titled with the aim of gaining clicks and viewers, devised with snappy and often saucy phrases to whet the appetite and entice the casual browser. This is not one of those. This is an honest description of the way I feel at this time of the year, and the way I feel about this recap of the week. There’s a whole month left of winter, so chew on that while you look back.
“In most other areas of the luxury market, instant gratification has also become part of the luxury experience. In fact, the ultimate luxury now is to not have to wait at all. It is a romantic notion to think that people want to wait for things and anticipate them, but I’m afraid that no one really wants to wait for anything anymore.” ~ Tom Ford
It’s never too early to be thinking about summer. Sometimes, it’s the best way of getting through the winter. As such, when a few new Tom Ford fragrances were recently announced, I was giddy with daydreams of summer mornings, lazy afternoon swims, and sultry, languid evenings. The most promising is a new Private Blend ‘Soleil Blanc’ – which I had a quick whiff of a few weeks ago, but didn’t delve too deep as it reeked of summer and coconut oil and I didn’t want to spoil it with a winter memory. Scent is powerful that way and is often said to be the strongest memory-trigger. ‘Soleil Blanc’ is the aptly named white sun of summer, and though I’ve never been very keen on coconut, this one may make it into my beach vacation repertoire. (Clearly a beach excursion is required this year.) It is said to dry down with an underlying amber glow, which brings it into closer proximity with ‘Costa Azzurra’.
The other new ones are in the Portofino line, something that’s on the verge of being overdone. It’s definitely his most accessible of the Private Blend offerings, but the Private Blend line has, for me, remained special because they are so often dark and complex, and not the usual light-hearted citrus-fare of so many colognes. Don’t get me wrong – ‘Mandarino Di Amalfi’ is exquisite, and come June I will be bathing in it daily. But for a Private Blend I prefer things a bit more off the sand-beaten path.
At any rate, it’s fun to fantasize about the sunny season, and these next few weeks are when we all get a little antsy for a shift out of winter gear. I can’t think of anyone better to lead the way than Tom Ford.
HOLLYWOOD – Friend Movement and Vertex Media are proud to announce the development of “The Ronnie and Eddie Show,†a comedic reality show that follows the lives of actor and entrepreneur duo, Ronnie Kroell and “Laughing Eddie†Lobo.
“The Ronnie and Eddie” Show follows the lives of BRAVO’s, “Make Me A Super Model†fan favorite, Ronnie Kroell and Hollywood Funny Man, “Laughing Eddie†Lobo on a roller coaster journey of dreams, drama, and helping others. Each 30-minute episode brings the viewer an intimate look behind the “smoke and mirrors” of Hollywood, the challenges of operating a business, and the joy of making the dreams of others come true. The show promises to bring the humor of Laverne and Shirley, the drama of Vanderpump Rules, and the heart of Extreme Home Makeover.
Enjoy celebrity cameos from the likes of BRUCE VILANCH, KARAMO BROWN, AYLIN BAYRAMOGLU, FRENCHIE DAVIS, and more to be announced.By supporting “THE RONNIE AND EDDIE SHOW†on Indiegogo, supporters have a part in creating a new Hollywood – a more inclusive, supportive, and talent driven place to dream.
I support any project that serves to inject a little heart into the Hollywood universe, and any person who aims to combine their love of entertainment with a love for humanity. Best of Luck, Ronnie & Eddie.
Strange things have been known to happen in the woods. As beautiful and serene as they most often are, there is a darkness to them, a hint of danger and terror that lurks beneath the leaves, behind the bark. A canopy of foliage can keep out the sun, but it will never keep out the night.
Yet there is something about the beginning of a journey that lends its own illumination, no matter how rainy or dreary the day. The innocence of not knowing what’s to come is its own amulet of power, and that makes it almost impossible to destroy.
When the snowstorm moved off at last, and the afternoon sun lit up the high-rise hotels, the scene was magnificent to behold. It was the sort of light most of us don’t get to see very much – the strange immediate appearance of the sun after a day of steady snowfall. Coupled with the rapid approach of dusk, the snow and ice took on layers of lavender – as pink and purple fought for dominance, and the fiery orb of salmon descended in the West.
It doesn’t often happen that the snow will alight so prettily on the branches and remain there. Usually it’s as fickle as the fluttering birds, especially when the wind begins. On this day, the wetness of the snow and the relative lack of wind allowed the beauty to last.
