This summer’s greatest guilty pleasure in my happily-cloistered world was John Duff, who started the season off with the glorious ‘Be Your Girl’, kept things hot with follow-up ‘Forgotten How To F@ck‘ and is now coasting through the end of the season with ‘Hoe Is Life’ featuring the legendary Lillias White. He spent the summer traveling and performing, from Pride shows in Chicago and New York to a celebrated residency in Provincetown, and his music has made an ideal soundtrack to the sunny season. Stay tuned for his upcoming ‘Clothes Back On’ to see how he enters the fall.
Harsh necessity brought me to this gilded cage.
Born to higher things, here I droop my wings,
Singing of a sorrow nothing can assuage…
And yet of course I rather like to revel,
I have no strong objection to champagne,
My wardrobe is expensive as the devil,
Perhaps it is ignoble to complain…
Enough, enough of being basely tearful!
I’ll show my noble stuff by being bright and cheerful!
Pink reigned for the summer – in the face of all sorrow and tumult, we always had pink. Pink dresses, pink shirts, pink pants, pink curtains, pink towels, pink tablecloths, pink straws, pink pastries, pink jewelry, pink shoes, pink hats, pink fascinators, pink ruffles, pink frills, pink glitter…
Pearls and ruby rings…
Ah, how can worldly things take the place of honor lost?
Can they compensate for my fallen state,
Purchased as they were at such an awful cost?
Bracelets…lavalieres
Can they dry my tears?
Can they blind my eyes to shame?
Can the brightest brooch shield me from reproach?
Can the purest diamond purify my name?
Returning to the innocent beginning of our coquette summer makes me realize how much has actually happened over the past three months of the season. A banana tree has unfurled a dozen or so leaves. The cup plant has shot up, out, flowered, and gone to seed. It provides the finches with a current feast. The hydrangeas have had a rightly-renowned banner year after a mild winter. All the flower buds survived, so the show was bodacious and beautiful. And somehow, throughout its entirety, I never quite felt like part of it.
And yet of course these trinkets are endearing,
I’m oh, so glad my sapphire is a star,
I rather like a twenty-karat earring,
If I’m not pure, at least my jewels are!
Now, with summer’s closing act coming next weekend, and fall’s dramatic descent already in motion, I find myself trying to hang onto it a little longer, taking an extra stroll around the yard, sitting in the sunshine. Reconciling and returning to the frivolous finery in which it all began, the coquette theme offers a balmy escape, a way out of the ever-darkening world, even if it was all make-believe, even if it could never last.
Enough! Enough!
I’ll take their diamond necklace
And show my noble stuff
By being gay and reckless!
Fierce as fuck, entrancing and exciting, and causing a glorious commotion all the way into the pop culture firmament, Chappell Roan earns this Dazzler of the Day. From the refreshing charm of debut album “The Rise and Fall of a Midwest Princess” to the fabulously prickly way she’s been dealing with her insta-fame, Roan is the hottest pop star of the moment – and she’s got the quirky fashion sense to lead the way. Her album is my current soundtrack – and I’m far from alone. Check out her website here for upcoming tour dates.
Our coquette summer is quickly drawing near its end, but there are a few more days of sun and warmth (even as the forecast for this morning and day may veer to the more melancholic side of things). With that in mind, it’s the perfect backdrop for a coquette moment – a wistful sigh of longing, a restless reconciliation of losing – and a little coquette song that tries to make up for a rainy gray day.
You were a sunflower Grown in the wild like a weed Could be a blessing in a way That’s what I’ll see (what I’ll see)
I’m just a wallflower All of the words just won’t come Oh, what’s the use of calling it quits? Before I’m done (before I’m)
It’s been a summer that has run the gamut from hopeful innocence and freshness to weary, wary, jaded defilement – a strangely awful trajectory that sets this blog up for a fall unlike anything that’s ever been written here. You are definitely not going to be ready for this jelly. So let’s make the most of these summer days – wretched and rainy though they may be – because this fall is going to get very dark.
Fading like the end of August fades, a candle is barely discernible as pink in its solitary light. The final faint whispers of a coquette summer rustle along a night breeze – how it slipped away so quickly is the saddest recurring mystery. On this last day of August, here is another song to keep the summer going – this time from our early summer pal Mitski. It wasn’t on any of our previous summer coquette playlists, and while I don’t have a fourth one in the offing, there is still time for a song or two before the summer finally departs.
