The road appeared seemingly by magic just as the sun was going down – one of those rare moments when the universe conspires to bestow a fleeting gift of beauty for your eyes only. A brush with the sublime then, as occasionally happens, and somehow always when I’m alone. Attempting to capture it in pictures is only ever partially successful – you cannot feel the wind or the sun, you cannot smell the leaves or the air, you cannot become part of this fall day – you can only sense it, and then it is a mere approximation of the enormity of the feeling. The feeling of fall. The feeling of an ending.
I am just a cowboy lonesome on the trail Lord, I’m just thinking about a certain female The nights we spent together riding on the range Looking back it seems so strange
The road looks tempting. It disappears into the light and we all, well most of us, want to follow the light – but it is the dying light of a day, the end of a cycle, while the promise of night is less a promise and more of a threat. Foreboding, it leads one on in dangerously seductive tones, flattery of beauty and dangling delight. Night, barely dented by moonlight or starlight or candlelight, looms ahead – right about where the road leads off from what the human eye can see.
Roll me over and turn me around Let me keep spinning ’til I hit the ground Roll me over and let me go Riding in the rodeo
A road leading into the woods is often enticing that way, and for some souls the idea of night is a draw as well, provided they can guarantee their safety, that it’s only a passing thrill and imaginary danger – the way we seek out scary movies or amusement park rides. Danger with a safety net – exciting, thrilling, but never life-altering. I’ve played with such imagined dangers and lived in such entertaining fears. It’s a cop-out for real risks like telling the truth and being completely honest all the time. We humans require our petty distractions, our silly and shy objects to keep our eyes off the real horrors of the world. The older I get, the more difficult it becomes to shut out those horrors. They wind their way back to you, they show up on the most benign of roads.
I was took in Texas I did not know her name Lord, all these southern girls seem the same Down below the border in a town in Mexico I got my job busting broncs for the rodeo
A cowboy faces those fears head-on, because honesty and integrity are part of the cowboy code, skewed and strange though such a code may seem. It bends and morphs into a different moral plane, one not bound by societal terms or social pressure, one not contained by law or restriction. It’s a trip into the night, where clear lines and boundaries cannot as easily be seen, where the road becomes something you have to feel, a ride of instinct and intuition. The very worst sort of road for those who like to know where they are going.
Roll me over and turn me around Let me keep spinning ’til I hit the ground Roll me over and let me go Running free with the buffalo Here I go!
Roll me over and I’ll turn around And I’ll move my fingers Up and down/ Up and down
It’s OK amigo, just let me go Riding in the rodeo
Roll me over and turn me around Let me keep spinning ’til I hit the ground Roll me over and let me go Riding in the rodeo
Cowboy walks away; cowboy walks into; cowboy walks back. Cowboy walks between shadow and light, day and night, meekness and might. Cowboy walks with freedom, the only constraint being whatever heartstrings he allows to be plucked. Cowboy walks…
Roll me over and set me free The cowboy’s life is the life for me
It takes a lot to move my husband to written action, but Audi CEO Gernot Döllner did just that when he appeared with Trump in a recent campaign rally in Georgia. What on earth the CEO of a German car company would want to do with Trump is anyone’s shady guess, but it did not sit well with most people who have anything to do with the Audi company, and I’m including my husband’s letter here because it’s a great reminder that everything Trump touches will turn to shit eventually, and the only way to eradicate our country of this awful stain is to start banishing all those companies that support or do business with that disgusting man.
To the Audi Customer Experience Team and Corporate Executive Board:
I am writing to formally register my deep objection to CEO Gernot Döllner’s recent appearance at a political campaign rally in Georgia. I am submitting this not just as an observer, but as one of your most loyal consumers.
I have owned or leased seven consecutive Audi vehicles. My current vehicle is a 2024 Audi A5 Premium Plus S-Line Sportback and my lease is scheduled to end in exactly five months. Until recently, I fully intended to transition into my eighth Audi. However, due to this severe lapse in leadership and the breach of Audi’s own corporate code regarding political neutrality, I will not consider another Audi vehicle.
As a long-term customer, I chose Audi because I believed the brand represented both engineering excellence and ethical corporate governance. By taking the stage at a political campaign event, Mr. Döllner has alienated dedicated drivers and severely damaged the brand’s reputation. Strategic business expansions should never come at the cost of corporate integrity.
