“I love America more than any other country in the world and, exactly for this reason, I insist on the right to criticize her perpetually.” – James Baldwin
Based on an overwhelming lack of requests, here are some Freedom Speedo and Jockstrap pics for your viewing displeasure. (And for anyone coming at me with flag or patriotism critiques, see January 6th and go molest someone else.)
Why do people – usually the worst people – decide to try to fix all their work issues on Friday at 3 PM and expect everyone else to solve such self-induced dilemmas before 4 PM?
As can be seen, and correctly surmised from my upper-body attire, my affection lies more with London, England these days than Washington, DC. (Relax – it’s only because I hate fascism and dictators and rapists – and all those who enable such monsters to flourish.)
Madonna once proclaimed that you can never do the same thing twice, no matter how fierce. She was talking about making her ‘Erotica’ album in 1992, but after over four decades of making music and magic our queen of reinvention is recalling her past glories, while looking defiantly into the future. Her first album of new music in seven years (the absolute longest stretch of time without new Madonna music in her entire career) ‘Confessions II‘ is the companion piece to 2005’s ‘Confessions On A Dancefloor‘ but it probably should have come with its own title, as it stands alone as a work of individual art.
For all the naysayers that complain she’s still putting out photo shoots and new music while being less than nimble as she once was, the sexism and ageism is only showing their bitterness; Madonna is going to be Madonna, as she’s always been, and they’re still talking about her like it’s 1985 all over again.
While the original ‘Confessions’ was technically a seamlessly mixed group of songs, they were very much distinct and easily distinguished from each other, which made for a traditional album. This time around, the music feels more cohesive and closely linked, the sonic landscape a journey and an experience to be taken as a whole. It works like a DJ set at the clubs as Madonna used to run them, and opening salvo ‘I Feel So Free’ echoes her own ‘Future Lovers‘ which itself took its sound from Donna Summer‘s ‘I Feel Love’, setting the tone and the feel for the music to follow. Lyrically, and with frequent spoken bits, Madonna maintains the confessional mood throughout the album, notably sharing the spotlight and volleying with pop-star-of-the-moment Sabrina Carpenter, whom she asks “What are you doing it for? Is it for you? Is it them? I got something I wanna talk about.” A more glaring understatement Madonna has never made – she’s been talking for years about all that’s important to her, and sparking an international discussion on topics like sexism, homophobia, racism, and ageism.
Credit and respect must be paid to Stuart Price, who was responsible for the original ‘Confessions’ album, and whose DJ expertise has created the musical thread of hypnotic beats that runs through the heart of the proceedings; here he cements his status as one of her most important collaborators, on the level of Patrick Leonard, Stephen Bray, Shep Pettibone, William Orbit and Mirwais.
While the first few releases (‘I Feel So Free’, ‘Bring Your Love’ and ‘Love Sensation‘) were brilliantly rolled out to build momentum, it’s the next single, the banger ‘Danceteria’, that helms the record, nodding to the past and Madonna’s historical place in New York’s dance club scene. It gives lifelong fans the lifeblood that is a perfect Madonna dance song, one that name-checks her iconic crew from the 80’s, reminding us of a world long lost – a world of unabashed joy, where the only things that mattered were the dance floor, the music, and perhaps a cute boy who had the courage to dance with you.
‘Everything’ is a plea to live life outside, its racing, jittery, relentless pace driving the sort of urgent demand to meet the moment that only Madonna knows so well. In ‘Bizarre’, she paints a dramatically cinematic abstract about a relationship gone every which way but right, while on ‘School’ she seems desperate to be taught something new, something she doesn’t already know, which, when you’ve lived a life like Madonna, is a pretty tall order. Her hunger is palpable, working through artistic metaphors and seeking someone to teach her something novel about love.
‘Confessions II’ is on its surface celebratory and euphoric, yet it proves itself more resonant and rooted in deeper emotions and ruminations, particularly on the cuts where Madonna references family issues such as the loss of her brother Christopher (‘Fragile’) and her relationship with her daughter (‘The Test’) which features vocals by Madonna’s eldest Lourdes.
In the seven long years since her last original album, Madonna’s been through a lot – including a near-death experience. That sort of drama informs all that’s at work here, lending the soundscape an urgency and gravitas that transcends the boundaries of the dance floor, even if that’s where Madonna finds her salvation – it’s the place she has always found salvation, and this return feels especially poignant and powerful. After almost four and a half decades in the music business, the Queen retains her crown.
