To be so economical with so few words demands more discipline and care than the mass assembling of prose in which I usually cloak my written shortcomings. It’s easy to create a colloidal suspension of description to mask the absence of any real substance, swirling unnecessary adjectives and adverbs around like so many emulsifiers in this mess of similes and metaphors and incorrect scientific terms in some cacophonous run-on sentence. I work wonders with such distractions, but at what cost? No matter how glitzy the show, a vacuous core will always be forgettable.
It’s far more impressive to keep things concise and clear with a few well-chosen words. The spare and sparse beauty of a poem is something to which I aspire, but rarely achieve. One word is a razor, one is the heart, and what comes between is either protection or destruction. That’s too dangerous for me. I’d rather leave it to the experts. Like Mary Oliver in her poem ‘A Pretty Song‘ that follows:
Sometimes you don’t need a specific memory for a song to have an impact on your life – in this case, I have no memory or story attached to this one. I didn’t see the George Clooney/Michelle Pfeiffer movie that bears its namesake, nor do I have any recollection of any time I heard it prior to this moment. (Of course, I have heard it, but no specific time in my life sticks out in correlation to it.)
If I did have a memory attached to it – or, more accurately, if I could attach this song to a memory – it would be of a September weekend in Ogunquit, as Andy and I walked along Main Street and the Marginal Way for the first time. The sun was shining, the summer was still burning, and the first flush of love was on our cheeks.
The arms I long for
Will open wide
And you’ll be proud to have me right by your side…
While the original recording by The Chiffons as seen above will be its classic incarnation, I do have an affinity to the following rollicking version by the writer herself, the majestic Carole King. Both versions beg you to move your feet. Go on, you know you want to… and I promise I won’t tell anyone, so long as you do the same.
This year’s Broadway excursion with my Mom has just been solidified, and it includes two recently-nominated-for-a-Tony shows. I’d been hedging on getting tickets because I was on the fence about what we should see, but when the reviews started coming in for Neil Patrick Harris in the revival of ‘Hedwig and the Angry Inch’ I moved quickly to secure tickets. Luckily, I got them – in the third row no less – so I hope Mom is prepared for glitter and sweat (she usually is).
The night before Hedwig struts his/her stuff, we’ll be seeing ‘Mothers & Sons’ – the new play by Terrence McNally. Our theater-going history has been rife with Mr. McNally’s work – he wrote ‘Love! Valour! Compassion!’ and ‘Master Class’ – both of which we were lucky enough to see on Broadway – and he also wrote the book for ‘Ragtime’ which we also enjoyed. I’ve been hearing mixed things about ‘Mothers & Sons’ but more good than bad. Besides, it seemed a fitting title for a mother and son Mother’s Day weekend in New York.
While last year’s trip will be hard to top, as ‘Kinky Boots’ and ‘Pippin’ proved a theatrical double-knock-out, Neil Patrick Harris as Hedwig may be more than ample magic to do it. (And we’re even having dinner with Suzie again, which was a highlight of our last excursion. No cupcakes or holding cases necessary, I don’t care if they are pink.)
I’m a big-ticket boy when it comes to gifts. Flowers and chocolates are nice, but they’re not sufficient. However, for our upcoming wedding anniversary (May 7!) I’m going to go easy on Andy and his pocketbook – well, easy in Alan-land. Typically, I’ll drag him into Neiman Marcus or  Hermès and politely pick out a bottle of a Tom Ford Private Blend or the latest Hermès cologne.
This time around, I’m pleading for Tom Ford, but not one of the pricey Private Blends – I’m requesting one of the, ahem, mainstream fragrances: Black Orchid (which clocks in at a much more reasonable price point, and is not to be confused with Black Violet.) Up until this time, I’d ignored this one, being that it was over in the perfume section, and while I’m not averse to wearing perfume now and then, I tend to find most of them too sweet and floral for my liking. The last time I was in Sephora, however, I noticed that they had put it in the men’s fragrance section (Andy, you walk in and turn to the left wall, then go about three-quarters of the way into the store). I knew it was likely a store decision based on who was buying it, as the fragrance had been in the women’s section since it came out a number of years ago, so I gave it a try and fell in love. Maybe all these years of wearing Mr. Ford’s scents had finely attuned my sense of smell to better appreciate what I had hitherto ignored. Either way, I fell in love with Black Orchid, despite its questionable name. (I don’t know of a single orchid that’s very fragrant.)
