That summer had also been a rainy one, and on a Sunday evening, after playing cards with the girls, I made my way to Lark Street. The rain had let up, and the evening had turned into a beautiful one.

I would go out for one cocktail, completely alone, sit at the bar, and be all right with being alone. There was nothing left to prove.

I walked into Oh Bar wearing an old pair of Structure jeans and a T-shirt. The place was practically deserted on this particular Sunday night, and I was glad for that. Sitting at the bar, I ordered a screwdriver and smiled at the sunny glass of orange before me. For all that had happened, I was all right. Without any job prospects before me (aside from a quick temp assignment at the Boston Phoenix), without any real direction of where I was headed, I still felt good about things, and the expansive future of what-might-come spread out before me.

A trio of guys came into the bar and sat down at a table behind me. I turned around briefly, but meeting men was not why I went out that night, so I went back to my drink and solitude. When I finished, I was about to leave when one of the guys, who said his name was Patrick, introduced himself and invited me over to their table. I hesitated, then agreed. There were worse things than talking and meeting a few new people.

The cutest of the pack sat across from me, and I thought he was so handsome that he would be completely out of my league. He said his name was Andy. I looked into his eyes and saw what my life might be, and though it was the last thing I was looking for, the idea of love peeked out of my heart. I dared to hope that he was seeing the same thing.

We stared into one another for hours, talking until we were the last two people there. I didn’t want the morning to come. We’ve been together ever since, and today we celebrate our tenth anniversary.

Happy Anniversary Andy – I love you. Here’s to us!

Last night I took him out to 677 Prime for an early anniversary present, something a little fancier than our Friday night plans (when we’ll return to where it all began). They are running a great special ($80 for a three course meal for two) through the end of July (Monday through Thursday only) and one of the entrée selections is lobster mac-and-cheese. I will do anything and go anywhere for this particular dish, so the fact that it’s part of a special is just a big meant-to-be bonus. Culinary destiny has smiled on us. (I won’t even get into the seven hour cherry pepper pork appetizer because I’m liable to drive back downtown and do it all over again.)

You should definitely check it out – it’s a true steal.

{You can play the song, but please ignore the cheesy slide show.}

The official start of summer is upon us, and though it’s been many years since I had summers off, I still get a thrill when the season arrives. There are many summer memories I could share, but most fall flat in the retelling because they don’t so much encapsulate an extraordinary event or interesting happening as much as they evoke the feelings I had at the time.

I remember the summer of 1998 quite distinctly, though I wasn’t working full-time. Staying with my parents was the easy way out of a hot city summer in Boston. I think it was during the last few weeks of my retail stint at Structure, and I was in and out of the Malls constantly. The sterile white-washed brightness of Crossgates, so cool despite its roof of windows, offered respite from the heat, and though I spent many moments walking in its endless hallway with countless other shoppers, I often felt alone and isolated.

Madonna’s ‘Ray of Light’ single had just dropped and I picked up the CD-maxi with the B-side ‘Has to Be’. It was from her ‘Ray of Light’ sessions, ambient and moody, and perfect for the purgatorial summer doldrums that were about to set in.

Outside, the car was an oven. I opened the windows and cranked the AC before stepping back out into the sunshine. A wave of heat escaped, rising above the steaming roof. Tearing off the plastic wrapper, I pulled the CD out and examined the artwork. A bright multi-pointed star spun around its axis, the same minimalist fare on an aqua background that signaled the ‘Ray of Light’ release.

In the CD player, Madonna’s voice intoned, “Breathe in, breathe out… I say a little prayer.” A dirge-like plaintive delivery with the cool, watery, electronic vibe provided by William Orbit, the song was rightfully a B-side, but like most of her throwaway work, there were a few glimmers of brilliance.

I know there’s someone out there
Waiting for me,
There must be someone out there
There just has to be…

I should be glad that I’m alive,
It could have been much worse.
I might have never loved at all,
And never known what I am worth

In the heat of the afternoon, summer left me feeling haunted, and restless. I went back to Boston, walking the steamy streets at night and waiting for love to reveal itself.

A watermelon-jalapeno martini. Take some watermelon vodka, splash of triple sec, freshly squeezed lime juice, a few chunks of watermelon, and a bit of diced jalapeno pepper – blend it all together with some ice and you’ve got it. It was based on the much-superior watermelon margarita I once had at Masa, but in a summer pinch this version will do.

Kim and JoAnn back in the condo just like old times ready for a night out.

My birthday buddy Kim.

Teddy after the Red Sox game, taking a sip of the Big Ball for Two. Luckily there were five of us.

JoJo and my brother Paul posing with the pitcher.

Me and my first red-headed slut, because red-heads are crazy.

Three random Englishmen.

Me and my bro.

Since Andy doesn’t go to Boston as often as I do, there are many times when I find myself lacking for a dinner companion. This isn’t an issue, as I usually enjoy the solitude. (I’ll admit it – I often prefer my own company to that of others, even friends. No offense to said friends.)

Most people I know don’t like eating alone, and there are certain restaurants where I wouldn’t feel comfortable doing so, and certain times of the day when I’m less likely to dine solo (crowding into a lone table meant for two between two groups of loud people for instance). But for the most part, I can sit alone at a table, or a bar, and have a perfectly lovely meal by myself.

Such as last Thursday in Boston. I was hankering for a plate of pad Thai, so I went around the corner to the House of Siam. At that early hour the restaurant was empty, so they gave me a table by the window, looking out onto Columbus. Give me a street scene and some people to watch and I’m a happy camper.

