The promised ‘Celebration Tour‘ release, the promised ‘Bedtime Stories‘ re-release, the promised ‘Veronica Electronica’ release, the promised ‘Confessions on a Dance Floor 2′ album… which of these is actually happening anymore? Does anything mean anything, or have we as a culture just accepted promises and lies and decided to collectively shrug and move on with nary a shred of accountability? I speak as a disappointed fan, and as a disappointed human, and only about half-seriously. Because why hold myself accountable in a world that no longer values, well, anything?
Anyway, here’s a relatively new photo of Madonna for… Instagram I guess.
It is not typical of me to approach someone I think I recognize, because there’s a good chance I recognize them for all the wrong reasons, or, worse, they may recognize me for all the wrong reasons. On a recent morning at Hannaford however, as I loaded Andy up with pudding and coffee before Skip and I departed for Boston, I saw a man whom I was fairly sure I worked with years ago at the Department of State. Intrigued, and on a Bette Davis/’Now, Voyager’-inspired intention to be interested in everything and everybody, I asked if he used to work for the State. His eyes gave a smile of reluctant bemusement, as if unsure whether his answer would be good or bad for whatever might follow. He said yes slowly, then I asked him which agency and he said a few. I asked if one was the Department of State, where I started. He affirmed it was, and then we placed the year at 2001, which confirmed it.
My memory bank flooded open, releasing thoughts of that very late summer of 2001, when I started my first state job on the verge of 9/11, at the bottom of State Street in downtown Albany. I remembered the name of the awful woman who ran that office, and he remembered her as well. He told me the rest of his state career story, involving Spitzer and the end of his time as governor, and then left me with some golden advice that seemed to be a message from the universe: “The first day you are able to retire… do it.”
Mentioning that I have about six years until I’m eligible, I pointed to my gray hair and said I definitely was feeling it. He said it will fly by, and I am certain it will. Until then, I will be interested in everything, and everybody, and do the best job I can do, listening to the whispers of the universe, and going with the flow.
How we have already reached the end of June makes no sense to me, other than that summer tends to move quickly. Here’s a weekly recap, a bit later in the day thanks to a fun long weekend that we shall recap in another post…
The weekly recap that usually populates this space on Monday morning will arrive later today, after I’ve returned from Boston. For now, a summer food offering to see us out of the month of June. There’s nothing very boat-like about this dip, and nothing truly island about our living, but both live and breathe in splendor this summer, despite our sea-free and landlocked state of reality. This dip recipe is simple and easy, and packs its flavorful punch thanks to two seasoning packages filled with what can only be awful things that taste good. I added a couple of chopped scallions for some color and freshness.
The recipe, as follows, is malleable enough for whatever suits your fancy this summer.
Boat Dip
1 package cream cheese (8 oz), softened to room temperature
Listening to the light lapping of the water and squinting into the gloriously vicious burn of the sun, the young man I used to be stares into me from the past, straining to see exactly what I’ve become. He couldn’t see then what I see now, and maybe that’s for the best. It might have caused horror or consternation, or happiness and ease, and none of that would have been very helpful. If it was bad, he might have been scared off, if he had been glad he might not have tried as hard. Those tricks of time, those points of perspective… ever-shifting, like quicksilver and quicksand – and dangerous in all the ways.
Around the pool, trees that I planted as little saplings now tower twenty to thirty feet in the air. I held them in my arms as bare root babies, not even a foot tall at the time of their planting. Today they stretch high and wide above us, providing shade and umbrage (in the very old-fashioned sense of the term). Time measured in the trunks of trees, time measured in the crawl of branches, time measured in the unseen burrowing of roots – and time measured by the cruel fit of a Speedo.
Andy and I discovered the magic of burrata several years ago, and since then one of my favorite dishes that he prepares is this simple tomato, burrata and fresh basil combo. Drizzled with balsamic vinegar and olive oil, and sprinkled with some sea salt and freshly-ground pepper, it is a magical summer lunch or dinner – it manages to be both light and substantial (especially when accompanied by some good crusty bread). Andy is always good at recreating the best dishes.
