Last night’s song selection reminded me that we are still at the height of summer, and it’s time to return to our island getaway – which is a state of mind, attitude, and sense of ease. This post goes a little deeper, making use of a mix of metaphors. It’s easy to isolate, to become an island unto oneself, especially in the current state of the world. Andy and I have largely retreated to our own little homestead island the past few years, which started with the isolation of COVID and never quite returned to the social insanity of what we did prior. It feels far away, and I’m not sorry it should be so. We have come to embrace the smaller gatherings and dinners, the meaningful moments with a few well-chosen friends. We strive to be the bastion of hope and warmth in a battle-ravaged world of cruelty and cold. We aim to be the lighthouse.
Hey sister, the emotions have gone cold And a part of me is missing Where the rivers used to flow Hey mother, I know you must be sad To see the things are happening I’ll fix it if I can
The lighthouse of this post is the beacon we can all be when we remember to act as neighbor and friend to each other. It’s missing more and more, and I’m as guilty as anyone for not extending my hand to help. I will endeavor to do better, to do what I can without overextending.
I’m holding up the fire Lighting up the sky Like a lighthouse on the ocean Bring you home alright I’m holding up the fire (Holding up the fire) Lighting up the sky (Lighting up the sky) Like a lighthouse on the ocean Bring you home alright
You have so many relationships in this life Only one or two will last You go through all the pain and strife Then you turn your back and they’re gone so fast Oh, so hold on the ones who really care In the end, they’ll be the only ones there When you get old, start losing your hair Can you tell me who will still care?
The weekend almost didn’t come together at first, my suddenly-poor planning skills failing as the weekend coincided almost precisely with when Mercury entered retrograde motion. It struck Anu and Kristen first, as they ran out of gas shortly after entering the state of New York. How a car runs out of gas in this day and age proved the fuel for an entire weekend of questions and commentary, when talk wasn’t on Costco.
Suzie was the next one almost-felled, as she found her own car in the mechanic’s hands, where the power-steering needed some tinkering. The boys made it in without trauma or set-back – Tommy drove up from NY and Chris flew in from Detroit – and by Friday at midnight we were six once more.
With the happy, lifelong exception of Suzie, I didn’t meet these wonderful people until 1995, but it was as if the universe had saved them for when I needed them the most. The ensuing three decades would bring us through weddings, break-ups, funerals, births, holidays, vacations, and the undulating wear-and-tear of life. I understood what Anu meant – even in our heartache and hurt, we were there for each other, and we’ve always been charmed and lucky in that way.
There is always going to be trauma and drama to overcome in every life – finding the tribe of people who are going to help you through it – and to see you through the humor and happiness in every trying moment – is the simple secret to getting through the wilderness.
Our home glows differently when it is filled with adored guests, and this particular group of people – magical by all accounts – make wherever we may find ourselves at any given moment a home.
Plant a seed, plant a flower, plant a rose You can plant any one of those Keep planting to find out which one grows It’s a secret no one knows It’s a secret no one knows Oh, no one knows
Our talk topics are a little different these days, but the laughter and the love are the same – and there’s no one else with whom I’d rather navigate this second half of life.
Summer sometimes seems deceptively sweet, carelessly benign as its sun beats down and lends a false aspect of cheer to whatever might be crumbling in the world around us. Strange really, as heartache knows no seasonal bounds, and occasionally summer’s relentless sweetness is a slap in the face when you’re faced with sadness. That sort of contradiction is rife throughout the memories of this song – ‘Toy Soldiers’ by Martika, of ‘Kids Incorporated’ fame.
It wasn’t my intention to mislead you It never should have been this way What can I say? It’s true, I did extend the invitation I never knew how long you’d stay
When you hear temptation call It’s your heart that takes Takes the fall (Won’t you come out and play with me?)
