Keke Palmer is one of those thrilling multiple-threats on the entertainment front, having conquered movies and television and music and Broadway, easily earning her this Dazzler of the Day crowning. Her popular appearances with Hot Ones host Sean Evans have endeared her to him, and her to us, while her engaging personality is a natural for hosting gigs and podcasts and interviews. I would watch her read the phone book (which dates me more than I’d like since no one even knows what a phone book is anymore).
A friend recently asked if I was still on Cloud 9 after some happy outcome, and I replied without thinking or knowing what I was even saying, “Maybe Cloud 7.”
I was going to look it up for you, to share the origin of the term ‘Cloud 9’ but after a half-hearted Google search I gave up because I just don’t give a shit. If you’re reading this, you have access to Google. Do your own research.
As for the ‘Cloud 7’ answer, it feels more fitting than originally intended. Some summers are Cloud 7 summers; they can’t all be Cloud 9. That’s life. We deal with it.
DON’T YOU FEEL THE SUN HOPEFUL HEARTS OF THE HUMAN RACE SHINING DOWN FROM ABOVE…
Golden hours in summer hit differently than at any other time of the year. The sun is still burning its heat through the air, you can feel it warm your skin. You’re reminded of your golden worth – the way true gold reveals itself in the end – and you suddenly see through all those flimsy gilded superficial wanna-bes void of substance. Their empty, albeit shiny and new, vessels of temptation and flash always out themselves in the end, and if you’ve been smart and careful you never took them too seriously in the first place.
WE’RE GOLDEN BURN LIKE THE STARS STAY GOLDEN STRAIGHT FROM YOUR HEART
Gold can be one’s heart and constitution, or gold can be one’s deceptive covering. Only you can accept and acknowledge which gold you are, because only you in your heart truly know. And we all know, even when we don’t want to admit it to ourselves. We always know. The soul will see to what the brain might try to avoid – and the heart… well, I don’t know why any of us even tries to fool the heart after a certain age.
WITH A VOICE SAYING, “I’LL NEVER GIVE IN” GET KNOCKED DOWN, BACK UP AGAIN WE’RE GOLDEN, GOLDEN THAT’S WHO WE ARE
Sometimes I forget, and it takes a fleeting glimpse of myself in the glass reflection of a summer afternoon by the pool to remind me of all that I am, the man I’ve worked years to become. Sometimes I have to call a friend and ask them to remind me of who I am, because unlike the way it’s supposed to work, the older I get sometimes the more I doubt myself. My friends are all good enough to oblige on these rare moments of faltering and questioning. They prop me up when, weary and bedraggled, I have those moments of pause. We all have them.
LIVE YOUR LIFE LIKE YOU’RE STEALING EVERY LITTLE MOMENT IN TIME INFINITY GOES ON FOREVER LAY YOUR LIFE ON THE LINE
Summer brings me back to the little boy I used to be, the boy who had the confidence and power and a belief in himself that he was already all that he needed to be. How strange that as our lives go on, they bring us further and further from the truths with which we are all born. Maybe I’m at the bend of a boomerang, and it’s time to start returning to those childhood truths. There are so many tantalizing ways to veer off our path, so many seductive wolves in granny’s guises, so many illusory traps whispering false words that meant nothing to anyone other than a way to pass the time. Many speak of the folly of youth – when so much more folly follows us into adulthood. Maybe growing up doesn’t involve losing ourselves to adulthood, but rather finding our way back to who we were in the beginning.
And play this fucking song as loud as you can fucking stand it, because I’m regressing to my teenage dreams in a teenage circus… and if you stick around these parts you’re gonna get something on yourself.
RUNNING AROUND AGAIN… RUNNING AROUND AGAIN RUNNING FROM RUNNING…
WAKING UP IN THE MIDDAY SUN WHAT’S TO LIVE FOR WHEN YOU COULD SEE WHAT I’VE DONE? STAYING OUT OF MOTION IN THE LIGHT OF DAY I WAS HIDING FROM THE THINGS THAT YOU’D SAY
So many f-words, so much vulgarity. Reminds me of a time I was on the bus coming home from religion class of all places. (That’s what comes when you try to make kids religious.) I was in the back of the bus being bad, swearing my ass off with every dirty abominable word I could think of to say out loud and shock my religious classmates after our extra-long Tuesday afternoons when all the non-religious kids got to home early but those of us godly idiots had to go to the run-down Catholic school and pretend to pray and other shit. A lovely nun named Sister Agnes taught us (lovely in spirit, not in the dark bags beneath her eyes). We didn’t buy half of it, we didn’t believe, and behind her back we were atrocious to one another. The furthest thing from whatever goodness they were trying to instill.
WE ARE NOT WHAT YOU THINK WE ARE WE ARE GOLDEN, WE ARE GOLDEN WE ARE NOT WHAT YOU THINK WE ARE WE ARE GOLDEN, WE ARE GOLDEN
I remember the kids listening to me as I swore – one fuck right after another fuck, and maybe even a c-word slipped in at such a young age. It thrilled me to appall them; even the older kids seemed impressed or horrified, and I would spend the rest of my life confusing the two.
