Where on earth would kids get the idea that chalk is okay to be used on public walking ground?
Oh, right. Nevermind.
Category Archives: Boston
07
September
2012
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September
2012
06
September
2012
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September
2012
A Very Grand Finale
A slew of Boston posts begins with the happy ending – a few treats from Finale – our favorite dessert place in Boston. It really is the perfect way to conclude an evening, and they’re open a bit later than most places (11 or midnight on most nights). While the Madonna concert ended a bit too late to make it here on that night (hell, it practically began after Finale was closed, but more on Madonna later), we managed to snag a late-night treat the evening before.
Divine decadence indeed. Don’t you want one now?
04
September
2012
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September
2012
Make Me Squeal
At about this time (okay, probably two hours after this time) Madonna will be taking to the stage in Boston for her MDNA Tour, and I will be shrieking in my high-pitched teenage-girl squeal that I adopt when these sorts of events come up. Andy will be looking at me and laughing. And then we will both be watching the Queen put on the Greatest Show on Earth.
04
September
2012
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September
2012
L-I-V-E Madonna!
Today’s the day! Madonna comes to Boston ~ my favorite performer in my favorite city. Bow down bitches.
If you’ve ever wanted to hear me scream like a girl, come within 50 feet of North Station tonight.
03
September
2012
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September
2012
Back to Boston
Not that I’ve ever needed a reason to return to Boston (again and again), but when Madonna’s in town, well, it’s a given that I’ll be in town. Though I’ve passed the fanatical devotion that allowed me to recognize Cloud and Tamara on Boylston Street when the Confessions Tour rolled around in the summer of 2006, I still get a major thrill from seeing my favorite performer live. (Sad to say I wouldn’t know one of her dancers if I met them on the street this time around… and if anyone knows anything about the elusive Mr. Hobby, please let Suzie know… her daughter claims he was a teacher at her school or something, and I guess we’re trying to determine who was lying.) At any rate, we’ll be back in Boston today, and just in the nick of time – I’ve been craving a Zuni Roll from the Parish Cafe.
02
September
2012
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September
2012
Madonna & A Monday Massage
Tomorrow Andy and I return to Boston, for the return of Madonna and her MDNA Tour. Needless to say, I am very excited, but I’m also slightly deflated as our seats appear to be behind the stage… or with a very limited side view. No matter, we’ve seen her before, and I’ll see her again in NYC, so we’ll just dance and sing to the music.
Before that, however, a bit of Labor Day relaxation in the form of another massage. It is said that true peace and contentment can only be found within, and there is surely something to the practices and benefits of yoga and meditation and simple exercise – but I’m after a quicker, lazy-man’s version of this – the kind of inner peace and tranquility that can only be found in a massage, where the work is all done at the hands of someone else. To that lovely end, I’ve scheduled a session at ‘etant: A Spa for Well Being‘ in the South End. It’s just a few blocks away from our place, and the perfect entry back into Boston. I’m not sure how it will compare to the heights of ecstasy found at the Mandarin Oriental, but any massage is better than no massage.
10
June
2012
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June
2012
Pride Overload
I am writing this a few minutes after returning to Albany. It is 9:44 AM and Kiera and I just did Boston Pride yesterday, so the thought of another Pride Parade and Festival, for Albany no less, is not quite as thrilling as it once was. However, I know once it begins and I start seeing those smiling faces, all doubts and dreariness will be a thing of the past.
That’s sort of how my ambivalent relationship with Gay Pride works. The bitchy side of me believes (and not wholly unrightly) that Pride is something I have every day. Living openly as a gay man in upstate New York is its own statement – one that, fortunately, means less and less as more and more people accept equality. Being that I surround myself with friends and family who don’t see me as just a gay man, I tend to forget how important these days are for those who are just coming out, and for those who don’t have acceptance in their lives. It always strikes me when I’m standing there watching the beginning of the Boston Pride Parade.
It kicks off with the motorcycling ladies, who sit on their hogs beaming with joy, rainbow boas intertwined among the chrome handles, exhaust streaming from their pipes – and when they rev their engines and beep their horns the crowd cheers, and always, without fail, tears come to my eyes. Not enough to fall, nothing to wipe away, and I fight them back for fear of looking foolish, but that is my moment of Pride. Construction workers pause in their drilling, hotel staff filters out to the curb, waiters and cooks line the street, and in that beginning there is all the hope in the world. It seems such a silly thing, a trifling bit in a chaotic universe of more pressing and real concerns, but for some of us, it means everything.