It also has a sweet-enough aspect to make it palatable for spring – and I’m big on being seasonally appropriate when it comes to fragrance. I’ll grant you your white pants before Memorial Day nonsense if you must, but when it comes to scent, please show some sense of decency. Even with that sweetness, however, Black Orchid may be too much for many, and that’s precisely why I like it. The nights in spring are just as dark as the nights in fall.
To christen this lusty month of May, let us take a look-see at some of the men who have already been featured on this site… in their underwear (and maybe out of it.) A guy in his skivvies can be a glorious thing to behold – but it all depends on the guy and his underwear. (Donald Trump in a pair of rumpled boxer shorts, for example, not so much. Same goes for Justin Bieber – eww to all the Beliebers.) The gentlemen below him, however, look better in precisely that mode.
Speaking of pink, check out the shirtless Aaron Schock, who, while not in his underwear here, might as well be. Sooner or later his naked Grindr texts are going to hit the internet, mark my words.
While the following photo is not Tom Daley in his underwear, or even his Speedo, it’s welcome for its sunny and shirtless aspect – a much-needed blast of happiness and good weather from anywhere other than the Northeast right now.
On May 15, 2014, the plan is to get as many donations as possible in a 24-hour period. Last year, the Pride Center was the #1 fundraiser of smaller non-profit groups. In so many ways, this is the little organization that could. It bears repeating that the Pride Center of the Capital Region is the longest continually-operating LGBTQ center in the country. That says a lot for us, and it’s the people who have made it such a lasting operation.
If you’d like to give, be sure to do so at any time on May 15, 2014. (You can also contribute now so you don’t forget, with this neat feature set up to tabulate contributions on May 15 – a boon to those of us who find our days over-run with busy-ness.) Since this is mainly an online event, there’s no need to get dolled up and dressy about it, but there are opportunities for that as well. Two Happy Hours at two of my favorite places (Mingle and Oh Bar) will take place from 4 to 6 PM on that day as well. However, the best part of this is that your support and help can all be done online without leaving the comfort of your home or the palm of your hand. For further information, visit the Pride Center’s website here.
My time in Minneapolis had come to a close. In the short set of days I’d been there, it had quickly become a comfortable place – the weekday bustle of the downtown, the maze of the Skywalk, the leisurely strolls along Nicollet Mall, the arts and the food and the friendliness of the people – and I suddenly found it sad to be leaving this bridge of a vacation between jobs. It helped to be away, and such thankfulness for a place and time always pings the heart, in much the same way any end of a vacation does.
Every time we say goodbye,
I die a little,
Every time we say goodbye,
I wonder why a little,
Why the Gods above me,
who must be in the know.
Think so little of me,
they allow you to go.
Who else but Ms. Fitzgerald could so perfectly capture the bittersweet poignancy of such a Sunday morning? The tea cup from breakfast sits forlornly on the desk. A rolled-up tie awaits snug placement in the suitcase. The rumpled sheets of a bed only briefly mine spill onto the floor. All the things that held such an exciting allure for the past few days are suddenly deflated with the morning of goodbye.
When you’re near, there’s such an air of spring about it,
I can hear a lark somewhere, begin to sing about it,
There’s no love song finer, but how strange the change from major to minor,
Every time we say goodbye.
Preparing to depart, I take one last look around the room. Aside from the messy bed, and the pile of towels in the bathroom, it looks much like it did on the day of my arrival, now that the suitcase is packed. The difference is in my countenance. Resigned to return to upstate New York, my head is already partly there. It will make it easier for when I do touch down. Unlike most of my last-days-of-vacation, I am due to spend most of the day in Minneapolis. My flight isn’t scheduled to depart until the evening, so I walk to the Walker, but I’ve already told you about that.
An airport is either the happiest place on earth (at the start of a vacation) or the saddest (at the end) and rarely is there an in-between. By the time I walk through the Minneapolis/St. Paul hub (which smells much better than any other airport I’ve been in, thanks to the aroma emanating from Aveda), I am content and at peace with this goodbye. Minneapolis has been good to me, and the people have been kind. Sometimes that’s more than you can find in the comfort of your own home.
When you’re near, there’s such an air of spring about it,
I can hear a lark somewhere, begin to sing about it,
There’s no love song finer, but how strange the change from major to minor,
Every time we say goodbye.
It was my last morning in Minneapolis – and the weather had reverted to the dismal trappings of the winter. Cold, brisk air rushed along on cutting winds, and the sky – so recently blue and filled with the sun – had turned gray, revealing not one clue as to the whereabouts of the central orb of our solar system. Faced with the prospect of an entire day to fill before my flight boarded, I stored my luggage and made the journey to the Walker Arts Center. There were happy memories there.