I’m beautiful, I know cause it’s the season But what am I to do with all this beauty? Biology, I am an organism, I’m chemical That’s all, that is all I’m liquid smooth, come touch me, too And feel my skin is plump and full of life I’m in my prime I’m liquid smooth, come touch me, too I’m at my highest peak, I’m ripe About to fall, capture me Or at least take my picture
Today I turn 49 years old. I don’t quite know what to do with that, other than to play this song, and to pray. Yes – I pray. Every night. At every moment of doubt, at every moment of worry. Little prayers, little offerings, little exercises in superstition or faith and what’s the goddamn difference?
You wake to greet the brand new day Wake up, realize you’re late Rush out to make your plane Can’t find your keys again…
You need to reawake, now Listen to the words I’m saying in this line, and That your life will be just fine, and Your troubles do not stay They get replaced with good times Now you’ve got a great life Smile as you walk by Thinkin’ ’bout the day
Born of fear, born of trauma, born of need and desire and survival – we all come into this world in such similar ways – messy and wet and crying out of lonely desperation, clinging to whatever is immediately around us, grasping at something or someone to take care of us – for protection, for security, for comfort, for love. Some of us never learn how to stop crying. Some of us never learn how to start again.
This body, the only body I have ever known, the only body I will ever know, this shell of my physical existence, breaks down a little more with each passing year. The lithe and limber days of carefree, flexible, quick-to-bounce-back forgiveness calcify and become brittle at the turn of an almost-half-century. This body – it cracks and crinkles now, it whispers and laughs and collapses – it betrays this mind, disconnecting from what I think I can do, what I once could do, what I lost the ability to do… and today of all days I can barely formulate a coherent sentence.
It’s late, your legs won’t rest today Your body seems to ache Your mind will win the race Burnin’ by your sleep again
The light blooms from the sun The long dark night undone Another day of fun Waiting for some luck to come
Should I fear this year then? This final year of my forties, death knell to any far-fetched and barely-feasible semblance or pretending of youth? Maybe… maybe. Strangely it’s not fear I feel, nor the rush to get on with it. It’s really just another day, just another year, and the way we mark the days and years is just some silly system of numeric designation, as if 49 means something more than 48 or less than 50. There is nothing at all different today from yesterday – even if nothing is at all the same.
You keep hoping for a day When things will go your way When all decisions have been made And karma’s finally found its way
The drinks, they pass the time They help me to unwind The guilt is killing me Inside your eyes
It’s gray, the rain pours down my face The tears become erased A cleansing of my face Splashing down into my grin
My eyes become alive A feeling left behind A hidden world untied Creating all you see today
The clouds, they went away Forever, did I wait And karma finally found my plate And now I’m smiling by the sun
And so I step gingerly back into the river of life, the banks on which I have probably paused more than most – shy and skittish, scared and scarred from that moment of birth, and never quite having been able to get completely over it. I watched more of it go by than I ever took part in, and though it’s not regret I am experiencing, there is a sense of loss, even if I can’t be mad about it. It’s never helpful to be angry at who you used to be. Instead, I offer thanks, even for those days when I didn’t want to be part of it, when I swam to the shore, coughing and spitting out the anxiety, crying out the salty worry, spent and exhausted from trying to swim against the current. All these silly mixed metaphors have me feeling a little muddled, and what I originally wanted to be a contemplative birthday post has turned into something slightly different. The unexpected accident, the messy inconvenience of being human. What I most wanted life to be – something pretty, something perfect – is precisely what a human’s life can never be.
We’ll meet again someday We’ll smile and then I’ll say: “When it rains, it pours all day Until love can find its way”
Now, listen to the words I’m saying In this line that your life will be just fine, And troubles, they do not stay, They get replaced with good times Now you’ve got a great life, Smile as you walk by Need to reawake now LIsten to these words that I’m saying in this line And your life will be just fine Troubles, they do not stay They get replaced with good times Now you’ve got a great life Smilin’ ’bout the day…
And I heard that there’s a special place Where boys and girls can all be queens every single day…
In my daydreams and night-dreams, I can dance without the annoying tinge of a bothersome and aging back. I can sing without the heaviness of loss or lamentation. I can ride a pink pony into the summer dawn, bounding along shores of ocean and gliding over edges of sky. Summer is so largely imagined, so grandly envisioned. Summer… so much in my head.