Looking like a cotton candy world, in the lightest shades of pink and blue, the effect is exquisite. It lasts only moments, as if such magnificence was not long for this universe. Soon, the light would depart, and dusk would take its place. An almost imperceptible shift if you watch as it happens, but dramatically obvious if you take your eyes away from it for any length of time.
From the relatively safe vantage point overlooking the street, one can vaguely make out the towering Marriott and Westin hotels, along with the building formerly known as the John Hancock – though the latter almost disappears from snowy view on this afternoon. Somehow I’ve made it to the corner market for provisions, and soon dinner will be roasting away. There is wine as well, and a good book or two.
Bread and cheese, green apples and ginger tea. Something to hold until the main meal. A bluesy jazz standard plays on the stereo. It is a cozy scene.
Watching the world outside turn white, while the inside glows in amber shades offset by the celery green walls, is one of life’s contrasting pleasures. I pull the curtains open a bit more and strain to look down the rest of the street.
The snowfall lasts most of the day, but just before the light turns, the skies clear.
It is a majestic moment, rife with beauty, made more dear by its fleeting and ephemeral nature. Such splendor cannot last.
Grabbing a camera, I rush downstairs, without even a coat. I don’t intend to go beyond the steps of the brownstone, but the scene is so wondrous I suddenly find myself walking into Southwest Corridor Park, seeking the falling sun, and thrilling at the way it lights the treetops and buildings.
Clumped in the branches of the trees, and moist enough to tenaciously hang onto their perches in spite of the breeze, the snow looks like fluffy wads of cotton.
There are others out in the surreal air, camera phones lifted, each of us trying to capture the quicksilver moment, to freeze the beauty for some future end-of-summer day when the heat and humidity are once again unbearable. We yearn for what we have not at hand.
The onset of evening. The deepening of the sky. The glow of the snow.
A home away from home, and the glorious end of a day.
Let me just own something from the very start: I’m a pop lover through and through. Despite early concerts of Guns ‘N Roses and Metallica (shout out to my high-school bestie Ann!) and even earlier folk inspiration like Peter, Paul & Mary, my heart belongs to light and frilly pop, and I’ve never apologized for it or pretended otherwise. From the very first time I heard ‘Material Girl‘ by my main muse, pop music has held me rapt, inspiring me as much as any other art form. There’s just something about a simple pop song that cuts to the very core of the human experience, and as universal as many of them are, they can also be intensely personal and individual. The best ones straddle both worlds.
Today, I’m presenting an old one, at least by pop culture timeframes, which move at a lightning pace. This is ‘Dear Future Husband’ by Meghan Trainor (who just won a Grammy, BTW). You’re going to judge it, I know you are, but that’s ok. Just press play and see what happens. If it doesn’t lift you up in some small way, we should probably not be friends. I need to be the cynical one in all my relationships.
AFTER EVERY FIGHT JUST APOLOGIZE AND MAYBE THEN I’LL LET YOU TRY & ROCK MY BODY RIGHT EVEN IF I WAS WRONG (YOU KNOW I’M NEVER WRONG!) WHY DISAGREE? WHY, WHY DISAGREE?
YOU GOTTA KNOW HOW TO TREAT ME LIKE A LADY EVEN WHEN I’M ACTING CRAZY TELL ME EVERYTHING’S ALL RIGHT.
Sex has made a dirty name for itself over the years, and any celebration of cock is going to be met with instantaneous dismissal if not outright hostility. The Hunks featured here, some of whom are gay (and straight) porn actors, pose and preen in proudly naked form, and in some small (and big) ways they are hopefully blazing new trails of sexual acceptance for a sex-positive world. One artist who is also pushing for a transformation in the way our culture demonizes sex is Nicolas Brunet.
His website ‘The Art of Nicolas Brunet‘ is gloriously NSFW, and more than worth a perusal if you’re into fascinating work that pushes boundaries and highlights the maximum pumptitude of the penis. Devilishly and deliciously not for the faint of heart, his artwork flirts with the profane, but actually makes greater strides in putting forth a world where words like ‘profane’ don’t exist, or at the very least matter.
Witness his glorification and depiction of gay porn actors. He paints a pretty picture of these gentlemen – worshipped and wanted in certain circles, and the judgment and derision sometimes heaped upon the gay porn industry is here transformed into a component of inspiration and beauty. Changing attitudes and social constructions doesn’t happen overnight, if it happens at all, but Brunet’s giddy joy in crafting such figures, and the exuberant arousal they put forth, is perhaps more effective than any abstract ideological argument on the subject.