The walk back was decidedly less colorful than the one through the sculpture garden a few short days prior. While the land had been just as brown and barren then, there had at least been a very blue sky, and a shimmering sun, both of which eluded me now. The day felt like winter – a rather disappointing dirge at this stage of April – and an aspect of sadness on this day of departure could not be shaken.
But there was color, even – and perhaps especially – in the gift shop. For some reason, photos culled from museum shops always turn out better than the actual photos of what’s in the museum itself. Part of it is due to accessibility and the nearness of the objects at hand. No one cares, or minds, if you touch and grope what’s in the gift shop. Such is not the case with those velvet-rope scenes.
Part of it is also due to the nature of the art on display. It really is meant to be seen in person. That’s the only way to accurately gauge the scale and color of a painting, or the shadows and light of a sculpture. When captured in a photograph, a little, and often a lot, is lost – as if the real artwork would never deign to be displayed any other way than its creator intended. For that reason, I don’t tend to post all the photos I take of the works that move me.
The whimsical inhabitants of a gift shop are another story. Their displays cry out to be photographed, sassy little show-peeps begging to be noticed. For that reason alone, I usually indulge them. Often the objects will relate to the featured exhibits or artists, but sometimes they stand alone.
Waving goodbye to the Walker Arts Center, I pause in its doorway as they leave a happy last-look.
The Minneapolis Institute of Arts provided a second day of gallery stimulation, or in this case relaxation, as any encounter with Buddhist art immediately sets my mind at ease. Rather than bore you with my recollections, here’s an eclectic selection of photos that tell their own tale.
My love for a hotel has been no secret here. If I had to live in one for the majority of the year I’d be a happy clam. Every once in a while I’ll splurge for a small suite, one that comes with a couch and sitting area, and the correlating expansive space that is a luxury in certain cities. Minneapolis is not one of those, being as expansive as the room seen here, and I quickly grew accustomed to splaying myself across the place.
In the mid-afternoon pocket of time that just precedes dinner preparation, there is often a lull in the action of the day. Some countries break for a siesta, a tradition about which I have mixed feelings.
On this particular afternoon, however, I embrace it.
The Walker Art Center was staging an Edward Hopper exhibit during my time in Minneapolis, and as art galleries have customarily been places of peace, I made the sojourn into its modern angular walls, examining all the treats along the way. Like the portal seen below, which reminded me of a scene in ‘Beetlejuice’ (my life can be broken down into scenes from ‘Beetlejuice’, ‘The Goonies’ and ‘Auntie Mame’, with doses of ‘Sunset Boulevard‘ and ‘All About Eve’ for good measure).
An art gallery is more than just art – at least for me. The space in-between the art is just as important, if not more-so, than the art itself. Without those blank stretches, the neutral canvass against which the work can be seen and shown off to best advantage, there is the possibility of all being lost in a mess.
In this modern space, there was room to breathe. High ceilings, lots of natural light, and a few banks of white leather couches provided a buffer between galleries. I sat down and took a few deep breaths. In such austerity, and in the simple act of sitting down after all the walking and standing, I felt a calm creep into the day.
The afternoon had broken. Not in the way a mirror breaks – not all shards and sharpness and slivers of glass – but in the gentle turn following the morning, the subtle slant of the sun in the sky, that start to the onslaught of evening.
As for Mr. Hopper, I enjoyed his depictions of office workers best, caught at the end of their day, the sun mimicking what it was doing outside – slanting low in the sky. It reminded me that back home there was a new job on the horizon, but somehow I felt comfort in that too. It was a reminder that I wasn’t alone.
That may be what I look for most in a work of art – the ability to remind us that we are not alone. Not always. On that day at the Walker Art Center, I didn’t feel alone either.
At the end of the sculpture garden, a conservatory. Coming as it did near the end of a blustery walk, perhaps it carried more relief than it otherwise would – though this sort of environment has always held special allure for those of us enamored of plants and flowers.
Rose-tainted bracts of Spathiphyllum, surrounding their phallic flowers, brought a sense of primal urgency to the proceedings, reminding of the sexual sub-layer that runs through all of life. A plaque offered up words of wisdom, ruminations, and an explanation for the enclosures at hand.
I admire when words and beauty collide. If there’s a single goal for this blog – for this entire website in fact – it’s that wondrous collision. The crux that obliterates all else ~ that moment of intersection between mind and heart. Whenever they meet, there is magic. Sometimes, being in a special place aids in the alchemy.
The gods have always lived in clearings, sacred groves, or green theaters enclosed by special walls. ~ Barbara Stauffacher Solomon
On this day, when the wind was whipping around and the earth was still gray and brown, this little enclosure of glass and green was like a hand upon the heart – a reassuring embrace that all would be well, that spring would again return, that there was still love and hope and beauty in the world.
