I’ll tell my own version of that some other day, as it has no place in the light and frothy mid-day post. Instead, here’s an uplifting video of other folks who find out what their Dads thought of them coming out. It was originally uploaded for Father’s Day, but we need a little levity before June, so take a look.
They appear on the cover of Madonna’s ‘Like A Prayer’ album – a string of beads to go with the hippie vibe she was recreating with the patchouli-scented midriff-baring denim invitation to ‘take you there.’ I searched high and low for a piece of jewelry that came close to the vision she so delicately teased. I could replicate the rings and the open pair of jeans, but the tassels of beads were not to be found anywhere.
Taking matters into my own hands, I decided I’d have to make my own version, and set about collecting the beads and chains and tiny pliers to make it all happen. A self-taught crash-course in jewelry-making resulted in a piece of which I could be proud, and it remains a favorite to this day.
It’s a bit too delicate for real use outside of photos, so I may return to the work and fortify the flimsier chain sections with something stronger. I like a statement piece, and an open-ended necklace always has a lot to say.
A relaxing herbal tea formed the moment of quiet in a day full of quiet moments.
It tasted of spring, and dried flowers, and herbs awakening to a new season.
It was warm and delicate, rustic yet elegant.
An antidote to the snow that fell so relentlessly.
The garden distilled into a wire capsule, spreading its aromas and tastes into the steaming water.
As pretty to drink with the eyes as it was to drink with the mouth.
An afternoon glimpse of tranquility.
Yeah, we got some snow.
For the first time in my sixteen-year career, the governor closed state offices for non-essential workers.
(Yeah, I’m non-essential.)
Then when New York City and the coast didn’t get as much as anticipated, everyone breathed a sigh of relief, while those of us in the Capital District got pounded with more and more white stuff. The more that people called the storm a bust on social media, the more snow seemed to fall in Albany. In fact, as of this writing it’s still snowing here. There’s about two feet of snow on the ground now, and counting.
I took advantage of the day off to try out our new deep fryer (I made frites!) and do some cleaning for a special guest this weekend (and a dinner party tomorrow). I also read a bit, tucked into a nook of the conversation couch that looked out into the dim white blanket outside.
Andy took the photos you see here, saving me even the trouble of heading out to snap a few pics. All in all, it was a very good day.
With an exuberant video kick-off to promote his new fitness book, Harry Judd is all verve and energy, and the embodiment of the active and healthy lifestyle he espouses. ‘Get Fit, Get Happy’ is a mantra and a way of life, and if I’m going to follow fitness advice from anyone, it’s going to come from someone who looks like this. And especially someone who looks like this naked. Bonus link for those who want more action: underwear GIFS here.
It was the first warm day of the year. So early and unexpected was it, there were still patches of dirty snow on the ground. In my bedroom, the window over the garage was cracked open for the first time. A few splinters of old paint fluttered to the ground below as I broke the winter seal. I breathed in the spring air, even if it wasn’t technically spring yet. It was coming, and after a winter of confinement it was more than welcome.
Lying on my bed and daydreaming, I envisioned summer days, pool romps, and the freedom from cold and ice. I happily thought of the freedom from school. Summer vacation felt like an eternity then – but also an eternity away. It was a Saturday or Sunday, and the weekend was small solace when juxtaposed with the idea of summer – indomitable, endless, sun-swaddled summer. Still, the sun was shining, the day was young, and I luxuriated in the solitude of a ‘Crazy For You’ moment – those brushes with the sublime that you can only ever have when you’re by yourself. Wishing… for something. Hoping for more. Finding a way.
In the distance, the sound of something approaching. I heard the dull thuds of rubber on cement, of footsteps, of voices and shouts and laughter. Even then, my senses pricked up in agitated fashion; the possibility of a social encounter left me instantly on guard. I didn’t like my solitary revelries to be interrupted or intruded upon. Safe in my bedroom, however, I felt relatively removed from any forced interactions. It was the closest thing I had to an ivory tower, and I embraced the notion of being a captive as much as I embraced the isolation. We didn’t have terms for social anxiety then, not for twelve-year-old boys at least.
I saw a flash of rust out of the corner of my eye. Unsure of whether a squirrel was crossing the garage roof, or a robin alighting on the barren hawthorne outside the window, I moved closer and suddenly a basketball rose in the air right below my vantage point. Word had already gotten out, in one short day, that my brother had a basketball hoop. Not only that, but also the tantalizing fact that it was substantially shorter than the regulation basketball hoops, allowing the older boys of the neighborhood to slam dunk a shot if they had enough momentum and height going. For this reason, it was an instant hit, and a dangerous magnet according to my parents. The boys had but a few hours before my Dad came home from work and put it to a fast, and loud, end. But for now they were there, in my driveway, drawn by my brother and the possibility of acting out basketball slam dunk glory.