The rock-solid phallic perfection of his work seems partly inspired by the legendary Tom of Finland, and his famous crotch shots. Yet Brunet’s work injects a modern-day edge, occasionally going boldly into sci-fi territory. There is a rich history of this sort of sexual display, going back to the erotic Japanese wood blocks centuries ago to current day Yaoi and Manga.
Not that it’s always been about sex and pleasure. Solitude plays a recurrent theme in many of his pieces, with auto-erotic acts and ejaculation made in mostly solitary respect. The men here don’t often come together, and the juxtaposition of such an intimate and isolated act given a public display makes much of the work crackle with tension.
Brunet is also a master of making quieter moments come to brilliant life. The longing of a man sniffing a shoe – a lost lover’s, a boyfriend’s, or his own is unclear – but what does come through is a palpable and resonant depiction of yearning. Maybe it’s a sexual peccadillo, or maybe it’s something more. The most powerful part of Brunet’s skill is that he leaves it up to the viewer to fill in the rest, and filling in the blanks has never been more fun.
It had to happen, sooner or later. The arrival of winter in full frigid form, with the kind of cold that bites into your throat as soon as you step outside. We had it this past weekend, and while not entirely unwelcome it’s still a shock. (You all remember last year, right? This is NOTHING compared to that…) In other words, we are right where we should be, polar vortex nonsense and everything. On with the recap, to keep you warm.
Our folksy Valentine’s Day mix continues and concludes in this song-filled post. The acoustic guitars are being strummed and the piano keys are delicately being tickled as the voices of love birds sweetly coo their romantic yearnings. Or do they?
Perhaps no other musician conjures such a sense of longing and passion as Cassandra Wilson in her rendition of ‘Love Is Blindness.’ Songs like this gut the heart, splitting it apart in desolation and desperation. When love is unrequited it sometimes feels more real. That’s the dangerous foolishness of the whole affair: the silly ways we want, the dumb ways we desire.
LOVE IS DROWNING IN A DEEP WELL
ALL THE SECRETS AND NO ONE TO TELL
TAKE THE MONEY, HONEY, LOVE IS BLINDNESS
LOVE IS BLINDNESS
I DON’T WANT TO SEE, WON’T YOU WRAP THE NIGHT AROUND ME?
It turns out that love is tricky terrain, especially in the winter. Especially around Valentine’s Day. So many expectations, so many disappointments, so many traps set up by the fools at Hallmark, the gods of love, and the rest of us raising our middle fingers to Venus and Cupid, dodging crippling arrows or painting a bull’s-eye across our chests, and wishing and hoping and praying…
BOY ON THE BIKE, WHAT ARE YOU LIKE AS YOU CYCLE AROUND THE TOWN?
IT’S NOT AS IF THEY’RE PAYING YOU, IT’S NOT AS IF IT’S FUN
AT LEAST NOT ANYMORE...
During a brutal winter in Chicago, in the last days of a relationship that we both tried valiantly to save at various, if opposite, points I listened to ‘Bitterly’ by Me’Shell NdegeOcello. It probably wasn’t the healthiest thing I could have heard, but I knew it had to be done. I had to hurt before I could heal. I had to cry before I could laugh. I had to feel the pain before I could hope for any bit of happiness.
As the wind whipped down the long lonely streets of the city, off the lake and carrying with it tiny shards of ice, I let it seep into my coat and tug at my hair. I didn’t want it to happen, but I felt it was. The arrival of bitterness, and not the slightest sense of sweet to offset any of it.
MY APOLOGIES FALL ON YOUR DEAF EARS, YOU CURSE MY NAME BITTERLY
AND NOW YOUR EYES, THEY LOOK AT ME BITTERLY
I STAND ASHAMED AMIDST MY FOOLISH PRIDE
‘CAUSE FOR US THERE’LL BE NO MORE.
AND NOW MY EYES LOOK AT YOU BITTERLY.
We did our best, and we failed. Yet I don’t regret any of those early loves. They almost make me smile, and the people in those memories still warm my heart a bit. I will never feel bad for loving someone, and certainly not for being loved, no matter if it didn’t last. ‘The Boy Done Wrong Again’ and ‘Requiescat’ – two sides of a heart, or maybe a head. Where does love begin and end?