I’m up and jaws are on the floor Lovers in the bathroom and a line outside the door Blacklights and a mirrored disco ball Every night’s another reason why I left it all…
God, what have you done? You’re a pink pony girl And you dance at the club Oh mama, I’m just having fun On the stage in my heels It’s where I belong down at the Pink Pony Club
All sparkle of sun and sea, all shine of dew and drops, all summer sweetness and soft sighs. A melancholic meter keeps steady time – the hollow cadence of minutes and hours droning on beneath the welcome heat of the sun, already different than it was in June, already less. And so we dance, and we keep on dancing, and the pink pony prances…
I’m gonna keep on dancing at the Pink Pony Club I’m gonna keep on dancing down in West Hollywood I’m gonna keep on dancing at the Pink Pony Club, Pink Pony Club
When a COVID cough has me up all night, and I’m isolating in the attic, where I’ve been in solitude for the past five days, this cradle song – ‘Yurikago No Uta’ – is the only spot of solace or semi-comfort there is to be found. It’s a traditional Japanese lullaby, often sung to babies to help them sleep. Physically, I am feeling better – a slight side-effect has me in the bathroom a bit more than I’d like, but if it means I don’t die from lack of breath, it seems a fair trade-off. Still, I wasn’t expecting the plunge back into social isolation to take such an emotional toll, and I understand it’s the culmination of the weeks and months of this summer, which had me helplessly hoping that the anniversary of Dad’s death might bring about some sense of closure, some somewhat-happier-ending of that dreadful year of firsts, all the while knowing such an arbitrary deadline of grief was a fever-dream. Born out of desperation and survival and coping, it was a wish that I knew in my heart was foolish, but that same heart couldn’t do anything but hope it might prove true. When at least it came and went, and there was no real relief, no erasure of emptiness or loss, it proved a different sort of chill than when it first happened. A lonelier chill. And then I placed my finger on the root cause of the periodic crying spells that have unexpectedly cropped up at the strangest times this past week: loneliness.
Loneliness in the very real sense of being isolated and alone – when I spent my days and nights secluded in the cozy little attic room I made for our home a few years ago – a room that now functioned as bedroom, office, dining room, living room, reading room, lounging room, dressing room, every room – where largely-sleepless nights were only partly drowned out by the hum and occasional rattle of the window air conditioner, where rain would sound almost melodically on the roof right above my head and rather than sour the mood it would give me comfort because it meant maybe the rest of the world would slow and stop while I was gone instead of carrying on in cherry, sun-drenched summer fashion. A selfish notion, but sickness brings out our selfishness, as much for survival as for pettiness.
Here, in this little room, I fitfully try to sleep without any comfort of Andy beside me. Here, I sip on tea and lots of water and take the occasional meal – eating alone without a husband or companion. Here, I study the bouquet of flowers my Mom left on the front porch along with some breakfast rolls and a dessert, touched by her love and care, realizing how much a son still needs his mother, and shocked at how sad this bout of sickness has suddenly made me feel.
What a ludicrous scene I have painted: a man who will turn 49 years old in four days, weeping like a baby and listening to a cradle song, looking at the animals on the cover of the video and remembering his childhood bedroom. Is it sacrilege to wish it away if it meant a lesser sting of missing it? Is it wrong to wish any of our days away?
Well.
The folly of youth.
Or the folly of middle age… assuming this is somewhere near the middle. We never really know, do we?
My therapist told me at our last session that just about everything had aligned for me to have a mid-life crisis at this moment. I looked at her incredulously, my jaw literally dropping, then said perhaps a little testily, “Umm, when I started seeing you four years ago it was because I was having my mid-life crisis, so I thought I already did that.” She laughed a little, and I fear it’s because I thought there would only be one.
“You know,” I continued, “I survived the one and I’d rather not do it again.”
She acknowledged all the work that went into those early months of therapy, and was rather flippant and nonchalant about another one coming, when my quizzical look of concern must have registered, because she then said I shouldn’t worry about it because I was at a place where I could handle it in a healthy manner.
Huh.
That was when I gave myself a rare internal pat on the back.
It’s one thing to pretend I’m strong and great and amazing – quite another to even partly believe it on the inside.
As for moving through the rest of the summer on a demure and mindful note, I can’t think of a better way, especially since I’ve been feeling anything but those things of late. As I write this, I am holed up in the attic with a bout of COVID, trying desperately not to give it to my husband in the likely-vain hope that my upcoming birthday might be a happy one. So let’s focus on some music with a coquette slant, like this ditty from current Femininomenon, Chappell Roan and this gorgeously-ambivalent take on coffee. (Because it’s never just coffee, and coquette is never just demure.)
Sitting in solitude in the attic, I’m having a moment of loneliness – a rare phenomenon for those of us who adore our time alone. Sometimes that makes the loneliness more searing – the sheer unfamiliarity of the feeling like a stunning shock to the system, like something doesn’t quite compute, and it’s the pain and hurt of it.
