This very basic bouquet of the old-fashioned Annabelle hydrangea uses blooms of varying stages to capture a palette of creams and soft greens. Lending a fresh look to this container (whose lid rests beside it as part of its charm) it’s a testament to the power of simplicity – and abundance. It takes more blooms than I thought it would – usually hydrangeas are large enough to form a bouquet with a single stalk or two – which also allows for varying degrees of bloom stage, giving it different texture and architecture.
At a time of the year when things are getting hot, and the weather is a rollercoaster, a calming bouquet is an easy antidote. I pause and study it, and whatever turmoil that is raging is immediately quieted.
When you’re able to see its stupidity and social construct, you can pick up its various elements and present something wholly fabricated for public consumption. Sometimes all it takes is one accessory or pose – the people always fill in the rest with what they want to see, what they find comfort in seeing. It’s what they have always seen. Playing with this and upsetting expected notions was how I got off twenty years ago, and plays a major part in the formulation of The Divine Diva Tour: A Fairy’s Tale.
Imprisoned by the yellow tile of a locker room, our protagonist contemplates the various ties that bind him. Sartorially, he remains a prisoner. Socially, he stays an outsider. Stylistically, he is the ultimate trickster. Something about shape-shifting removes emotional earnestness. You do not know what to believe, you do not know what is true, you do not know what is real. There is the body, there is the brain, there is the heart, there is the soul. Science does not quite match up to style. Life is a pose.
The Buck Moon shone this week, fucking things up like only a full moon can, and Mercury will soon be in retrograde motion through August, so everything is about to get wonky. As if Mars entering Virgo wasn’t enough, Uranus is also in Gemini, so all hell is about to break loose for anyone toying with the idea of fucking with a Virgo right now. If you’ve seen the new ‘Dune’ movies, you have an idea of how I intend to handle the astrological sandworm monsters about to come my way: picture me harnessing all the energy and transforming all the fuckery into potent, piercing, damning empirical evidence like only a Virgo can.
A song then, deceptively mellow, for a deceptive summer.
I’ll dig my talons in like an eagle and ride those sandworms into the ground, as if I’d strapped a pair of great whites onto my feet and decided to surf the seal-heavy shore. Anyone can become a hunter when the moon enters their soul. Virgos are said to be entering their villain era with all of the astrological events currently in motion. Last fall I thought I might have turned to the darkness, but I ended up pulling most of those punches. This year that won’t be the case, and summer has me feeling all kinds of punchy.
Gloria Estefan has never quite achieved the respect she’s deserved, and perhaps it’s from videos like this. I love its ridiculous visuals, and the bop of a song behind it. Summer Fridays are a good fit for such a song. It’s happy music, somewhat silly music, and perfect music for a summer weekend.
There’s a party to be had on any given summer Friday – and that’s a vibe we should carry with us each and every day of summer. I’m trying to remember that – trying to slow these sunny days, to still the summer – perhaps even more than I willed such magic in my childhood. Maybe I feel the quickening advance of time, ticking away faster and faster. On some objective plane, time may be consistent. Most of us feel it going by quicker as the years pass, even when it’s not the case.
And so I say dance – make your wishes and dance – just like Gloria.
Chased by demons both real and imagined, he runs down metallic stairs that echo against their concrete walls. This song runs through his head, adding to the intrigue with its dramatic push and driving beat. It is mood music, the soundtrack to an action sequence that drives the narrative while engaging with an underlying tension. Summer crafts a different sort of drama – heightened, feverish, and slightly more sinister than perhaps any other time of the year. Summer is supposed to be easy, so when trauma does rear its head, it somehow feels a little bit worse. Or a little more exciting. Life depends so much on interpretation and attitude.
Back to the opening sentence, and our protagonist, always some version of myself either current or past or even future, is running through the stairs of a Russian hotel during the summer of 1990. I was chasing myself, seeking the boy I used to be, and the man I was on the verge of becoming, and not quite catching up to either. I was just beginning to understand the art of conjuring drama, of telling a story, of being of such peaked interest to people that you stayed on their mind even and especially when absent. And in the absence of apparent love, this is what the adolescent does to emotionally survive.
The art of making an impression.