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We are going to skip the next two songs originally on this downtrodden mix because they are going a bit too deep for my liking, and if we don’t right this sinking shop soon, Valentine’s Day will be lost forever. (For the record, they were ‘X-Static Process‘ and ‘The Drugs Don’t Work‘ – which was once reckoned to be the saddest song ever written. Besides, I’ve already written about both. No need to rehash the wounds.)
Rather, let’s close with a couple of quiet rays of hope in the doldrums of all this cynical Valentine-bashing bullshit. First up, an ambivalent but somehow hopeful take on a relationship in ‘Ring on the Sill’ by the Cowboy Junkies:
HE PUTS HER RING ON HER FINGER, SHE BRUSHES BACK HIS HAIR.
HE TAKES A SIP FROM HIS GLASS, SHE INHALES THE COLD FALL AIR
AND THEY’RE THINKING OF THE LONG ROAD AHEAD,
AND THE STRENGTH THAT THEY WILL NEED JUST TO REACH THE END…
AND THERE IN THE SILENCE THEY SEARCH FOR THE BALANCE
BETWEEN THIS FEAR THAT THEY FEEL AND A LOVE THAT HAS GRACED THEIR LIVES.
And last, to close out this day on a gentle note, an echo of our opening song from Side One by Duncan Sheik: the full version of ‘The Wilderness.’ It’s what happens when you take love and heartache and pain and fear and passion and adoration and forgiveness, and turn it all into art.
Last year I posted a Valentine’s Mix for all you lovely lovers out there who so faithfully visit here even on days of love. It was an admittedly cheesy, over-the-top affair, with power ballads from the 80’s and no dearth of shameless hooks and pop iconography. Side One featured Chicago, Survivor, and Journey, while Side Two had the likes of Debbie Gibson, Tommy Page, and… wait for it… Journey again.
This year I’m posting a mix I made many winters ago, one that I only now noticed contained a number of love songs. Not the dewy-eyed bubble-gum notion of love, but something deeper. Simpler too, and all the more powerful for it. Nothing here will strike your ear-drums with the aural bombast and pomposity of those pop power ballads, but perhaps you’ll connect on a sweeter level.
We begin with ‘The Wilderness: Prelude’ by Duncan Sheik. A simple, plaintive rumination on the heart, and words of love. The power of a single ‘yes’, which someone once claimed to be the happiest word in the English language.
THE WORD IS TOLD NOW, THE WORD IS SAID
THE WORD IS OLD NOW, AND THE STONE IS BREAD
THE HEART IS BONE NOW, THE HEART IS FLESH
THE HEART IS KNOWN NOW, AND THE NO IS YES.
I will forego posting the second song on the original mix, as it’s already been written about here: ‘Time In A Bottle.’ Instead, let’s fast-forward to ‘Annie’s Song’ by John Denver. Believe it or not, I was raised on such folk songs. My Mom spun Peter, Paul & Mary, Judy Collins, and John Denver on our record player, and we listened and sang along. It was a lesson in sweet melodies and soothing harmonies, underlined by a sentiment of love.
YOU FILL UP MY SENSES, LIKE A NIGHT IN THE FOREST
LIKE THE MOUNTAINS IN SPRINGTIME, LIKE A WALK IN THE RAIN
LIKE A STORM IN THE DESERT, LIKE A SLEEPY BLUE OCEAN
YOU FILL UP MY SENSES, COME FILL ME AGAIN.
On that original winter love mix, I also included ‘Dust in the Wind’ – but I’m not feeling it today. Folk it. The same will be said and done for ‘Gay Messiah’ by Rufus Wainwright. I adore the guy, but the dirge-like gay Jesus song is better left on the circumcision-room floor. Moving on…
Let’s return to our Duncan Sheik folk thread with ‘Mr. Chess’ – an acoustic guitar rhapsody on dreams and queens and kings and pawns – the parade of the Court of Life, marching across all our nights.
On this frigid Valentine’s Day weekend, our first side ends on the quiet note of the Cowboy Junkies, and their warm cup of ‘Cold Tea Blues.’ It’s a simple song, with only the strumming of a guitar and a few deftly placed piano notes, and the airy voice of Margo Timmins. I was first introduced to the Cowboy Junkies at a dinner that took place at the end of a high school winter. We were planning a trip to Europe, to pick up Suzie that summer, and on the stereo ‘Black-Eyed Man’ played in the background. While that album played a part in the following spring and summer, ‘Cold Tea Blues’ – off their ‘Pale Sun Crescent Moon’ album – would inform a future winter.
