There have been a number of notable gifts that I’ve received/begged-for over the years: a Laser Disc player back in the 90’s (which was the only format in which Madonna officially released her Blonde Ambition tour, and the sole reason for me wanting it) that my parents found at Radio Shack one Christmas, a Louis Vuitton Keepall 50 that Andy got me for another Christmas many years later, a small painting that Suzie did of me decades ago that was slightly reminiscent of Edvard Munch’s ‘The Scream, and this delicious bottle of Diana Vreeland perfume that Sherri and Skip found on one of my wish lists.

For my 50th birthday, Sherri and Skip gave me what may very well be the best gift of the year, and I don’t mean the pair of precious Hermes fragrances that was part of their offering – it was a box of 50 little colorful notecards in individual envelopes, each with a memory or musing or moment written on it that went back over the past twenty years of shared friendship and office adventures. To say that I was touched, this year and this birthday especially, is an understatement, and I can’t thank them enough for such a meaningful and poignant gift.

While I was tempted to tear instantly into all of them – and started off doing just that with the “Imagine Dragons” card (a very private joke) – I slowed down to savor each one, going over the memory or moment that was mentioned, and smiling or laughing at the thought of it. That sort of warmth and love is not something I wanted to end so quickly, so I paused about halfway through, choosing to open a few each day for as long as they last.

Even better is the idea that once I make it through them this initial time, I can put them away for a darker day, bring out this lovely box, and revisit such happiness again. Sherri and Skip have often provided a reassurance of my dwindling belief in the goodness of people – and it’s still there, especially in the people I am lucky enough to call friends.

Behold the humble and somehow magnificent common daylily. Seen proliferating along roadside banks, the daylily is one of those overlooked gems often maligned for their steadfastness and reliability, yet entirely capable of putting on an exotic show. If these were as rare or delicate as a bird of paradise, especially in these wintry parts, they would be celebrated just as grandly. Alas, we do not reward or appreciate the steadfast and reliable, only the problematic and difficult. It goes against reason or what’s righteous, and illustrates the impossible fickleness of a world designed to cause as much hurt as possible.

Refusing to extoll or praise such noble traits is sadly the way of this world right now, but as long as I have voice and space in which to use it, I’ll keep on plugging the magnificence in something as common as the daylily, even if the blooms lasts but a day. Beauty is as eternal as it is ephemeral, and nothing proves that more than a flower that lives its entire life in a single day. We should all endeavor to live like that.

It may be time to start normalizing letting coleus go to flower, at least if we are being blessed with this almost-blue shade of brilliance. I’m the first one to espouse pinching coleus back hard in the beginning – it creates for a bushier plant with a stronger multi-branching infrastructure, and way more leaves – but by this time of the year, let the plant have its full life-cycle before the first hard frost of fall finishes it off. Some people continue fertilizing and pruning and insisting on the show going on full-throttle until the last possible moment. I find comfort in seeing the natural die-back of the garden starting about now. We need the rest, we need the respite, and we need the winter.

But before that, let’s sneak in a few coleus blooms as they are so stunning against their more-celebrated foliage.

Sometimes the only thing that exceeds how often I’m right is how often I’m doubted.

And that’s really fucked up when you think about it.

[Shrugs and moves deftly on]

#TinyThreads

“You dig up the past, all you get is dirty.”

My dear, precious, darling friend Chris sent me this candle for my 50th, which is hilarious given that he is older than me. It’s the sentiment that counts, and I do love a candle. Andy and I just spent and savored a long birthday weekend in Boston, and I’m still in a bit of withdrawal. Boston has always been a place of enchantment, and these past few days lived up to such a myth. Those stories will be written a bit later – right now it’s almost 10 PM on Monday night, and the Sunday scaries are in full effect before a return to work tomorrow, but it will be Tuesday, moving things quickly – the way time begins speeding up for this second act of life.

The ferns are giving their second act show, lending a refreshing aspect to the garden with less than a month of summer to go. Sadness and beauty, the currency and cruelty of summer.

Well fuck, I’m fifty.

This is my first blog post as a fifty-year-old – how fitting that it’s a recap so I don’t need to do much work in my advanced age. Enjoy this weekly recap as I figure out how to limp into the next stage of living…

Jeremy Allen White got shirtless on the beach to remind us that it was still summer.

Family drama reared its semi-annual head, but I’m saving those stories for the fall season…

In the meantime, this song gives a good indication of where we are on the family front.

Snoopy was so dead-ass for this.

Not gonna lie.

Texting with the besties is always… interesting.

A maiden’s second act.

I always confuse milquetoast with milquetoast.

Draining my life-blood.

Pastel facade.

The Divine Diva Tour: A Fairy’s Tale resumed its wicked, winding way with this bowler hat trick post.

Stolen magic.

A bewitching hour at hand.

The collective man.

On the eve of a half-century of life.

A letter to myself on my 50th birthday.

Fifty and officially out of fucks.

The traditional birthday suit post.

Dazzlers of the Day included Ben Ahlers and Rachel Zegler.