And so I ran, in the movie of my mind, and on an actual day when my absence might have been a matter of interest had anyone bothered to notice. La Habanera danced before my head, and I found a means of escape, and exit. Outside the hotel, the air was warm. A Russian night unfurled in the forest beyond the hotel grounds. Summer demands exploration, and danger bound inextricably to the fabric of discovery. The point of innocence is often only seen in its unraveling.
Way back in the 80’s, summers felt way different. I was just a child then, so summers lasted forever. They ran so far into the future that school felt a lifetime away. The deliciousness of a July day contained multitudes, and for a child in the 80’s there was freedom and adventure and an innocence that I fear has long disappeared. It was all there, in a pop song given a reggae slant for this island summer.
Things look so bad everywhere In this whole world, what is fair? We walk blind and we try to see Falling behind in what could be…
A coconut limonada sweats down a hibiscus glass as a sprig of fresh mint perches jauntily near the rim. Summer heat and high humidity, still new enough to be welcome and not annoying, start from the earliest morning, when the stillness of the hour is enough to trick you into thinking it’s possibly cool. Friction and action lead to heat – staying quiet and stationary lends a coolness, even if it’s only the making of your mind.
Worlds are turning and we’re just hanging on Facing our fear and standing out there alone A yearning, and it’s real to me There must be someone who’s feeling for me Things look so bad everywhere In this whole world, what is fair?
Unfortunately, that effortless, carefree look requires more than just plopping some stems in a vase and letting gravity take its course. But happily not much…
A decent bouquet requires a light touch. Placing each stem and evenly spacing them from each other is the worst sort of bouquet, and we’ve all been guilty of it. Instead, I try to make an easy, sometimes unexpected focal point, and groupings of flowers that play off that focus and try to move the eye elsewhere. Color can be a way of drawing the eye as well – colors that play off each other, or echo that focal point. Don’t forget the importance of foliage, which can be a focal point in itself, but may also break up the color and architecture of the flowers.
What is it about a bundt cake that spurs conversation and camaraderie?
Is it some latent childhood memory that brings back the elusive rhythm of adults talking in the background that allowed kids to be invisible? In so many ways, that was what we always wanted as kids – to not be sticking out or the center of attention. To fade into the background so we could focus on our adventures. To not be bothered by fastidious adults and hovering parents. These days I’m on the other end of that scene – in the muffled background noise of the adults. There is a certain full circle symmetry there, mixed metaphors and all. That brings us back to the title and featured picture of this post: the bundt cake.
Our pool is open and our invitations have been delivered – the rest of the summer unfurls beyond what I can or want to see. The first summer gathering is already done, and two more weekends of guests are just ahead. Truth be told, I’ve always enjoyed the days leading up to a gathering more than most of the gatherings themselves, but I’m learning to let the enjoyment fill the occasion too. Smaller summer dinners are more my style – with casual, relaxed grill fare – no oven baking, no stove-top boiling – just simple burgers or steaks and some cool, leafy salad. The only question that remains: guess who’s coming to dinner?
Summer finds us more social, at odds with the way my youth went, when school’s social activities ceased once it was July. That was always summer’s big relief for my socially-anxious disposition – but there were certain exceptions. The Fourth of July was celebrated at the grand home of a family friend on Locust Avenue, and my birthday in August always demanded some sort of social grace. In 1990, I basically extended the school year during our trip to the then-Soviet Union. That’s where and when Suzie introduced me to ‘The Mighty Quinn’ soundtrack, which is what fuels the music for this post.
High summer is at hand – memories surface from as long as 30 years ago, and from just a few days prior – time working its strange alchemy especially when tied to summer. There is a hint of mystery to it too, the way the nights are always darker in summer than in winter. Surely more mysterious things are to come…
My father shared my sun sign – Virgo – and exhibited the typical care for fastidious neatness and order throughout his life. Dad’s been on my mind of late, probably because the high summer weather we’ve had of late rekindles his last summer with us. As I was preparing for our first flush of guests this season, I thought of him again. He used to hose off the front sidewalks and driveway of my childhood home whenever guests would be visiting, and as I found myself employing the same studied techniques, I felt comfort in the memory.