Vehicles can be replaced, but lost consumer trust cannot be easily recovered. I believe that Mr. Döllner must step down as CEO, and a change in executive leadership is entirely necessary to restore the values that once made me proud to drive an Audi.
The actual size of these toadstools is quite small, and the leaves, such as they are captured, only give part of the perspective required to tell how small they truly are. Taken from a semi-wooded stroll in a semi-secret park on our most recent trip to Maine, these were one of those privately-experienced moments that only feel true because I have this evidence of the moment having actually taken place. Without these pictures, I would doubt it ever even happened. Such is the state of my mind these days – difficult to tell what is real, what is imagined, what is a wish and what is reality.
The stuff of whimsy and folklore, where the real and the imagined intertwine, these toadstools may have offered a resting place for toads, but in all likelihood no such fantastical scene occurred. Only in our heads…
Being a compassionate and caring human being while making a living through social media seems a dauntingly impossible task, but somehow Liam Layton has managed to navigate these treacherous waters and keep his head above the surface, thanks to practical and honest information on food, nutrition, and fitness, as well as a healthy, refreshing open outlook on mental well-being – all under his ‘Plant Slant’ branding. My husband and my bestie both follow him on Instagram, which is likely how he made his way onto my radar, and his love for beans and cottage cheese dovetails nicely with my own fondness for them – sometimes that’s all you need to make a social media acquaintance. Today he earns his first Dazzler of the Day crowning – and a visit to his Insta page here will instantly show you why.
My favorite spot for lunch in downtown Albany is Bánh Mì 47, where they bake fresh baguettes daily for their sandwiches and offer authentic Vietnamese combinations for a variety of banh mi options, including my usual order – the #9 Heo N??ng (Grilled Pork, Scallion Oil, and Special Sauce (Th?t Heo N??ng, D?u hành, N??c X?t). I’ve only made it through trying half of the menu so far, so there is more work to be done – and it’s the best kind of work – the sort you don’t at all mind doing on your lunch hour.
The view from my office building before anyone else is in looks pretty spectacular, particularly when there’s a fading Hunter’s Moon hanging in the sky. This was the scene the other day, far before anyone else was due in the office – I was there early to catch up on some things and prepare for a presentation I had to give, and as I crossed the floor the sun lit up a side of Albany that I don’t usually get to see from my side of the building. It reminded me how important it is to switch things up and take a different route in your daily routine from time to time. I also realized I need to get out more – step outside and walk more on my lunch break, so I don’t miss the beauty that’s all around us if we only take the time and care to look.
To that end, I’m stepping away from the laptop and joining the living. Meet me downtown for lunch at Banh Mi 47 later today…
America’s favorite mayor may just be Zohran Mamdani, who technically is the Mayor of New York (which means he has some major, and occasionally majorly-fucked-up, shoes to fill). Happily, he’s exceeded the work and results of many a New York Mayor, (a visit to the Mayor’s webpage begins a multi-page series of links of accomplishments already undertaken and executed). Personally, I’m a fan of anyone of intelligence who gets all the racist MAGA lunatics riled up simply by existing – for that reason alone Mamdani easily earns this Dazzler of the Day crowning. (And of course, all that he’s done for NYC in just a short time as Mayor.)
Country music has been ripe for saddling up with all sorts of double-entendres and multi-layered meanings in its lyrics and presentation, and this old-school classic by Merle Haggard gets a wild re-reading with today’s terminology and meanings. This cowboy era is heavy on gay-coded moments and not-so-subtle irony, getting cheeky revamps and slutty new spins (as evidenced in a bare-assed post like this).
There ain’t no ridin’ bareback anymore Ain’t no taking chances like before You don’t agree with me you’re out the door Honey, there ain’t no ridin’ bareback anymore
While the music and the tune is decidedly tongue-in-cheek, it also speaks to a deeper meaning of something more complex for the cowboy who finds himself growing older and, ideally, wiser. I read this as the lessons of life taking their toll on someone who once thrashed about wildly, throwing caution to the wind and riding without protection or deliberation – in other words, the cowboy who’s experienced his youth to its fullest, as the luckiest among us often do. If you can’t act young when you’re young, then you’ve missed out. Cowboys don’t usually miss out on their youth – but that kind of living does exact a price. You see it in the eyes of an older cowboy, you see it in the lines of his face or the measure of his gait. You see it in a smile that doesn’t come quite as readily as it once did – and when it does you detect the slightest pull of sadness.