Step by step, heart to heart (heart to heart) Left, right, left, we all fall down (all fall down) Like toy soldiers Bit by bit (bit by bit), torn apart (torn apart) We never win, but the battle wages on For toy soldiers
In July of 1989, the song went to number one, which is when I remember it – and in many ways this was the section of life when music started mattering, when a song melded itself to a moment. I was thirteen years old, about to turn fourteen, and it feels far away. There are elements that are unrecognizable to me, and elements that are still very much the same. That’s the age the soul is said to solidify into what it will be for life. A powerful age, a tender age, an impossible age. How much we load onto ourselves without realizing it…
It’s getting hard to wake up in the morning My head is spinning constantly How can it be? How could I be so blind to this addiction? If I don’t stop, the next one’s gonna be me
The specifics of that summer escape me, but if I think back hard enough and reinhabit that section of youth, I remember feeling the dangers of growing up, while wanting nothing more than to be older and out in the world – the first stirrings of a restless heart. Throughout that summer Martika sang this plaintive song (reportedly about a friend enthralled in drug addiction) and though I had no idea what it was about, it called to me with all its 80’s glory. To this day, it reminds me of summer – the darker underside of summer – always there in the shade, in the shadows, in the night…
Only emptiness remains It replaces all All the pain (Won’t you come out and play with me?)
Step by step, heart to heart (heart to heart) Left, right, left, we all fall down (all fall down) Like toy soldiers Bit by bit (bit by bit), torn apart (torn apart) We never win, but the battle wages on For toy soldiers
Rows and floes of angel hair And ice cream castles in the air And feather canyons everywhere Looked at clouds that way
But now they only block the sun They rain and they snow on everyone So many things I would have done But clouds got in my way
When the words are taken away, when the voice is silenced, we still have the music, we still have the melody. Once, several years ago, I wrote a blog post using this Joni Mitchell song, but I cannot find it anymore. Like the rest of this site, one day it will all be lost – bits and pieces and fragments of whatever technological remnants might remain won’t ever come together like you see them here. Nothing lasts forever.
I’ve looked at clouds from both sides now From up and down and still somehow It’s cloud illusions I recall I really don’t know clouds at all
Moons and Junes and Ferris wheels The dizzy dancing way that you feel As every fairy tale comes real I’ve looked at love that way
But now it’s just another show And you leave ’em laughing when you go And if you care, don’t let them know Don’t give yourself away
The sky was troubled on the night these photos were taken, on the night these words are being written. This moment will be over and done by the time anyone reads this post, and this precious capsule of time will have passed. But I can play it over again in my mind, like the way this song remains in memory, as long as I can remember, as long as I might pass it on.
Tears and fears and feeling proud To say, “I love you, ” right out loud Dreams and schemes and circus crowds I’ve looked at life that way
Oh, but now old friends, they’re acting strange And they shake their heads and they tell me that I’ve changed Well, something’s lost, but something’s gained In living every day
As I write this, the friends I met thirty years ago are scheduled to arrive tomorrow for a weekend of catching up and reminiscing, and maybe that’s why I’m feeling slightly nostalgic and contemplative – my ‘pensive pony’ pose as a former paramour once described this mood. Maybe it’s just Mercury in retrograde. As I perused a shirt in a store earlier tonight, it reminded me of my favorite Uncle – it was something he would have worn, likely selected by his wife and of no great concern to him, clothes not mattering as much as other things, and I almost started crying for the tender innocence of some men, and the tender guilt of all of us.
I’ve looked at life from both sides now From win and lose and still somehow It’s life’s illusions I recall I really don’t know life at all
Music and summer go hand in hand with making memories, second only perhaps to scent and fragrance in melding a sensory experience to a memory. This old-school summer playlist contains most of the classics that informed my youthful summers, and last year there was this trio of playlists that informed our Coquette Era:
This year, our summer theme is ‘ISLAND’, and I present to you a playlist that is more eclectic than usual, which directly mirrors the scattered nature of my brain these hot, hazy days… (click on the title for a link to hear the song)
While the Madonna Timeline has yet to hit ‘Has To Be’ – the B-side to Madonna’s ‘Ray of Light’ single – I’m including the instrumental version of this underrated track in this post for its tranquil properties. In my opinion, it could have easily slipped onto the ‘Ray of Light’ album, perhaps elongating the last section’s slowed-down meditative vibe. (It’s certainly superior to the currently-hyped ‘Gone, Gone, Gone’ demo that is part of the messy ‘Veronica Electronica’ release – that one feels decidedly unfinished, even if it’s exceptionally intriguing as a product of this artistically-fertile point in Madonna’s career.)
I’ve written about its pull previously in this post, and there will be a more comprehensive meditation on it for when the Madonna timeline makes its way there. For now, breathe in, breathe out, and say a little prayer.