Vital shades of green – from chartreuse to lime to silvery frost – clicked something in the head. The connection of memory to sun, of color to light, cleared the dusty shelves of spring.
Succulents are an easy group of plants to keep, provided you have the requisite sun. The trick to their cultivation is a steady and strict touch when it comes to watering. It’s best to err on the side of less-is-more. These are resilient plants, accustomed to the unreliable moisture of the desert. Most unsuccessful attempts at keeping them are due to poor lighting and over-watering. When in doubt, leave it out.
When happy, their leaves are plump with water, thick and bulbous and more than apt for their ‘succulent’ moniker. They are the embodiment of life. A defiance of the death so prevalent in the desert. An oasis in the barren and windy Minneapolis landscape.
While they are not known for their flashy flowers, their foliage occasionally comes in rosettes, the leaves forming their own sort of bloom.
Somewhere a drag queen named ‘April Showers’ is basking in her time of the year. For the rest of us, we’re just scrambling to clean up the yard after a late start to spring. At last count, I’d filled 47 lawn bags with winter debris – about par for the clean-up course. There is still some more to go – a long-neglected bit of side-yard that never gets the care it so badly needs, for example. But I won’t bore you with that – drudgery is never very sexy. On with the last week…
I’m so alone tonight
My bed feels larger than when I was small
Lost in memories
Lost in all the sheets and old pillows
So alone tonight
Miss you more than I will let you know
Miss the outline of your back
Miss you breathing down my neck
They’re all out to get you
Once again they’re all out to get you
Once again…
As 1993 turned into 1994, and winter turned into spring, and my first year at Brandeis turned into something that was coming to a close, I sat up in my small twin bed, sheets twisted around my legs, the gray light from an outside lamp spilling in like some lame approximation of moonlight, and wondered at the predicament of being alone.
My roommate was gone. I felt relieved, but alone – always alone. Yet not lonely – not yet.
The red numerals of an alarm clock took rigid stock of the passing minutes. Spring rustled at the window. A restless longing was being tapped out by my heart. What did this life have in store? What message might I be missing? Do you hear me? Do you understand what I’m saying?
Insecure, whatcha gonna do?
Feel so small they could step on you
Called you up, answering machine
When the human touch
Is what I need
What I need, what I need, what I need, what I need…
Is you
I need you.
A bottle of urine stood beside the bed (the college guy’s method of avoiding fluorescent hallway walks past midnight.) My backpack slumped on the chair, filled with the books I’d need for the next morning’s classes. Looking back, I’m glad I never realized how alone I was. It would have broken me.
That night, I did not know. Or, rather, it was all I knew, and it was how I survived. Shadows and muffled laughter of passing students floated in from the hallway. I watched the shifting shaft of light beneath the door and bristled at the fading voices. There was no laughter inside my room.
Looked in the mirror, I don’t know who I am anymore
The face is familiar
But the eyes, the eyes give it all away
They’re all out to get you
Once again they’re all out to get you
Here they come again, here they come again, here they come again, here they come again, here they come again, here they come again, here they come again, here they come again, here they come again…
A bit of paranoia creeps into the song. It builds slowly, like an incoming tide, gently but insistently growing louder, and soon, too soon, it is a roar. Static in the head. A feverish state. I kick off the sheets and blankets, as a cold sweat soaks through my t-shirt. On the verge of crying, I wonder why they never loved me. Somehow, I don’t cry. It isn’t sadness that I feel, or even loss. Merely a sense of wonder, at the world, at the human condition, at what it was all supposed to mean. I made a tender reconciliation with the night then.
Insecure whatcha gonna do?
Feel so small they could step on you
Called you up, answering machine
When the human touch
Is what I need
What I need, what I need, what I need, what I need, what I need, what I need, what I need, what I need, what I need…
Is you, is you, is you, is you, is you, is you, is you…
If you let me breathe…
I call friends and lovers at strange hours. I need to talk, and listen, and hear from people I know. They buffer the fear. I ask them to listen to this song, to the whole album. They promise to try, but I know they don’t. I make mix tapes for them instead, counting on the effort to get them to hear it. They don’t respond or say they like it. I have no way of knowing if they hear it too, if they hear the loneliness.
I have never heard voices in the night. Not in the crazy way that would make it easier to make sense of who I am, the way they want so badly to make sense of me. Instead, I hear James. If they heard it – if they only listened – they would know too.
They’re all out to get you
Once again
To get you
Once again.