Here our cowboy claims he’s still up to ridin’ every night, but it’s not going to be the same carefree bareback way it was before – those days are done, and if you’re looking for someone to take those kind of chances, he’s going to show you the door. I can appreciate everything about that – the notion that such brash living has gone by, as well as the idea of being so sure and certain of your own self that the wishes and whims of another aren’t going to change your mind or switch your stance. All are indicative of the cowboy life.
I’m still up to ridin’ every night All you got to do is hold me tight And I ain’t seen a saddle in so long But I ain’t no ridin’ bareback anymore
There ain’t no ridin’ bareback anymore Ain’t no taking chances like before And if you don’t agree with me it’s out the door Honey, there ain’t no ridin’ bareback anymore
The Gods have answered our prayers and are delivering a 2027 Calendar of Ben Cohen – the one that always sells out well in advance of the New Year, so if you know someone who’d like this on their wish list, get moving soon. Thanks to the artful eye of Leo Holden of Snooty Fox Images, Cohen is once again in good photographic hands for this year’s selection, which looks to be a continuation of all things denim (and all things out of denim if viewers get their way). Check out previous Ben Cohen posts as seen below for more of this, as well as Leo Holden’s Dazzler of the Day feature here.
Today marks seven years since I had a drink of alcohol. That was 2019, and while that’s the date that has stuck, I actually went to rehab for drinking back in 2014 on the not-so-gentle advice of family (some of whom would currently qualify as alcoholics if we’re going by the program I attended). Back then I knew I was not ready to stop drinking – I only knew that I could stop when I wanted, and to prove that I agreed to do an outpatient rehab stint at Conifer Park. They had a working professionals program that met after work and was designed for those who didn’t need a full 24-7 rehab program. While that sounded lovely, or at least the lesser of several ill-fitting evils, it was still unquestionably a rehab program, with the whole range of people that encompasses such a program – drugs and alcohol and sex were all treated in my ‘professional’ group, and everyone had horror stories and histories that went disturbingly beyond my situation. Even in rehab I was an outsider among outsiders, and at the start of that journey, I most certainly did not feel like I belonged.
They’re always knocking at the door You get a bed, but you use the floor They watch you take your pills No thrills, no TV after 9
Swimming pool and cigarettes And what you get is what you get There’s a telephone, but the only number that I know is mine
I hate it here, I don’t care, and I wanna die
My intake person – a short, solidly-built young man with a buzz cut and military background – gave me an assessment and recommended a program with a couple of meetings a week at first. His line of standard questions, and his blunt manner, didn’t pair well with my personality, but we weren’t there to make friends, so I gave him the facts and the bare minimum of feelings, and he set me up for a plan for the next few weeks. I’d only see him on the first and last day of treatment, so his lack of understanding of my particular predicament didn’t matter much. Maybe I’m being a bit harsh, and the memories have their bitterness which is shading his treatment and engagement. It doesn’t matter – I was there, and I was ready and willing to play the game. In that respect, I was a pretty decent client – I would do as I was told, and I would be as honest as I could about it at each and every step of the process. Because the truth was, I didn’t know if I was an alcoholic – but I was open to finding out if I was.
You tell the man what’s in your head He writes it down and he nods his head Then the other heads nod their heads Then everybody cries
My group sessions began shortly thereafter, and it was just as cliched and dismal and hopeful as you might surmise. We sat in a large circle in the middle of a larger gray room. Harsh fluorescent lighting gave a clinical coolness to the meetings, while a sad poster of the 12 Steps and some abstract religious bullshit artwork hung on one of the walls in my sightline. A gray-haired man with matching mustache and woefully unfashionable glasses led the meetings. Without truly connecting my social anxiety to my drinking, the whole experience was doubly difficult and challenging for me, but I was determined to work through it and do what I was supposed to do – then get out and see how long I’d decide to stop drinking. Part of me also wanted to see if I was going to go through any withdrawal or cravings for alcohol (there were none) and whether any of these people working the program could tell me if I was or wasn’t an alcoholic once and for all. That’s how I began my introduction too, because I’d decided from the start to be as open and honest as possible for the duration of this, and the truth is I still didn’t believe I was a full-fledged alcoholic. (And I knew that’s what all alcoholics said at the start.)