Petunias are a classic, if overly-used, annual that provides boffo floral bang for their bucks. I’ve come to appreciate such a powerhouse bloomer, though when I tried accenting our garden with a few of them lats year, they were devoured by a rabbit or groundhog before they ever got going. When they do manage to survive such attacks, they will sometimes manage to reseed themselves the next year, though never in a place nearby. Such mysteries are what makes gardening to fascinating to me. One never knows what’s going to pop up, or where or when. It’s good to have the unexpected to keep you on your toes.
As for this beautiful variety, I love the way the shades of the petals change, and all the intricate veining. Nature is wonderfully astounding when you take in her infinite variety – and I don’t mind if it’s the work of hybridizers. A little nudge never hurt anyone, unless they were standing on the edge of a cliff or something, and these petunias were nowhere near cliffside. This has been a remarkably dumb post, and I’m attributing it to the heat. Summer makes fools of us all.
Reflected off the pool, the light of the day is blue, especially when shaded by a cherry tree in full summer leaf. In the high heat of the afternoon, where we’ve been maxing out in the mid-90’s, the end of my work day is marked by a plunge into the pool, but it’s so there is only momentary reprieve to be found. The moment you surface, the hot air is back in your lungs, choking you from the inside out. One can’t stay safely underwater for that long; the brain and the body require more oxygen than the coolness would provide. I’m not about to trade this inferno in early for the one I may be destined for later on.
It’s not a particularly favorite state of mind, as wildly familiar as it sometimes seems.
A melancholy summer seems a bit of an oxymoron, an unfair alignment with an emotion that seems the antithesis of what should be the sunny happy season. My infuriating pathology is such that it goes against the happy grain when sunny days are expected. I’m as much a dark cloud as a hoot and a half – it’s generally a pesky problem for all who try so hard to love me.
In the high heat of summer, after a night rain, the day begins in hazy focus or lack there-of. The eye moves in on water and light, while the grass rises to shake it off, slowly bending upward and letting any remaining raindrops fall into the ground. Summer awakens and rights the day.
I like the silence of early summer mornings when the birds aren’t even singing and the cicadas haven’t started their incessant moan. The pool is still, the air doesn’t move, and even the fountain grass that moves in the most slight of breezes stands frozen as if in sculpture. It puts me in mind of a favorite poem by Pablo Neruda, which features a favorite word.
As all things are filled with my soul you emerge from the things, filled with my soul. You are like my soul, a butterfly of dream, and you are like the word Melancholy.
I like for you to be still, and you seem far away. It sounds as though you were lamenting, a butterfly cooing like a dove. And you hear me from far away, and my voice does not reach you: Let me come to be still in your silence.
And let me talk to you with your silence that is bright as a lamp, simple as a ring. You are like the night, with its stillness and constellations. Your silence is that of a star, as remote and candid.
I like for you to be still: it is as though you were absent, distant and full of sorrow as though you had died. One word then, one smile is enough. And I am happy, happy that it’s not true.
Today it signifies my current state of mind, which I caught to put in check just in the nick of time.
An explanation of that sentence then, awkward and stilted and inelegant – all the things I try not to be: my mind was already racing toward fall, planning and plotting out a fall theme for this website, figuring out the fall wardrobe, and breaking in a special pair of fall boots. Summer is but a few days old, and I was already working on fall – and that was simply madness.
As I said, I caught it just in time to realize how stupid I was being to jump ahead and lose the present moment of the sunny season, especially this week when summer turns to high. And so I put the fall on rightful pause, and indulged in the pool and the garden and the summer at hand. Bringing myself back to the present moment and taking myself out of the phone and out of the future felt like a remarkable relief.
Way back in the 1980’s, when I was but a wee lad, I don’t recall the crop top craze for guys, but I was so young that fashion hadn’t yet crossed my brainwaves. I’m told, and grainy photos will attest, that men did indeed enjoy their crop top moment – and I wish I had done so when it was easier to maintain a svelte figure than it is at my current age. Regardless, some decent lighting and trick angles, along with sucking in the gut at precisely the right moment manage to convince the world that things are all still somewhat presentable for the masses.
This post kicks off our July, in which this wayward country celebrates its 250th anniversary – such a shame we have such a moron sitting in and defiling the Presidency. The patriotic posts you’re about to see are all tongue-in-cheek, as I can’t genuinely celebrate what we’ve become right now, and America has always been about keeping the right to criticize. At least, it was.