09
June
2012
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June
2012
A Very Gay Parade
This weekend, in what may be a completely foolish move, I’ve committed to attending both the Boston Pride Parade (Saturday) and the Albany Pride Parade (Sunday). Last year I only made it to Boston, and recuperated on Sunday (not really necessary, but a nice buffer). This year I’ve agreed to judge the Albany Pride Parade floats (I assume) so I have to be there. No guarantee on my status or outfit (I haven’t had time to do up two pride costumes, so the Albany one is decidedly simpler. In fact, it’s probably the simplest thing I’ve ever worn in public – and those are usually the ones that make the biggest splash – think Madonna at Cannes circa 1991.)
The parade always reminds me of a story I’ve told here before. While working at the Rotterdam Structure over summer break, I encountered a co-worker who had only met one other gay person in all his life. He was well-built, wore tight t-shirts and gold chains, and had the Italian guido look down pat (and I mean that in the best possible way.) On our first shift together we were folding shirts when he asked me if I liked parades. It was out of the blue, not related to anything else going on, and I wasn’t sure I heard him correctly.
“Umm, not particularly,” I answered. “Why did you ask me that?”
He proceeded to explain that his Uncle, who was gay, always liked parades, and he wondered if all gay guys did. His genuine and earnest, if slightly stereotypical, question touched me. He was not saying it any derogatory or mean way, he was genuinely curious and wanted to expand his understanding. I will never ridicule anyone for inquisitiveness.
I do still have a chuckle at the whole exchange, but that’s the sort of thing that brings people together, bridging our differences and forming a bond beneath the common joy of laughter. In the same way that I lumped him into what I viewed as a classic Italian Stallion stereotype and had to reconsider my views when he turned into a sensitive person, so too did he manage to reconfigure his take based on his limited experience with gay people.
We were young and foolish then, but we had hearts and open minds. Has the world changed so much, or have I?
07
June
2012
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June
2012
The Gay Religious Experience
This is one of the very first songs I danced to at a gay club in Boston. It was at Chaps, which was still on Huntington, right across from the Copley Marriott. A few retail co-workers (shout-out to the Fanueil Hall Structure crew) were going, and having recently turned 21 I decided to join them. (Aside from a one-time-only chalked-license night at the Branch one previous summer, I was never one for under-age drinking.) Once I turned legal, I didn’t go crazy, so I had been of age for a couple of months before really utilizing it.
My poison then was the White Russian. Yeah, I was once that kid, but at least it was better than the amaretto sours I started on. (We won’t mention Boones here.) After my third, I was relaxed enough to join my friends on the dance-floor. I had been to one or two gay dance clubs before, but had watched the dancing from a distance.
Thanks to countless choreographed danced numbers practiced in the carpeted world of my childhood bedroom, I could cut a rug as well as the next gay guy, so the dancing never intimidated me. And even the tiers of men watching from the elevated section above didn’t phase me. There was a certain freedom from worry in a gay club that straight people will never understand. Even if they spend a few nights in a gay bar, they can never know what it’s like to have spent a lifetime in a straight world, only to have that oppressive tension (even if nothing ever happened) lifted. Maybe that’s why gay clubs are so much more exciting than straight ones – everyone is just relieved and happy to be there, and we’re going to have the time of our lives no matter what.
I don’t remember all the songs we danced to – just this one – as this was the climax of the night, the song playing when everyone was collectively moving en masse, when for a few brief moments the whole becomes greater than the sum of its parts. It’s the time when even the shy guys will take their shirts off and swing them in the air with gleeful abandon (most, not me). As we moved in unison, dancing and jumping and clapping to the music, I thought surely there was salvation here, surely this was heaven, surely this was the closest I’d come to a religious experience.
I remember that night to this day, so important was it to my initiation into the gay world. While I would never be a regular club kid, I would always enjoy the occasional night out, and when Chaps moved over to the theatre district, it was never quite the same (nor was it as easy a drunken walk home). That moment, and its place in my life, had passed. But we had that time together – all the men and women in that darkened room, with a throbbing strobe light, the pounding beats, and that feeling of shared elation.
24
May
2012
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May
2012
I Won’t Eat Swans, But I Do Enjoy Duck
Peking Duck, to be precise. Well, any duck will do, but in this instance I had the aforementioned Chinese preparation of the waterfowl on a recent dinner in Chinatown. Kira and I had just seen a show, and rather than puzzle out which restaurant would serve us at such a late hour, we walked to Chinatown, which, I’m told, is generally open deep into the after-hours for night-crawlers like ourselves.