You bite your tongue while somebody talks You got one eye closed, the other’s on the clock It’s all sitting and circles, I sure could use some kinda line
I hate it here, I don’t care, and I wanna die
For those first sessions I did the bare minimum as we went around the room as far as participation went, and mostly trying and succeeding at fading into the background. Still, I paid keen attention to everyone else’s stories. There were several people who had been there multiple times – one woman said this was her tenth try at rehab and she didn’t expect this one to take but she didn’t know what else to do. I watched and heard the strained patience of the man leading the session, who had clearly had her in his program for perhaps many of those ten times. There was the gay man who was a drug addict and had the skillful charm and ease of getting everyone on his side to further his manipulative method of navigating his addiction. There was the young woman who described her sex addiction in what seemed more of a social scene, even as it was wrecking her home and family life. My tale of having too much to drink at parties on occasion gave me a certain sense of imposter syndrome, while emboldening the take that I was not as “bad” as anyone else here, and there was an illicit and uncomfortable sense of relief and gratitude that came with it. Some doubt as well, because I was certain there was something I must have been missing.
Maybe I could just ask real nice and they’d let me out today Excuse myself from this living hell and tell ’em I’m back out to stay Get a spoon, dig a hole, buy a bottle and a ball And get the gang back on the road If I could just jump the wall, then I’d run on home
Over the course of the weeks that unfolded, I got the hang of the sessions – the way we would talk through our difficulties and let people offer words of support, while the facilitator would give his take on possible improvements to be made. I shared a bit more, but the simple truth was I didn’t have it as difficult or awful as most of the other people there – and for me, at that time in my life, that was probably the best lesson and most powerful effect: the idea that ‘there but for the grace of God go I’ was profoundly weighing upon how I navigated the idea of my drinking. Comparison may be the thief of joy, but when you’re the one doing “better” in the given scenario it feels damn fucking good. That’s not said with any notion that I deserve a pat on the back – my mindset was probably all wrong for rehab, even if I worked the program as directed and would go on without drinking for several months after it ended – just to prove to myself I could do it.
I hear they’re serving eggs today And sweet salvation’s on the way But glory’s full, and you can’t cut the line
From time to time, one of the attendees would ‘graduate’ and we would mark their last day of group rehab with a round of applause. They’d give their final rendition of how they were doing, and I couldn’t tell if I felt envy or some weird sense of pride-by-approximation. The stories I heard from others were often so harrowing and scary to me, that I didn’t want to touch a drink for fear of approaching such a life, and part of me wondered if that was the point of these group sessions – it seemed too easy, too basic to be all that was going on here, but I couldn’t, and wouldn’t, figure out the rest for the remainder of my meetings. Sometimes the stories and the backgrounds would be so sad that no one could blame the person for losing themselves in liquor or drugs, and at those moments I wondered how any of us would get through this life alive.
So catch me on the evening news “Dumb fag dies from the rehab blues” I guess I could use some rest, but man, who’s got the time?
When I reached my final session, I was hoping there would be another person whose last day coincided with mine so it wouldn’t be so noticeable, but there wasn’t. At the end of the meeting, the facilitator mentioned that one of us was graduating today, and he pointed me out and the requisite round of applause sounded, my social anxiety at an all-time high as the room focused its attention in my direction. He then looked at me and said, “You’ve been coming here a few weeks, and you’re usually pretty quiet, but I see you engaged and listening and taking part in the program, really working through it, and I thank you for that. You’ve done a good job without whining or complaining, so I hope you continue.” Not sure if that was a dig at anyone else, and it didn’t matter. I’d completed the program, and I wouldn’t drink for another six months, so it was as successful as it was going to be for someone who knew he wasn’t ready to stop drinking.
I wouldn’t be ready for another five years, but once I was, I didn’t need rehab to stop.
I hate it here, I don’t care I hate it here, I don’t care I hate it here, I don’t care, and I wanna die
This is my new bestie, a pooch by the name of Queenie, with whom I actually go way back. She lives in Connecticut, where I spent a fun weekend with a dear lifelong friend and her family, but more on that in a bit. It’s Monday, and time for the weekly recap before we get into a semi-serious post later today. Lots happening now that it’s a full moon AND Mercury is in retrograde motion – good luck to all, as we’re gonna need it.