There’s a Fourth of July post coming up here, if I choose to post those jockstrap pics – it’s so hard to decide what best personifies the USA right now, but if it’s not a jockstrap I’m hard-pressed to find something more fitting. Come on back to see that show if I’m brave enough to do it (and I’m always brave enough to do it).
One of the very first garden plants I obsessively coveted was this evening primrose, which is blanketed in beautiful yellow flowers this time of the year. They have a short blooming period, but it’s a blockbuster show while it lasts. Such a bright and cheery color is welcome no matter how brief its stay might be. How you can you be mad at the world when little drops of sunshine peer up at you from the ground?
My social media engagements these days are usually far less than most people I know, coming at the three times in a day when something new is posted on my website. Those are regularly scheduled and happen without much thought or input, so it looks like I’m more regularly engaged that I actually am. That’s because I learned long ago how far removed from reality social media too often is. Even Madonna seems to have come around when it comes to something like Instagram, where she previously spilled (overspilled?) every aspect of her life.
I still sometimes get sucked into the vortex of reels upon reels, and all the recommended videos are of course those that they intrigued your interest, your algorithm brilliantly capturing exactly what’s going to tickle your fancy – but it’s just a time sucker, a way to keep your brain and mind up way past your bedtime, scrolling past your necessary sleep cycle and taking up residence in spaces better suited for peace and tranquility. To that end, I’m limiting phone time to my waking hours, and even then I’m not on it as much as I used to be. It’s a healthier, happier space. I’m touching the grass and it’s lovely.
This season, however, I plopped one into a group pot and it’s already in bloom. Maybe it sensed we needed some cheer. Maybe it jumped the gun and wanted to steal the early glory for itself. Maybe it’s just a plant and doesn’t care either way. Whatever the reason, I’m glad it’s here, and I’m loving its vibrant color.
It’s a decent personification of the fire this week’s temperatures are set to bring. Burn, baby, burn.
Such is the message of the song at hand. Is it for you? Is it for me? Depends who is going to be the most brutally honest. Summer seers into the mind in this way, positing questions, the most torturous and debilitating questions for anyone the least bit susceptible to hiding behind prettiness and ease and the desire not to disrupt that which isn’t entirely broken down. We have come to accept the very lowest effort and behavior of others when it comes to how we are being treated.
YOU’RE GIVING LEADING ACTOR, YOU WANNA STEAL THE SHOW SHUT YOUR MOUTH, SHUT YOUR MOUTH, SHUT YOUR MOUTH YOU LIE WHEN YOU DON’T HAVE TO, THEY’RE GONNA FIND YOU OUT SHUT YOUR MOUTH
This latest Madonna song, to be featured in the FIFA World Cup halftime show it seems, is a collab with Feid, and the music propels this onto the field with a propulsive party vibe with a darker edge thanks to the lyrical bombast and indictment. I love dark parties. Especially in the summer. All that drama, all that intrigue, all that unnecessary strife – and on the hottest days of the year to make it so much more unbearable.
I DON’T BELIEVE A WORD THAT YOU SAY I WONDER IF YOU LIKE IT THIS WAY I KNOW, I KNOW, I KNOW, I KNOW
Today Mercury goes into annoying retrograde motion, and there is also a full moon, so welcome to hell at the height of summer. Temperatures are also set to soar up to 100 degrees this week, so my aim is to lay low, keep to the pool and the AC, and lean into my daily meditations lest I lose what little is left of my middle-aged mind. Also, I’m completely out of fucks to give, so should anyone ask for one with annoying nonsense, I won’t be responsible for my response.
READ MY LIPS, TELL IT TO MY FACE AND YOU CUT ME WITH YOUR LIES ‘CAUSE YOU HURT ME WITH YOUR KISS AND I REALIZE YOU’RE JUST BROKEN, BROKEN UP INSIDE BUT I WILL SURVIVE
It’s kind of cruel to tell someone they’re broken and basically tell them to fuck off in the same breath. But maybe cruelty is the kindest way to send certain messages. Madonna has always been one for summer drama, and this week her new album comes out. I’m planning on dancing the Mercury and full moon troubles away…
Mercury moves into retrograde motion today, and if its pre-shadow mayhem is any indication of how this one is going to go, we are all royally fucked, minus anything royal about it. As if that wasn’t enough, we also have a full moon. The less said these days, the better, so on with the weekly blog recap…