Some passages of The Divine Diva Tour: A Fairy’s Tale were simply for fun, much like the accompanying bop by Madonna, which loosely ties in to the already-loose football locker-room theme seen here. Sporty cosplay before we even had words for it, bringing me back to the lighthearted nature of the world in 2005, when violent romps were mostly of the imagined sort, not playing out literally on our streets and sidewalks. Madonna, take me away…
Fans can make you famous,
a contract can make you rich,
the press can make you a superstar,
but only luv can make you a player…
The music was silly, the poses were sillier, and the wardrobe was the silliest. Try on different guises was the main pelvic thrust of The Divine Diva Tour: A Fairy’s Tale, and in 2005 I had the body to slide like quicksilver into just about anything. It allowed me to inhabit people I wouldn’t have otherwise encountered on a daily basis. It allowed me to grow.
Back then I was just on the verge of turning 30, which felt slightly old to me then, especially as a gay man whose community put an impossibly high bounty on youth and beauty. Twenty years later I’m about to turn 50, and feel more at peace about it, which is a lucky turn of fortune, as fighting the fact of getting older is a losing, wasteful, and foolish battle. Still, it would be lovely to fit into a 30-inch pair of pants again, but that ship has sunk. At least there are pictures to prove that it once happened.
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.
Summer sun saps the way our eyes take in light, and whether it’s the chlorine from the pool or the overtaxed stimulation of the pupils, near the end of the afternoon everything is hazy and drained of color. Sepia-toned memories from an isolated island of our own creation push against the encroaching reality of a world gone mad. A song sounds from a dusty antique boombox, the voice of someone long dead and still celebrated, a song of hope and defiance and love – a song of summer.
Sunday nights in summer are a strange time. They feel less wicked than they do in the winter, perhaps a residual PTSD trick from my school days. They are quieter in a different way – somehow even the light lands differently. Let the weekend linger, they seem to whisper, leave the work-week troubles for another day. Let the relaxation run on a bit, let it bleed into the wee hours of Monday.
Technically Provincetown is at the tip of a peninsula, but in many respects it feels like an island; happily isolated and apart from the rest, it is a place of magic and wonder, the kind of space that only exists in that one special location. On my first trip there with Suzie, just about thirty years ago, this song was one of her selections, and my late introduction to the Blondie classic in no way diminished my instant love and adoration for it. (Suzie knows a good song.)
It ties in splendidly to our summer island theme, conjuring images of anemones and mollusks hanging on for dear life as the tide comes in and threatens their hold. It also brings to mind the resilience of anyone who loves another person who may not love them back. That’s a ripe little topic for summer, but I’ve written enough stories on that to fill a book. This one is about something more hopeful, like the feeling of possibility that rode on the salty sea air which greeted us as we wound our way along Route 6 and entered the sandy environs of Provincetown on a rainy summer afternoon…
Wait, I already wrote about this long ago, so rather than reassemble the whole thing, let me do some searching and copying and pasting and call this post finished:
The Paradise of Provincetown
There is a paradisiacal place on this earth where the sun both rises and sets over the ocean, where sexuality is irrelevant, and where a pizza party begins at 1AM every morning. It’s a place where one can lay on the beach, bask in the sun, drink in the sights (and the cocktails), and dance the day away on the beachfront. The sky is more blue than anywhere else, the light enchants artists and lovers of beauty, and the atmosphere is one of easy acceptance, warmth, and love. The place is Provincetown ~ that magical point at the very tip of Cape Cod ~ where the ocean surrounds, protects, buffers and belts the sandy shores of a world unlike any other.
My first trip to Provincetown was at the end of the summer of 1995. Dragging our August feet a few weeks before college began again, Suzie and I took an impromptu drive along the curved arm of the Cape Cod peninsula, winding our way into town in the middle of a gray drizzle. The whole trip was hazy that way ~ clouds overhead, but still bright, windy but emanating warmth ~ it lives in my memory dimly yet implacably. I don’t remember much about that first trip ~ a photo of one perfect sunflower is framed somewhere, taken behind our guesthouse looking over the bay. Suzie and I mostly did what we do best ~ a lot of nothing. We read books on the beach, browsed lazily through the boutiques, and feasted on lobster salad and fried clams. At night I strolled alone down Commercial Street, passing a long line of leering men ~ terrifying and exciting all at once ~ a thrilling, unsettling glimpse into my own future. I thought I was such hot shit in my linen pants and tight black T?shirt, holding off insecurity with aloofness, putting myself above everyone so as to be hurt or rejected by no one.