There’s a better cleaning that results from a hose-down compared to simple weeping, and in these dry, hot days, it doubles as a watering for the lawn. What once made me wonder at the point of such meticulousness in method, I now employ and enjoy as the best way to spruce up the look of a home. It is comfort and care, and a nice way to remember my father. It’s also a sign of hospitality and respect, two things that my father taught me through example and illustration – the very best kind of lesson a child can have.
This was a wonderful summer weekend – with friends and family and even the sun cooperating for a pool-centered celebration. Dive into this weekly blog recap and take it easy this week…
Some BroSox Adventure weekends are so epic they demand two blog posts – and this ten-year anniversary of the tradition was epic on every level, and a few new ones to boot. We extended it by one day, allowing a more relaxed pace, so by the time Sunday arrived I had entirely eased into the weekend vibe, and had one belated surprise birthday gift to give Skip: a golf shirt to go with a scheduled round of miniature golf at Puttshack in the Seaport. It was designed as the one new element to hallmark this trip, but we had started some other new things, including jaunts where I went off on my own to try more cologne or Skip went out to the local convenience store for a sweet treat.
After a Sunday brunch at Metropolis, we were back at the condo, and Skip wanted to chill there while I went for a walk on my own. The heat of the day was on the rise, and I found myself back at the Boston Public Garden, lost in happy memories of the place where we had recently spent a wonderful anniversary weekend.
I returned in time for an early afternoon siesta and some snacking on the remains of our charcuterie dinner, then it was time to head to the golf course – or in this case Puttshack at the Seaport. Donning a striped golf shirt of my own, I was ready to meet the moment and whatever shredding Skip had planned for me on our first mini-golf match. As someone who’s played real golf many times, he had the edge going in, but the last time I played mini-golf I beat my whole family (including two children, thank you). I can’t take all the credit – I really think the fuchsia golf ball that I selected to play with that day made all the difference.
Nine holes later, a winner was crowned.
Yes, you read that correctly – I won, with 4 holes-in-one. (Including one Supertube, whatever the hell that means – and if it’s sexual harassment, I’ll take it.) While in the Seaport, we had dinner at Pink Taco, which was apparently a euphemism unknown to me. As Skip explained it, I’m not sure how appealing it sounded to my decidedly-gay nature, but the food was stellar, and Skip’s Michelada (a beer-based Bloody Mary that sounded ghastly to my ears) was his favorite drink of the trip.
The evening was still very young, the sun was still out in its golden hour splendor, and we decided to take the long walk back to the condo, stopping along the way to hit some places that played parts in previous BroSox Adventures over the years. We’d already paid respect to a pirate-themed adventure with our stop in the Seaport to honor this sea-themed trip. Crossing the bridge back toward downtown Boston, we weaved our way through a mostly-closed Fanueil Hall and Quincy Market, a nod to this infamous song and dance moment from last year.
From there, we stopped for a drink at the bar that kicked off our 2018 hunt for a serial killer. This time around, as I was reaching into my pocket for my ID, the bouncer just waved us in saying he didn’t need to see it. Rude! And a telling sign of how much has changed in the last ten years. We’ve gone from stoop gazing to wild Chinatown jaunts and back again, and on this tenth anniversary of our very first trip to see the Red Sox we honored our past, while peering slightly ahead to what might come next.
At one point in our talks over the weekend, Skip mentioned candidly and somewhat in passing that he was a bit of a mess – and there was something poignant in this admission, especially coming from someone whom I’ve always sort of viewed with a certain awe in how he managed his children and life (second only, and by a long shot, to his wife). Meanwhile I still wasn’t quite ready to voice aloud how much of mess I could still be, but it didn’t need to be said to be understood – and in our joint failings over the last decade we found some solace in not being alone in being perhaps less than we thought we might one day be.
The next morning, we returned to where we started with a quick breakfast at Charlie’s, and a road trip home. Before we even made it to the Mass Turnpike, I already missed Boston. Until the next adventure…
For anyone over the age of 45: don’t put your glasses or keys down, or you won’t find them. Even if you think it’s going to be just for a second. You will not remember where they are. Keep them in your hands or pockets at all times.