I was separate and apart, but still connected by proximity and secrecy. It was characteristic of so many of my childhood encounters. (The first sentence I ever uttered according to a baby book kept by my Mom was, “I like to watch.” There is a telling lack of participation in that, the first shy steps of a boy who felt safer standing on the outside than venturing in.) Still, it was a thrill to hear it all happening right below me, particularly when the only noise the house typically heard was my brother and myself, and the occasional shouts of our parents having to quiet us down. The boys playing basketball were suddenly a welcome diversion.
I listened to their screams and exultations, how they supported one another and sparred, and the way they grunted and exhaled from all their exertions. It wasn’t a sexual attraction, I wasn’t quite old enough for that yet, but it was close. It was the first spark of realizing I liked boys better than girls. Yes, I liked to watch. Yes, I liked to watch men.
I moved surreptitiously to the only other spot affording a broader view: the attic. It was a storage space back then – unheated and dusty, with corners of cobwebs and only two small windows on each end letting the light in. Yet one of the windows looked out over a wider swath of the driveway, and my watching eyes could observe without danger of being discovered.
I saw my brother sitting on the side of the driveway and talking to someone, I saw a boy (and a friend) I knew from school, and I saw a couple of neighbors I knew by sight but not name. I watched the way they came together in the common goal of sport, and the way they seemed to shirk off any social uneasiness. How I envied them their easy camaraderie, how I longed for it as much as its simple nature confounded and repelled me.
In the dust of the space, as the afternoon sun slanted through from the other side of the room, where childhood stuffed animals roamed and Christmas decorations smelled faintly of pine, I felt an ache and a wish to belong – to anything… to anyone. Somehow I felt destined to do this for the rest of my life – to systematically move myself further and further away from human connection, from the possibility of being hurt or embraced – whether by a carelessly-shot basketball or something more probing like the heart-piercing pricks of love.
Slowly and carefully, I opened the window. I wanted to hear them. It was no longer enough to watch. Though part of me had moved further away from the boys, part of me was reaching out to get closer. It was the beginning of a lifelong battle.
Your daily dose of cute can be found right here, with this clip of a bunny herding sheep.
Not one of the greatest clips, but you get the idea.
We knew it was far from over, but maybe we didn’t know it was this far from over. Winter is set to return with a vengeance, and those few days of 60 degree weather are but wisps of memory now. Who knows how many inches of the white stuff are in store for us, but I’m sick of it all. Let’s go back, if only a few days.
Well, maybe I don’t want that either. I forgot how it began…
Returning to the boulevard of broken dreams.
Finding Dorian Gray in the Albany Barn.
Hunks of the Day included Sean William Donovan, Alex Sewall, Patrick Boyd, Jonathan Soroff, James Longman, Vaseline Doknic & Clay Honeycutt.
For pictorial whimsy, I favor Instagram.
For political madness and outrage, I tell it on Twitter.
For friends real and imagined, I fess up on FaceBook.
Through it all, my heart is revealed on my website. This website.
To be honest, I’m starting to feel like that’s three too many outlets.
For those of you who still do fish on Fridays, this simple dinner plan is perfect. Steam some rice, sauté some Swiss chard in olive oil, garlic and a couple pats of butter, and roast a piece of sea bass in a little pool of olive oil, rice vinegar, soy sauce, salt & pepper. That’s it. If you use a rice cooker, that’s the longest part of this process. In other words, it’s quick and easy, simple and delicious – just the sort of thing we need for these wintry days of Lent.
When ‘American Psycho’ was musicalized on Broadway and Patrick Bateman (Benjamin Walker) strutted his stuff with bulky walkman and tight white briefs, the blood and brutality of 80’s excess found questionable expression and audiences weren’t quite ready to take such a literal walk through a serial killer’s bloody mind. Soon after its opening, it shuttered. Though mixed, reviews indicated a daring take on the musical form.
In similar gory fashion, ‘The Picture of Dorian Gray’ finds a thrilling updated form in a reworked take written by Roberto Aguirre-Sacasa and currently slashing its way through the Creative License production at the Albany Barn. Aaron Holbritter and Casey Polomaine have taken the classic tale and brought it into the now-retro world of the 80’s – a perfect match for the darker source material. Ian LaChance gives the title role its proper trajectory, starting out somewhat vacantly then growing increasingly tortured and manic as the evening wears on. Steve Maggio, Lucy Miller, Nick Bosanko and Isaac Newberry round out the main cast, but this murderous story insures that not all of their characters survive. Holbritter plays up the thriller aspect to great effect – this is not the Victorian novel of manners you might remember.
Fabled folklore has traditionally dismissed ‘Dorian Gray’ as an effete dandification of vanity and self-obsession, and Oscar Wilde’s reputation only lent credence to such a reading. That’s always been unfortunate, because as much as I love a good dandy story this goes far deeper than that. The frightening storyline, dealing with the things we give up and sacrifice for youth, beauty, and self-love, is a killer treatise on today’s culture as much as it was when it originated. Recast in those heady ‘American Psycho’ days, this ‘Dorian Gray’ moves out of its binding period set, thus freeing it to make broader implications of obsession, and the way we murder our own identities in service of the perfect selfie.