We departed Provincetown unscathed and untouched. The next five years do not prove so fortuitous, and when I return to the Cape in July of 2000, I am battle?weary and worn from a few serious relationships and subsequent break?ups, and a dizzying series of one?night?stands.
~~~
My friend Kristen and I board the ferry at Boston harbor. The wind is strong, the sun is stronger – it is the perfect July day. The jaunt to Provincetown is a rocky one, quick to be sure (at 90 minutes), but bumpy – people are getting sick right and left.
Thank God for the foresight to have taken Dramamine. We arrive at our guesthouse and unpack. It is a slow, peaceful, relaxing entry, with the good spirits of Kristen buoying me and the tranquil pull of the ocean guiding our journey. That night we head out to the Gifford house, where there is a group sing?along to ‘Delta Dawn’.
It’s so easy to get laid in Provincetown. Sex is in the air, on the beach, in the dunes, at the bars ~ it’s everywhere. But it no longer interests me. Of course, once that is the case one instantly becomes a hot commodity. In the past I would have jumped into bed with the first suitor who glanced my way, but things are different now. I’d rather play double solitaire with Kristen and have a real conversation with someone at the bar instead of going home with some beautiful but anonymous stranger.
Still, beauty casts an intoxicating spell, and a few days later I succumb to a gorgeous guy whose name is Chris. He will be my only one?night?stand for the whole week. Back in my room, there is moonlight streaming in through the window. The light is gray, our bodies just dim outlines in the hushed night. As we undress, he compliments me on my underwear. I laugh a little and kiss him.
When it’s over I ask him his last name. I don’t remember it now, but back then it was important. It is the perfect Provincetown one?night?stand ~ sweetly poignant, ferociously sexy, and a little bit sad. I see him on the street the next day. He gives me a smile and a handshake and that is the end of it. A slightly apathetic ache is all that remains. I don’t really care, but still, it might have been nice…
Suzie arrives a day or so later – we head out at night and a super?hot, and super? cool, lesbian drags us along as she crashes a friend’s party. Provincetown casts a seductive spell on most of her visitors ~ a spell of summer, of sand, of ocean and perfect sky. She embraces all outcasts and for a few days everyone lives this enchanting utopian vision. You find yourself swept away, doing things you never thought you would do.
In spite of this harmony, it is still possible to feel alone. Walking out along the pier with the moon hovering over the ocean, I stand in the night wind. Surrounded by the cries of seagulls, remembering the love of my life, I mourn. And then it is done. I return to the shore, to the lights, to the music and the drinking and the dancing. I do not know then that in a few weeks I will meet Andy. But for that moment, I am alone, and it’s okay.
~~~
By the end of the week the bartenders simply set a Tanqueray and tonic in front of me without waiting for my order. I have become a small part of P?town’s transient family, and it feels good to belong. At the daily Boatslip tea dance I find the nerve to introduce myself to the Most Beautiful Man in the World, also known as David, who, I later discover, works for Gucci. He invites us to their new store opening in Boston the next week. I shake his hand and we say good?bye.
On our last morning in Provincetown, I arise early and walk down Commercial Street alone. I have a quick breakfast at a diner and buy a box of saltwater taffy for my parents. It’s early ~ there aren’t many people out yet. And even though I am alone, I find comfort in the overwhelming sense of acceptance I feel around me ~ not worrying about being ridiculed, or yelled at or taunted, or beaten or killed. It is a healthy feeling.
The town is like that ~ a place of refuge for some, a place of enchantment for others, and a temporary home for all. There’s no place like Provincetown.
We say, we say what we want and we say what we need And we love everybody, but we do as we please And when the weather is fine We go fishing, we go fishing in the sea We’re always happy to live life, that’s our philosophy
This will be a pool party no matter what. That’s a big and bold statement, and a daring promise given that we’ve had over half a year of weekend precipitation, but I don’t make such claims without reason. In the event that the weather turns on us, we have a pool table in the basement for the kids to play billiards, so there will be pool in some form, rain or shine. And that’s the plan for the whole summer, so stop on by…
It was the summer of 1990, and in considering almost half a century of living it may have been my favorite summer thus far. I was fourteen years old and had just finished my freshman year of high school. A group of friends and classmates had been accepted as part of a People-to-People Friendship Exchange with what was then the Soviet Union, and we were actively preparing for the three-week jaunt halfway around the world.