Summer dining should be fresh and easy, where the ingredients take center stage, and the exertions of a day in the garden or pool push the appetite into ravenous form.
It was the summer of 1990, and in considering almost half a century of living it may have been my favorite summer thus far. I was fourteen years old and had just finished my freshman year of high school. A group of friends and classmates had been accepted as part of a People-to-People Friendship Exchange with what was then the Soviet Union, and we were actively preparing for the three-week jaunt halfway around the world.
Madonna’s ‘I’m Breathless’ album was my musical obsession at the time, combining a love of Madonna with a love of Stephen Sondheim, and culminating with the majestic ‘Vogue’ (which was all Shep Pettibone, no Sondheim for that). Despite this aural treasure-trove, I decided against bringing a walk-man to the Soviet Union because I didn’t want to be distracted or taken out of the moment by music. Seems strange and more than slightly stupid, something I realized soon enough when I was sitting on the floor of JFK Airport on a 6-hour layover with nothing to do.
Suzie came to the rescue and let me listen to her music, which included what is now a summer classic playlist: the soundtrack to ‘The Mighty Quinn’. So yes, we have Suzie to thank for how reggae music came to shade that Soviet Union trip, as well as every summer thereafter.
My favorite cut was the second track, ‘Groove Master’, whose groovy horn bombast and electronic drum tempest set the celebratory tone for the first trip I was taking without my family. I think the fact that Suzie and her Dad were going eliminated the worry I would have otherwise had, but that first night in Washington, DC was still a little lonely.
The next day, I found my own groove with friends, quickly establishing connections that immediately dissolved any lingering loneliness or homesickness. Young people are surprisingly adaptable, even when we think we aren’t. It’s a sort of stupid strength, in the sense that we’re not really aware of it or its power – in the same way that itís easier for kids to pick up a new language instead of adults. (I have absolutely no more brain cells to learn anything new.) Back then, I could have a scary night and bounce back at the break of the next day, instantly forgetting the darkness that came before. The darkness doesn’t dissipate as quickly when you get older, partly because the troubles are more difficult.
In the summer of 1990, however, the only trouble was whether Iíd get caught sneaking out of the girls’ room at midnight. One haplessly envious guy asked me if I ever slept in my own room, hinting at a certain jealousy of the access I had to the inner sanctum of the girls he only admired from afar. On a certain level, my gayness, though unacknowledged and unrealized by myself more than anyone else, provided a sense of safety for girls, who spilled their secrets and tea to me because I was never a threat in the way that straight guys might have been. And girls would prove to be my best friends, starting with Suzie, whose shared summer memories went way back to when she shared her grape taffy with me beneath a grape arbor.
We started that trip in Washington, DC, right around the 4th of July and all its accompanying festivities. We had to learn the basics of America before becoming ambassadors to another country, and in the heat of high summer, backed by ‘The Mighty Quinn’ soundtrack, a set of new memories was being forged. When summer melds happy memories with happy music, it’s a gift that lasts as long as our minds allow it.
Switching out thorns for florals, a host of flitting fireflies arranges a little halo of flowers around my head in some former fairy life. In those days there was play for the sake of play, dress-up for the joy of dress-up, and sliding into a new persona was escapism enough from a world that didn’t demand it as much as this one does.
Dressing for the fairy forest demands a light touch, especially when the nights turn warm and the moon reflects a sultry shade of persimmon. The seasons were the same twenty years ago, even if I wasn’t.
The fairy has often been underestimated and denigrated throughout history, kept small in the way that the mighty always want to conquer the meek. It wasn’t applause that saved Tinkerbell – it was having the power to charm the audience into said applause. The fairy cannot be weak; the fairy must be wily. Whether that’s through wit, cheek, or other fairy tricks, it’s a matter of survival. Little things of charm and whimsy are too easily crushed – and not so easily crushed, too.