{‘The Picture of Dorian Gray’ is playing at the Albany Barn through April 1. Tickets may be purchased here.}
The year was 1995. Vague shadows of palm trees played behind the emblematic street sign. Shades of the sunset glowed richly – ambers and salmons burnt through with mottled rust. Emblazoned on the curtain in the Minskoff Theatre was the title of one of the hottest tickets in town: SUNSET BLVD.
Glenn Close was nearing the end of her opening run as Norma Desmond, for which she won a Tony Award, and somehow I’d managed to score seats for my Mom and me. We were in the very last row, but even in a theater as expansive as the Minskoff, I knew Ms. Close would put on a show.
We were not disappointed. In fact, it remains one of the most transfixing and mesmerizing moments I’ve ever had the luck to witness on Broadway. Close was phenomenal – ferocious and fierce, tender and touching, all manic and magic and tragic at once. She brought a brittle humanity to a woman whose circumstances were unmatched by most of us, yet we understood her plight and her pain, and her insatiable need for love and adoration. Norma Desmond would never be easy to like – the truly great ones never are – they are too complex and polarizing, they demand too much and try too hard. For those very reasons they are the ones who are remembered.
For her part, Ms. Close brought a definitive reading to a character it seemed impossible for anyone other than the original Gloria Swanson herself to play. Two decades later, all talk is that she’s making the role just as powerful and impactful as that first time, with layers of depth and experience adding nuance and sparkle to her performance. Critics are raving, audiences are packing in (Hillary Clinton and Steven Spielberg are two of the latest to stop by), and everything’s as if we never said good-bye.
I think back to the first time my Mom and I saw the show, in the last row of the Minskoff Theatre. It was a matinee, and the light of day was shut out for a couple of hours of pure theatrical magic. As the overture began, and the dark tones of Andrew Lloyd Webber’s lush score rang out, we sat on the verge of something epic. As Ms. Close descended that serpentine staircase to frenzied applause, the magic that was in the making revealed itself in stunning form. We sat rapt for the entire show, wholly enchanted by the spectacle and the performance unfurling before us, and when it was over I realized that Norma would be haunting my life for some time thereafter. That’s the power of an actress like Ms. Close.
I’d have the fortune to see a number of other Normas inhabit the house on the boulevard (most notably, and enjoyably, Betty Buckley – who should definitely be courted to return to the role if at all possible), but I never forgot the first time I saw Glenn Close give her amazing bravura performance. In two weeks, and from the front row, I’ll get to return to that infamous address to witness the wonder of her doing it all over again.
Madonna’s latest magazine spread also yielded a video project that is among her most beautiful and haunting. It put me in mind of some of her greatest artistic moments – the ones that turned themselves into cultural milestones, not just for Madonna, but for the landscape of entertainment and provocation. Here are a few that the Madonna Timeline has touched upon.
First up is an apt song for this time of the year, the majestic ‘Like A Prayer’ and its accompanying gospel heights.
Salvation came the year she turned 40 and released the ‘Ray of Light’ album.
From the ‘Inside Out’ she examined each step of her life.
For someone who doesn’t like to look back, she made a promise in ‘I’ll Remember‘.
She’l teach you how to… well, ‘Erotica‘.
Just watch her burn, and ‘Let It Will Be’.
Summer makes musical memories, especially when ‘This Used To Be My Playground‘ comes on the radio.
Who wants to get high? ‘Rainbow High.’
Everybody’s living in a material world, and she was the original ‘Material Girl’ – you know that we are…
She don’t wanna hear your ‘Words‘.
‘Deeper and Deeper’ and sweeter and sweeter – never gonna hide it again.
Our middle-of-the-day happy moment is provided by this shot from yesterday’s rainbow. It appeared outside my office window, and dropped one end right in front of the Hudson River. I’ve never been this close to the end of the rainbow before, but it bodes well for this final leg of my last tour. It reminds me of the heady days of the Royal Rainbow World Tour… Yes, everything’s as if we never said goodbye…
Rebounding from sickness and back issues and the general ickiness of winter, I’m feeling the first flush of spring fever, and the excitement that comprises the Final Leg of The Delusional Grandeur Tour. Recent stops in Tucson, Arizona and my beloved Boston have been completed, and upcoming jaunts include New York and Chicago. It will conclude in Ogunquit, Maine just before summer begins. Those are happy words and memory-inducers: summer and Ogunquit and Maine.
First, though, the trying days of Lent. The dirty, salty roads. The messy snow of which we haven’t seen the last. The riotous flailing of March winds as the month transforms from lion to lamb. We’ll get there, but we’re not out of the woods yet. It’s still very much winter, and that’s no joke.
My friend JoAnn will be visiting next weekend. That’s another happy thought. There’s a lot to catch up on – a winter’s worth of happenings since we last met around the holidays. Friends, food, and warmth. It’s how we make it through.