It’s been years since I had Peking Duck, but after the giddiness of the show, and a few giddy cocktails, I had to share it with Kira and remember the night. I still recall the other two times I tried the dish – the first was at my cousin Lee Marie’s wedding rehearsal dinner. I must have only been about ten years old. My Aunt ordered for the table, and when it came around someone showed my brother and me how to properly assemble it. Part soft taco and part burrito by way of China, it was both fun for a kid, and insanely tasty for an adult. I fell in love instantly, but the extravagant price and preparation time put it far from my mind.
It wasn’t until a few years later that I had it again – this time in Washington, DC, with my Uncle Roberto. I was treating him to dinner at one of his favorite Chinese restaurants, and, perhaps because I was doing the treating (or, more accurately, my parents’ credit card was doing the treating) he went for the Peking Duck. It was the first time I’d thought about the dish since that wedding, and in one fell swoop he brought back one happy family memory, while making a new one. We sat at the table leisurely awaiting its preparation. Far from being annoyed or antsy about the prep time, I relished the moments alone with my Uncle. The restaurant was cool and slightly sterile, but a welcome relief from the heat of high noon. Is there anywhere hotter than Washington, DC on a summer afternoon?
When the dish arrived it took up half the table, which was suddenly and extravagantly laid out with all the culinary accoutrements, including that criminally delicious hoisin sauce. Taking our time and savoring the meal – it was as much a treat for me as it was for my Uncle – we gorged ourselves on duck and tea, the two of us finishing almost all of it, in addition to a few other side dishes. I don’t remember what, if anything, we talked about. It was one of those memories that exists in emotional and sensory recollection only – not for the topics or discussion at hand, and if my Uncle were still alive he would likely not remember it. But for me – and for the kid I once was – it was one of the best lunches I ever had.
On this particular evening, almost ten years after my Uncle has passed, I take my friend Kira to a restaurant in Chinatown and order the Peking duck for her – for us – and I share the memories I have of the dish.
29
April
2012
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April
2012
Naked, Wet, and a Mess
The erratic drumming of falling water beads, pounding incessantly on the aluminum shell of a window air conditioner and reverberating throughout the high-ceilinged room – this is the sound of a war waged by the rain, against my senses, and has been the bane and boon of a night in my Boston bedroom.
At first it is jarring, especially if the rain has been fine, or more of a mist, where the rivulets of water don’t begin running for hours after the overcast haze has begun. Then the first few attacks are startling and obnoxious, as a bit of disbelief gives rise to anger at the relentlessness of the random yet steady assault of drops. It would be torturous to some, but I’ve grown accustomed to it, and it comes with the territory of a rainy patch.
As the night wears on, and the rain refuses to let up, the tapping takes on a different tone, moving from agitated annoyance to reassuring comfort. The din becomes a buffer, especially when the silence has become overbearing. Disruption can be a welcome distraction from thought, the way those recordings of oceans or rainforests provide background noise to aid in sleep.
At the start of the irregular cadence of drips and pops and snare beats, I always think I’ll go crazy. I toss and turn a bit if sleep doesn’t come soon, half-cursing, half-muttering at the uninvited noise. I work out strategies of clever invention, cone-shaped objects designed to gently absorb the pitter-patter, or a simple tray where the first minute of rain pounds upon it, but eventually softens its own blow. In the end, the mind is distracted enough to allow for sleep to sneak in, and by the middle of the night it has become a comforting drone.
Then, upon waking to find a glass of water or padding across the hardwood to use the bathroom, the sound is a friend I didn’t realize I had, a balm on the scary silence the night usually affords.
A reminder that we are not in control of this world. A gentle tap on the shoulder that someone else – God or the universe or some other power – is still in command. An echo of every rainstorm that came before, a foreshadowing of every rainstorm to come.
18
April
2012
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April
2012
A Virgin Massage Voyage
My first massage, courtesy of the Mandarin Oriental in Boston, was beyond anything I could have imagined. The only thing to which I can liken it is the last ten minutes of a really great yoga session, where all you have to do is to lay there and feel the peace and relaxation – only this goes on for as long as the massage lasts, and you don’t need to do any sort of strenuous exertion beforehand.
In fact, the only thing I had to do before the session was to enjoy the thermal experience that the Mandarin offers – in the form of a crystal steam room, vitality pool, and a rain shower that washed away any and all worries. But before that, there was the welcoming ceremony of herbal tea and a scented hot towel. Beside a peaceful waterfall, I removed my shoes and slipped on a pair of slippers. An attendant brought me back to the spa area and set me up with a locker and a tour of the facilities.