Sometimes I’ll bring a book or a project I’m working on, but that falls by the wayside if there is an interesting menu or a parade of people walking by. According to my Mom’s baby book documentation, one of my first sentences was, “I like to watch.” It holds true to this day, and if I get to do so while eating a delicious meal, so much the better.

In the unlikeliest of places, this tomato plant sprouted in the pavement of Boston. On a side street off of Newbury, it was a surprising bit of green in a concrete jungle, valiantly defying its surroundings. It must have come from a seed that found its way into the small bit of earth no wider than a cigarette filter.

My heart went out to the little guy, trying so hard to make it in a world where he doesn’t belong, and a world that likely won’t allow him to grow to his full potential. He probably won’t bear any flowers, much less fruit, but he hasn’t given up just yet. Maybe he doesn’t know the limits imposed upon him, maybe he’s blissfully unaware of the treacherously small pocket of soil in which his roots have to spread, or the scorching drought of a city sidewalk in the summer.

Still he stretches to be taller, his dusky leaves arching over the pavement. He lives for the moment, and having brought some thoughtfulness into my life, his existence has merit, and I wonder how many others he has touched.

[PS - Happy Father's Day to my Dad and my brother, and a Happy Birthday to Andy's Dad.]

The summer of ’96 found me living alone in Boston, and just beginning to feel my way around as a gay man. I was working at the Structure store at Faneuil Hall, and I would ride the T back to Back Bay Station at the end of my shift, joining the other workers heading home after a long hot week. The subway was unbearably hellish – once that heat gets in, it’s there for the whole summer, no matter how cool the nights or rainy and dismal the days. It’s the kind of heat that hits you hard, like a wall. You can physically feel it knock into you, and no matter how accustomed you may be to warm weather it’s always a shock.

On this Friday afternoon, I trudged wearily up the steps into the air-conditioned subway car. It was small relief. Looking around at the other passengers, I had one of those brief thoughts of “This really, really sucks but we’re all in this together.” (I don’t get those thoughts very often – I’m usually quite happy to remain miserably isolated from the sweaty masses.)

The woman in front of me must have been feeling it too, for she fanned herself and gave a weak smile. Her bundle of dreadlocks was tied simply behind her head and she held a leather briefcase. She looked put together, despite the requisite city sneakers, and the oppressive heat.

“I think a vodka gimlet at Sonsie’s would hit the spot right now,” she said to no one in particular. I smiled and nodded, even though at the time I had no idea what a vodka gimlet was. “You know, the kind with fresh lime juice. Sonsie’s makes them the best.”

I sat there sweltering, picturing the sophisticated scene at Sonsie’s and feeling like I’d never belong there, or anywhere, and wishing I had just a small bit of this woman’s ease and confidence.

It was the summer I had long hair, so I must have been a sorry sight with my sad little ponytail and baggy Structure wardrobe, melting into the seat behind her, but I was watching and learning, and becoming.

These are my new favorite pants. It’s not so much the crazy madras patchwork style that I like, but the comfort they provide. It feels like the softest pair of cotton pajamas, only you can get away with being preppy instead of a slob.  I found them in the Brooks Brothers outlet on our last trip to Maine, and I intend to wear them everywhere this summer.

Like Boston, where I am headed today. Hopefully there’s some room at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum’s Summer Soiree, otherwise I’ll wander the South End window shopping, as that’s the only shopping I can afford these days.

Believe it or not, the majority of my life does not make it into this blog. That which does is, luckily for you, edited to protect the world from my sometimes-too-blunt assessments and opinions. I also tend to leave the depressing and bothersome things out of here, because the world has enough of that. Unfortunately, that leaves a cheery image that is often at odds with what is really going on inside my head and in my off-line life. As Madonna sagely noted in Truth or Dare, “It ain’t all hunky-dory.”

That said, I am headed into Boston for a long weekend in which I hope to recharge my drained battery and pony up for the rest of the wedding reception preparations that seem inconceivable and impossible to execute. I’ve done a lot already, but it doesn’t feel like nearly enough. It should be old-hat for someone who’s had a zillion parties, but I’ve never had to plan something for over 200 people (I was thinking it might be lower, but who doesn’t show up to a wedding when they’ve RSVP’d affirmatively?)

My Mom is in charge of the food and drinks, and hopefully the tent as well. I am working on the rest – decorations, music, possibly flowers, table toppers, candles, guest book, desserts, and my outfit (which will require hours of more work). Andy still has not ordered his yet, but I honestly can’t worry about one more thing or I will go so crazy that I may miss the party entirely after being carted off to the loony bin.

For now I am taking a deep breath, loading up the Louis, and preparing to enjoy the silence of an empty Boston condo. It will be the first time I’ve been back since our ceremony, and it will be good to remember where it all began.

The first thing most people asked when I returned from our wedding was whether or not I felt any different. I assumed, and professed many times, that I would not feel any such shift  – why should anything change after nine years with Andy? The biggest difference would be a bit more sparkle on my ring finger, and a few new memories of Boston.

I was wrong. The day I got married as one of the happiest of my life. The ceremony, the words, the blessings of family and friends, and the legal document – they all created a moment and a covenant between Andy and me that made a profound difference in my life. It was as if, finally, our relationship was official. Not that it hadn’t been for the previous ten years – this just affirmed it publicly, and though outwardly nothing may have changed, I think it resonated within both of us.

I don’t usually gush about love and stuff – and I’ve always taken the hard line and adhered to Madonna’s warning of, “What’s the point of sitting down and notating your happiness?” There’s something powerful and compelling about the darker side of life, something more interesting and artistic in the sadder aspects of our world – but every now and then there’s a moment of happiness and joy that transcends the cliches and mundane platitudes of Hallmark love, and for the first time I felt that.