What is the lesson here? What am I supposed to glean from this suddenly-annual turn of events? I don’t know.
While most of the celebration surrounding Madonna’s birthday has to do with fun and upbeat memories, some of my most meaningful Madonna moments are those rekindled by the power of a serious song. Often lost amid the controversy and fashion are her ballads, which I am revisiting here in the dour downtime adored by this current bout with COVID. Travel with me down this gently-rocking path, where tales are told through the magic of Madonna music…
Pick me up on your way down When you’re blue and all alone When the glamor starts to bore you Come on back where you belong…
Some songs become emblematic of our BroSox Adventures for obvious reasons – ‘Shipping Up to Boston’ has been a mainstay, and our early theme song of ‘Something New’ was perfect because our trajectory was, quite simply, still new. This marks the ninth year since we made our first joint trip to the Cathedral of Boston way back in 2015, so it’s not exactly new, but there are always new things to see and do. Starting with this ridiculous country song, which found its way into our trip at the tail-end of everything – arriving on the airwaves of our final rest-stop in Blandford. Pricking my ears up at the sound and the vibe and not giving a flying squirrel whether the lyrics were pertinent, I told Skip to get his phone out and work his song-detection app magic to find out who sang it. There were other musical moments that had accented the weekend (stay tuned for those), but this one gave the opening country-languid ease and relaxation that marked this fun BroSox Adventure…
It didn’t begin with such ease – while the company was true, the atmospheric conditions were such that the bands of rain from a passing hurricane made the drive into Boston a sketchy/scary one. We would tempt such wet fate for the first day and a half, bringing along the hoodies and umbrellas should the worst decide to hit. Before going anywhere, however, Skip was good enough to assemble this desk, which I originally thought was a simple job. Luckily it was simple for him, and his tool bag – I would never have been able to figure out how to make working drawers, so he was a godsend in the same way he was for the installation of the air conditioning unit that was still keeping us cool on this hot and humid weekend.
You may be their pride and joy But they’ll find another toy And they’ll take away your crown Pick me up on your way down
After last year’s Sunday game-day mishap/mix-up, we were starting the weekend off with the Red Sox game – they were playing the Houston Astros and we headed over to Fenway early to grab food at Hojoku, and a matcha ice cream at a Matcha Cafe I’d just read about. Boston had thus far remained rain-free, but the air was sticky and hot, and felt ripe for rain as we made our way to Fenway.
Our seats were great – though we both noticed they were right on the very edge of where an overhang ended right above our heads. Should it start raining, we would either be barely protected, not protected at all, or right in the spot where the torrential run-off would tumble down like Niagara Falls. Sliding my very bad back into the very rigid seats, I braced for the worst.
The game began and the weather held for the start – we had our Fenway franks, and the Red Sox volleyed with the Astros for a run here and there. I looked up at the sky and saw the clouds begin to move in dramatically. The visage was stunning – the prospect of what those clouds may have been portending was more bothersome. But I was comforted by the fact that the clouds were moving up and away from our overhang – if rain was to come there was a good chance we were in the right location for it to blow just over us and hit the seats a few rows below.
It was tight for most of the game, but then Houston opened it up at the top of the 7th.
When I asked Skip to write that assessment I sent it out to all my friends. Here are a few choice responses:
“Who is this?”
“Did you even have a clue what the hell was going on?”
“Dude. You’ve been hacked.”
“Excuse me, who is this?”
My friends’ complete lack of faith in my baseball lingo notwithstanding, the Red Sox blew it, and by the time ‘Sweet Caroline’ was sung the rain had already begun, but by the sweet grace of God it was blowing just beyond our row of eats. Two rows ahead was getting soaked but we remained for the most part perfectly dry, except for the walk home, but it had been so hot and humid all day it was more refreshing than annoying, and the company of Skip and the relaxed ease of another BroSox Adventure once again at hand lent it a charm that last year’s rainy proceedings could barely muster. The boys were back in Boston, and life was good…
Yes, they’ll take away your crown Pick me up on your way down…
Two Augusts ago I told the truth, oh, but you didn’t like it, you went home You’re in your Benz, I’m by the gate Now you go alone Charm all the people you train for, you mean well but aim low And I’ll make it known like I’m getting paid
That’s just the way life goes I like to slam doors closed Trust me, I know it’s always about me I love you, I’m sorry
The blush is mostly off this summer’s coquette rose, but we’ll always have the music. And as long as we can hear it, the beat will go on. And as long as the beat goes on, the heart has the capability of feeling full. A coquette summer leads with longing and ends with something else… this post is leading us to that something else. This post leads to what might be next. My niece Emi tells me this next song is coquette. I listened to it – well, the quick snippets of it that she had the patience to play. I sent her a text asking her to send me more coquette song ideas. She never replied. Silence and a song.