With its soothing lighting (tranquil and soft), sumptuous bathrobes (they knew the way to my heart), and insanely sensual offerings (the showers alone, with their intoxicating selection of body wash, shampoo and conditioner, were a revelation) the Spa at the Mandarin is an expert study in the art of rejuvenation and relaxation. Advised to arrive 45 minutes before my scheduled massage time, I immediately realized the benefits of this as I took a quick shower than immersed myself in the vitality pool. Warm water swirled amid a pulsating stream of hot bubbles, and for this alone the experience was worth it. After a glorious period of decompression, I headed into the crystal steam room for a spell before one final dip in the pool, and another shower (the body wash was just that good). For the last fifteen minutes before the massage, I stretched out in the relaxation room – and a more aptly-named space must not exist.
When my masseuse appeared – a soft-spoken smiling gentleman named Kenny who would prove to be my portal to nirvana – I was already in a state of calm, but I had no idea how much calmer things could get. He went over the process, offered me another cup of tea, and then it was time.
Now, I’m not one who enjoys the touch of strangers. I don’t like the accidental brush in the elevator, and I am adamantly opposed to social touching unless I’m three sheets to the wind (in which case I’m slightly more at ease with hugs and the like). But during the daytime hours, I recoil at contact, and even have a problem with people being remotely within my ‘personal space’. However, for a massage at the Mandarin, I was willing to suspend my issues, let go of my inhibitions, and simply enjoy the experience for what it was. Well, apparently the wrong people have been touching me all my life because this was the single more enjoyable thing I’ve done in a long time (and I’m selfish enough to partake in a lot of enjoyable things – hello Tom Ford Private Blends).
Between the invigorating essence of the Quintessence oil that was used, the expert maneuvering of the masseuse’s hands, and the over-riding calm of the whole atmosphere, I felt the closest to heaven that humans could hope to reach. I was an instant massage convert, and when it was over it felt like I had done the most addictive and pleasurable drug in the world. Floating back to the showers and vitality pool for one final round, I didn’t want it to end.
Many thanks to the incredible staff at the Mandarin Oriental, and a word/link of advice for anyone wondering what to get me ever again: see this Mandarin Oriental Spa Brochure. (It may have knocked the Tom Ford Private Blend collection down a notch or two on my gift wish-list.)
22
November
2011
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November
2011
What A Difference A Decade Makes
I hadn’t seen my friend Kira in over ten years – back when I made an ill-fated move to Chicago with a boyfriend and she made a similar move to Florida with her husband. It seems both those relationships took a few too many tragic turns and were not in the stars to last. She just returned to Boston, so I jumped at the chance to reconnect. She was one of my favorite people when we both worked at John Hancock, and one of the sweetest people I’ve ever met in my life. Of course, I don’t always treat the sweet ones well, so we had our issues and fall-outs, but never anything serious, and I never doubted that we would always be friends.
She stopped by the condo for a couple of cocktails, and it was as if nothing had changed. We caught up, as best as we could – covering a decade of events in one night is a wonderful impossibility. After a few hours passed (and with no hope of food in the kitchen) we journeyed into the South End and popped into Addis Red Sea on a whim. They were still serving, so we sat down at a mesob and began with some honey wine.
Kira has always had a calming effect on me, and she’s a comfort to be around. She’s got her own bit of baggage, and though we’ve each changed in many ways, our friendship managed to survive. I’m glad she’s returned to Boston. Another reason to visit…
27
September
2011
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September
2011
‘Next Fall’ at the Speakeasy Stage – Theater Review
A far cry from the last feel-good production I saw put on by the SpeakEasy Stage Company (that would be the rollicking good-time of ‘The Drowsy Chaperone’), ‘Next Fall’ is a very serious play that resonates with several particularly-timely subjects – yet it is just as expertly-done, and haunts in a more provocative manner. At its heart, it is a play about the difficult reconciliation between religion and homosexuality, and it also touches on family relations, the question of faith, and the simple (or not so simple) meaning of love. If it sounds like a lot, it is – but somehow the ensemble cast reins it in with impeccably-rendered performances.
Nominated for a Tony for Best Play in 2010, ‘Next Fall’ by Geoffrey Nauffts is compellingly of-the-moment, especially given these religiously-fanatic times. A Bible makes it way around to each of the characters – sometimes instilling comfort, sometimes inciting anger, sometimes invoking sadness – and it becomes its own central character, embodying the idea of religion, and all notions of good and bad. Any sort of judgment one way or another is wisely avoided, and the lingering ambivalence over the real role of religion and faith in the characters’ lives remains powerfully unresolved.