IF I POUR YOUR CUP, THAT IS FRIENDSHIP
IF I ADD YOUR MILK, THAT IS MANNERS
IF I STOP THERE, CLAIMING IGNORANCE OF TASTE
THAT IS TEA.
BUT IF I MEASURE THE SUGAR TO SATISFY YOUR EXPECTANT TONGUE,
THEN THAT IS LOVE…
BUT IF I MEASURE THE SUGAR TO SATISFY YOUR EXPECTANT TONGUE,
THEN THAT IS LOVE…
SITTING UNTOUCHED, AND GROWING COLD.
{A Valentine Folk-You Mix will continue… stay tuned.}
“A few times in my life I’ve had moments of absolute clarity, when for a few brief seconds the silence drowns out the noise and I can feel rather than think, and things seem so sharp. And the world seems so fresh as though it had all just come into existence. I can never make these moments last. I cling to them, but like everything, they fade. I have lived my life on these moments. They pull me back to the present, and I realize that everything is exactly the way it was meant to be.” ~ ‘A Single Man’
Even if it had not been directed by Tom Ford, the film version of Christopher Isherwood’s ‘A Single Man’ would have intrigued me, with its themes of solitude, lost love, human connection, and the notion of living every moment to its fullest. Being that it was directed by Mr. Ford, there’s a whole other level of beauty, grace, and exquisite stylization that only a man of Ford’s taste and design could conjure.
I was moved the first time I saw it in the theater, but this is a film that actually grows better with each viewing. Every frame is a work of art, a perfectly-composed photograph. Sometimes it’s almost too perfect, which is one reason why it was originally seen as somewhat chilly and remote. I find just the opposite to be true. The beauty here is crackling; it strikes with heat and ferociousness. It also serves the purpose: this film demands that the viewer, like the protagonist, sees everything as if for the first time. Especially when it might be the last time.
Ford is masterful in his use of color, as expected from such a fashion wizard, and it works brilliantly as a tributary into the grand vision of the entire piece. Each section, each tiny vignette, each jewel of a close-up ~ they contribute to a mesmerizing and moving experience. Perhaps it’s too subtle for a modern audience. As I get older, I feel the loss of that studied pace of life. Maybe it’s just the sadness that sometimes comes from getting older. Yet in this film, the sadness of growing up and losing things is countered compellingly by all the beauty.
It’s in the kiss of a man. The kiss of a woman. The rolling waves of the ocean. A short trail of cigarette smoke from the lips. A corridor of lemon trees. The burning blaze of a sun’s descent. The clear, sparkling blue eyes of youth. A stillness in a shared night. Such gorgeous loneliness, such terrible beauty. Such is the sumptuous panoply of life.
It begins and ends in stillness. With the gentle closing of the door behind me, the hushed sanctuary of the Boston condo immediately inspires a tranquility that I’ve only found here. In the mid-afternoon sunlight, streaming through the bedroom and over the hardwood floors, I let out a deep breath.
It is one of my favorite moments, when everything is pristine and bright. The possibilities of an afternoon unfurl in the back of my head. I set my bags down and survey any negligent messes left by my brother. Having witnessed the slow, and now rapid, decline of my parents’ house during his time there, I am adamant that similar destruction not occur here. Thankfully nothing is too bad, aside from a messy floor that he’s never vacuumed a day in his life. No matter, a proper spring cleaning is around the corner.
I walk into the bathroom, badly in need of a renovation, and make a few mental notes. A cracked tile trips me up at the threshold, so I gently shuffle it back into place. Pulling open the curtains a bit, I allow light to fill the space. It’s rare that the window is open, and the effect is refreshing. Something to consider for the future.
Backing out into the bedroom, I wearily eye the need for another coat of paint. It’s only white, but the closet and storage doors have never been painted, the walls are marred by scrapes and nail holes, and the trim is in need of updating. That’s in the future, though, and my ambition will only serve a bathroom project for now.
Here, I pause. Through the window blinds, bright bands of sun rays spill over the floor and bed. Sunlight, when this strong, is much welcomed in the winter, and it’s a luxury to be in this room, at this hour, when a long weekend is in its infancy.