The Divine Diva Tour: A Fairy’s Tale gets its weekendly posting place with this kick-off – an interlude that reveals how much has happened in twenty years. First, the shoddy WordArt and cheap-ass costumes have aged about as well as my abs and hair color. Second, the amateurish posturing and my Zoolander facial contortions are laughable as well. About the only thing that withstands the test of time is this driving power-pop anthem from the 80’s. It gives the ultimate element of cheese-please that puts this into so-bad-it’s-almost-good territory, and that’s the best we’re going to get today.
Where have all the good men gone and where are all the gods? Where’s the streetwise Hercules to fight the risin’ odds? Isn’t there a white knight upon a fiery steed? Late at night, I toss and I turn and I dream of what I need
I need a hero I’m holding out for a hero till the end of the night He’s gotta be strong and he’s gotta be fast And he’s gotta be fresh from the fight I need a hero I’m holding out for a hero till the morning light He’s gotta be sure and it’s gotta be soon And he’s gotta be larger than life, larger than life
Somewhere after midnight in my wildest fantasy Somewhere just beyond my reach, there’s someone reaching back for me Racing on the thunder and rising with the heat It’s gonna take a Superman to sweep me off my feet, yeah
I need a hero I’m holding out for a hero till the end of the night He’s gotta be strong and he’s gotta be fast And he’s gotta be fresh from the fight I need a hero I’m holding out for a hero till the morning light He’s gotta be sure and it’s gotta be soon And he’s gotta be larger than life, larger than life
Up where the mountains meet the heavens above Out where the lightning splits the sea I could swear there is someone somewhere watching me Through the wind and the chill and the rain And the storm and the flood I can feel his approach like a fire in my blood
While we’ve already celebrated this song here, that was six years prior, and that’s an entire pandemic and lifetime ago. Before we end the month of June, let’s revisit this magical piece of music as performed by Julie London, as it comes with a happy recent memory. On our Memorial Day weekend in Ogunquit, the weather was often rainy, so we sometimes took our shelter in the title shops along Main Street. On one particular gray morning, we found ourselves in a charming little store with beautiful jewelry and pieces of art, a few antiques and some whimsical walking canes. This song came on, and though the sky felt melancholy, I looked over at my husband inspecting something and felt a wave of love wash over us, all these years after our very first trip to this Beautiful Place By The Sea twenty-five years ago. The moment felt magical…
Throughout the ensuing years, there were always magical moments that appeared quietly and when least expected, little times where I’d glimpse Andy doing something endearing, or simply going through the motions of the day, and I felt the reassurance and warmth of the life we created together. Many cycles of moons and suns have turned over during all these years, and in some ways many lifetimes. Depending on perspective a lifetime can be a day or a century, and time’s only way is forward. For this moment of moonlight and magic, we give respectful pause.
Our island summer is in full swing, despite threatening skies and rainy days – and an island summer will not be stopped by weather or other happenstance. Island is attitude, and frame of mind. It is imagination and fantasy and can exist solely within the brain. That means it is not bound by the typical constraints of physicality or topography or meteorology.
Today Skip and I are scheduled to return to basics for our annual BroSox Adventure, heading to Boston for a Red Sox game at the start of the season, just like we did exactly ten years ago. This song is a song of promise and possibility – the very beginning of a summer of adventure and fun. Jury’s out on the sun, but I remain foolishly hopeful. Summer welcomes fools, and I welcome the opportunity to be the fool.
The evening primrose is one of the great signifiers of summer, its cheerful yellow blooms bashfully acting coy during the day, and opening more fully at the tail-ends of the sun’s show. The variety that has persisted in our garden comes from a plant I first procured almost forty years ago, then kept going all this time, from our childhood home in Amsterdam to where we are now. It tends to stay open in the early sunny hours, then hiding a bit from noon to four or so, and coming back for more when things have cooled down. Plants aren’t stupid.
Their blooming period is somewhat short, but they make up for that with this bold, clear color – little drops of sun to match what may be missing from our skies of late. Summer makes amends in small ways.