Madonna’s ‘I’m Breathless’ album was my musical obsession at the time, combining a love of Madonna with a love of Stephen Sondheim, and culminating with the majestic ‘Vogue’ (which was all Shep Pettibone, no Sondheim for that). Despite this aural treasure-trove, I decided against bringing a walk-man to the Soviet Union because I didn’t want to be distracted or taken out of the moment by music. Seems strange and more than slightly stupid, something I realized soon enough when I was sitting on the floor of JFK Airport on a 6-hour layover with nothing to do.
Suzie came to the rescue and let me listen to her music, which included what is now a summer classic playlist: the soundtrack to ‘The Mighty Quinn’. So yes, we have Suzie to thank for how reggae music came to shade that Soviet Union trip, as well as every summer thereafter.
My favorite cut was the second track, ‘Groove Master’, whose groovy horn bombast and electronic drum tempest set the celebratory tone for the first trip I was taking without my family. I think the fact that Suzie and her Dad were going eliminated the worry I would have otherwise had, but that first night in Washington, DC was still a little lonely.
The next day, I found my own groove with friends, quickly establishing connections that immediately dissolved any lingering loneliness or homesickness. Young people are surprisingly adaptable, even when we think we aren’t. It’s a sort of stupid strength, in the sense that we’re not really aware of it or its power – in the same way that itís easier for kids to pick up a new language instead of adults. (I have absolutely no more brain cells to learn anything new.) Back then, I could have a scary night and bounce back at the break of the next day, instantly forgetting the darkness that came before. The darkness doesn’t dissipate as quickly when you get older, partly because the troubles are more difficult.
In the summer of 1990, however, the only trouble was whether Iíd get caught sneaking out of the girls’ room at midnight. One haplessly envious guy asked me if I ever slept in my own room, hinting at a certain jealousy of the access I had to the inner sanctum of the girls he only admired from afar. On a certain level, my gayness, though unacknowledged and unrealized by myself more than anyone else, provided a sense of safety for girls, who spilled their secrets and tea to me because I was never a threat in the way that straight guys might have been. And girls would prove to be my best friends, starting with Suzie, whose shared summer memories went way back to when she shared her grape taffy with me beneath a grape arbor.
We started that trip in Washington, DC, right around the 4th of July and all its accompanying festivities. We had to learn the basics of America before becoming ambassadors to another country, and in the heat of high summer, backed by ‘The Mighty Quinn’ soundtrack, a set of new memories was being forged. When summer melds happy memories with happy music, it’s a gift that lasts as long as our minds allow it.
The Divine Diva Tour: A Fairy’s Tale gets its weekendly posting place with this kick-off – an interlude that reveals how much has happened in twenty years. First, the shoddy WordArt and cheap-ass costumes have aged about as well as my abs and hair color. Second, the amateurish posturing and my Zoolander facial contortions are laughable as well. About the only thing that withstands the test of time is this driving power-pop anthem from the 80’s. It gives the ultimate element of cheese-please that puts this into so-bad-it’s-almost-good territory, and that’s the best we’re going to get today.
Where have all the good men gone and where are all the gods? Where’s the streetwise Hercules to fight the risin’ odds? Isn’t there a white knight upon a fiery steed? Late at night, I toss and I turn and I dream of what I need
I need a hero I’m holding out for a hero till the end of the night He’s gotta be strong and he’s gotta be fast And he’s gotta be fresh from the fight I need a hero I’m holding out for a hero till the morning light He’s gotta be sure and it’s gotta be soon And he’s gotta be larger than life, larger than life
Somewhere after midnight in my wildest fantasy Somewhere just beyond my reach, there’s someone reaching back for me Racing on the thunder and rising with the heat It’s gonna take a Superman to sweep me off my feet, yeah
I need a hero I’m holding out for a hero till the end of the night He’s gotta be strong and he’s gotta be fast And he’s gotta be fresh from the fight I need a hero I’m holding out for a hero till the morning light He’s gotta be sure and it’s gotta be soon And he’s gotta be larger than life, larger than life
Up where the mountains meet the heavens above Out where the lightning splits the sea I could swear there is someone somewhere watching me Through the wind and the chill and the rain And the storm and the flood I can feel his approach like a fire in my blood