Two summers from now We’ll have been talking, but not all that often, we’re cool now I’ll be on a boat, you’re on a plane Going somewhere sane And I’ll have a drink Wistfully lean out my window and watch the sun set on the lake It might not feel real, but it’s okay, mh
‘Cause that’s just the way life goes I push my luck, it shows Thankful you don’t send someone to kill me I love you, I’m sorry
Summer sunsetz… August on the cusp of waning. This strange season of healing and hope, where deluge has followed dream, leaves me with an empty and dull ache. A classic coquette conundrum: balm of beauty and hurt of heart. There is no extricating one from the other. Summer winds around itself like some self-defeating vine, twirling tendrils and unfurling flowers that have only ever appeared in fantasies and fables. We weave our stories with summer’s light, retelling tales and rebuilding the past.
You were the best but you were the worst As sick as it sounds, I loved you first I was a dick, it is what it is A habit to kick, the age-old curse I tend to laugh whenever I’m sad Stare at the crash, it actually works Making amends, this shit never ends I’m wrong again, wrong again
An August sunset is a story in and of itself, but you have to learn how to listen, and you have to know how to wait. Entire books can be written in the time the sun takes to put itself in hiding for the night, but that’s a secret I’ve only glimpsed in bits and pieces – the whole trick remains elusive and out of reach for my greedy hands. I want it too much; my thirst is too desperate ~ another aspect of the coquette.
The way life goes Joyriding down our road Lay on the horn to prove that it haunts me I love you, I’m sorry The way life goes (you were the best but you were the worst) (As sick as it sounds, I loved you first) I wanna speak in code (I was a dick, it is what it is) (A habit to kick, the age-old curse) Hope that I don’t, won’t make it about me (I tend to laugh whenever I’m sad) (Stare at the crash, it actually works) I love you, I’m sorry
The sunset behind us, we drive into the deepening night of a darkening summer. The fade to black is beautiful at this time of the year.
Much of the coquette-themed music we’ve heard this summer has been culled from the knowledge and taste of my niece Emi Lu. This mix veers slightly away from that true coquette aesthetic and into my own zany interpretation of coquette madness, hence its common title of ‘Coquette-Me-Not’. Here are songs that branch off from that pure theme into something hopefully just as fabulous, with a little harder beat to help get you onto your feet. So much of a coquette lifestyle is about lounging and longing – this one is about silliness and frivolity and dancing your ass off when things get vulgar…
While things get hot on the dance floor with cuts such as ‘Murder on the Dancefloor‘ and ‘Padam Padam’, there is a delicious cool down in a trio of coquette insta-classics: ‘Cherry’, ‘Rain’ and ‘Hot’.
And the summer begins with the taste of your lips While it’s getting hot inside you Think you’d burn through your dress if you kiss me again And it’s getting hot inside…
July… one of those months you don’t want to end, no matter how stifling and hot it might get. July is summer at its zenith. It’s vacations and pools and blurry asphalt, it’s bike rides and tomatoes and childhood nostalgia, it’s lilies and daisies and hydrangeas. It’s also a moment to stop and take a breather. It gets hot out there. Sit beside me in the shade and listen to this song.
Where are we in this summer? I’m probably not the best person to ask. We are very near the one-year anniversary of my Dad’s death, and my grieving has come back, if it ever really went away. It’s too soon to gauge whether summer has been irreparably wounded by the events of last year, but how could it ever be the same again? I wouldn’t want to erase all that has happened – if you take away all the sadness you take away all the love.
Is it all in my head? ‘Cause I keep getting scared That I’ll always be lost forever But I don’t give a shit if I’m too delicate When you hold me, it’s always better
Still, summer burns and summer heals. Grieving in the barren stark dimness of winter night have proven unbearable. This might be the best and most forgiving time to experience loss. The outside world, with its beauty and the floral balms in bloom, offers comfort, the way beauty always eases our time on earth. A song like this lends its own bit of help in assuaging melancholy. Happiness, ever elusive and always out of reach, is summer’s vicious promise every year.
Now your lips start to taste of pink lemonade As I jump off the roof into your pool Laugh and run from the heat ’cause it’s burning your feet And it’s getting hot inside
Is it all in my head? ‘Cause I keep getting scared That I’ll always be lost forever But I don’t give a shit if I’m too delicate When you hold me, it’s always better