Directed by Scott Emriston, the production keeps its pace, owing in part to several ingenious set design shifts (Scenic Designer Janie Howland) and quick costume changes (Costume Design by Carlos Aguilar). Most effective may be the lighting (courtesy of Lighting Designer Karen Perlow), which somehow manages to differentiate between a cold hospital waiting room and a warm personal apartment, seemingly at the flip of a switch.
There are a few minor quibbles. A quick drug-addiction scene comes out of nowhere and ends up in the same place, and at times it does feel like there are too many things going on when a closer, more detailed examination of the bigger issues at hand might have proved better, but the strength of the ensemble pulls it all together. Not one of the actors uses broad strokes to fill their character, and their subtle, natural nuances keep things grounded on a credible level. There’s not a weak-link in the bunch. Taken as a whole, they add up to a powerful night of theater.
17
August
2011
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August
2011
Bond in Boston
At the bar, I ask if they have Boodles gin. Boodles at Bond in Boston appeals to the alliteration whore I am, but no such luck. I settle for a Hendrick’s martini instead, very dry, with olives. A word on cocktail olives: they should always be firm, they should always be Queens, and they should always be served in threes. This one has all of the above, and if I am here for nothing more than this martini, then the journey has been worth it.
I don’t know why I had to be here. I don’t know what I’m supposed to find. I don’t know if there’s anything here for me to discover. I only know that I am. In this cavernous room, I observe the surroundings.
There is money here – literally – on the walls. Huge, blown-up prints of our US currency, such as it’s worth these days. So that’s the Bond of the namesake, not some British guy named James. Four large chandeliers dangle over the corners of the immense room, while an enormous one hangs directly in the center. Dripping with countless crystals, they sparkle against the dark ceiling like a starry night. A table of four is in the corner – they are the only other customers at this early hour. Meanwhile, five or six black-clad staff members seem designed to be a distraction, some trick of the Matrix.
The Hendrick’s was a good choice, and my cologne for the evening – Jean-Claude Ellena’s ‘Angeliques Sous La Pluie’ – with its subtle hints of pepper, coriander and juniper – is the unintentionally-perfect partner for the martini in hand. For once I did not plan it that way.
Certain evenings demand a special fragrance, and it is my usual practice to ensure a good match. This one snuck up on me, yet it all worked out. When the universe conspires, we should go with the flow.
One of the bartenders sets a small bowl of crisps in front of me. I eye them warily, and don’t partake right away. I am enjoying the cocktail and the atmosphere, content to take it all in – a pause in the daily drudgery.
I notice the ‘Federal Reserve Bank of Boston’ medallion embedded in the floor in the very center of the room, beneath the glittering chandelier. There was once a vault here – somewhere. We are encased by stone walls, the former fortitude of a bank lending cold security and sinister elegance.
A pair of tourists in shorts and sneakers enters and settles into a couch in the lounge section. The dress code clearly is not in effect just yet. They order a Bloody Mary and a beer, but are too far away for me to catch any snippet of conversation.
A second martini materializes, made by a different bartender, but just as good. Tiny shards of ice float on its surface, bits of the chandelier’s light reflecting on tiny shimmering waves. Yet it feels like I am here for more than a martini. Never have I felt such a strong push to be somewhere. I’ve had places and circumstances that have been memorable and important – spots of sacredness – to which I return time and again to honor, to remember, to reveal. This is my first time here. It doesn’t make sense why there was such a striking force drawing me to this place. What am I meant to see?
Another couple enters and bellies up to the bar, ordering a Taj Mahal beer and a “Pinot Grigio or something light and white.”
What am I doing here? The bartender who set the chips down, Cameron, has returned with a squeeze bottle of something that looks like milk or cream. He offers me another martini, and says they have blue cheese olives if I’m interested, but I stay true to the traditional. He also asks if I’d like a glass of water, which I always assume to be the bartender’s friendly admonition, a nice way of saying, ‘Don’t get too fucked up, pal.’ But there’s no worry of that. Three is my limit.
I feel that my time is running out, and the reason for my being here has yet to be explained. I was so sure something would come out of it, some clue to finally figure out the man I’ve become – a man on the verge of thirty-six and still so unsure of so many things.
The bartenders share some small talk and tell me I should come back later in the evening when the DJ arrives – that the place picks up then – but that is not what I am after. I have enjoyed the quiet, I have waited for what was never going to come, and I have no interest in dancing to a DJ tonight. One of them mentions Ogunquit and I recommend that he visits immediately, that it’s one of my favorite places in the world. A little more chatting and then it is time – to settle up and walk home.
There is nothing for me here.
There never was.