I WAS A BOY AT AN OPEN DOOR, WHY ARE YOU STARING? DO YOU STIL THINK THAT YOU KNOW? LOOKING FOR TREASURE IN THE THINGS THAT YOU THREW LIKE A MAGPIE I LIVE FOR GLITTER NOT YOU
Even then, I understood that I would be the one brave enough to say the things we shouldn’t say out loud. That I would be the one to bear the brunt of childish hubris, the one to burn up from flying too close to the sun. I knew it was my destiny to fall. Lucifer whispered sweet seduction in my boyhood ears, and I listened; dancing with the devil in the pale moonlight to a song like this would become my habit.
WE ARE NOT WHAT YOU THINK WE ARE WE ARE GOLDEN, WE ARE GOLDEN WE ARE NOT WHAT YOU THINK WE ARE WE ARE GOLDEN, WE ARE GOLDEN
TEENAGE DREAMS IN A TEENAGE CIRCUS RUNNING AROUND LIKE A CLOWN ON PURPOSE WHO GIVES A DAMN ABOUT THE FAMILY YOU COME FROM? NO GIVING UP WHEN YOU’RE YOUNG AND YOU WANT SOME
As we neared the end of the bus ride, I realized that my voice was the lone voice that was carrying to the front. All my bravado, all my evil words, all my brazen audacity – how much had reached the bus driver’s ears? As we squeaked to a stop and filed out, I suddenly panicked at the idea that the driver had heard what I was so foolishly screaming. I left a healthy length between myself and the kid ahead of me, so that I could rush past the driver in the event that they tried to scold me or say something. Even after I’d hurried by and stepped off the bus, I worried my actions would catch up with me, that a call would come in that night to my parents and I’d be belted for spewing such language from my lips. Religion class might have been working after all – the guilt was wreaking havoc with my head, fucking up any possibility of a carefree childhood.
NOW I’M SITTING ALONE AND I’M LOOKING AROUND LEFT HERE ON MY OWN, I’M GONNA HURT MYSELF MAYBE LOSING MY MIND, I’M STILL WONDERING WHY I HAD TO LET THE WORLD, LET IT BLEED ME DRY
No call came into the house that night. And the next Tuesday afternoon after we finished another religion class, I heard my mouth release another torrent of bad words in the back of the bus, and watched some of the kids again thrill at what they would never have the courage to say or do. I worried a little again at whether the bus driver would finally hear or notice, but again no call came in, no comeuppance. And then all I felt was empty.
WE ARE NOT WHAT YOU THINK WE ARE, WE ARE WE ARE NOT WHAT YOU THINK WE ARE, WE ARE WE ARE NOT WHAT YOU THINK WE ARE WE ARE GOLDEN, WE ARE GOLDEN…
Before anyone settles in and starts to celebrate summer fun, I have some terrible news. We are in the pre-shadow of another episode of Mercury in retrograde motion, which officially begins June 29 and runs until July 23, and things are already ridiculously wonky. It’s the very last thing I need right now, so of course it’s arriving just on schedule in the way the universe so adores fucking with me this year. For some of us Virgos, this is said to be the time we are moving into our super villain eras, and at this point I’m fucking here for it. Virgos always bring the receipts, we shoot to kill, and leave no regrets.
Word of advice: don’t come for me unless I call you.
Second word of advice: don’t come for me if I call you. It won’t end well.
To combat the inevitable pain and harm I will cause (because I’m only human and when pushed too far I push back) I’ve been focusing on my daily meditations, as they’re often the only point in the day when I can feel calm and at peace. The rest of this pre-shadow period has been icky and weird and agitated. There’s a general uneasiness to the atmosphere, and unsteadiness and tension that shouldn’t be part of the start of summer.
“Don’t speed!” Andy warned me as I pulled out of the driveway with Skip. Not sure why he said such a thing, as it is my habit to subconsciously do the opposite of what anyone tells me to do, and within ten minutes of departing for Boston, I was being pulled over somewhere in East Greenbush for speeding. (And I was still going less than I’ve seen Andy go on the Thruway on the regular.)
After accepting the ticket, part of me let out a sigh of relief – at least our police interaction was already done for the weekend. Thus began this year’s BroSox Adventure – a happy tradition we started eleven years ago, and one of our favorite rituals to kick off the summer season.
We began with stops at Eataly and Trader Joe’s, where we procured the items for a substantial charcuterie board, then headed back to the condo where we set up food shop until it was time to get a car to Fenway. I asked Skip to keep his ears peeled for a song that would personify the weekend, and as we filed into the ballpark we noticed all the men in kilts. Scotland was in Boston for the FIFA World Cup, and the place was filled with men in kilts. A group fell in behind us, their accents and actions the stuff of gay porn and worthy of adulation. I listened as Skip laughed.
The game was a good one – despite their sucky season, the Red Sox managed to win 10 to 1 – Skip and I have largely been a good luck charm for this franchise, and this night continued that streak. Our dinner would be the Fenway franks, which Skip maintains are the best hot dogs in the baseball world – and he’s done all the testing.
A number of years ago, when we were sitting at Fenway watching a game, I had spit out a mouthful of beer on the two guys in front of us after something struck me as funny. They were not amused, and this year karma came back, but it delivered its blow upon Skip. A group of young fans behind us were attending their first game (I’m assuming, as they kept asking for relish for their hot dogs which five sellers kept telling them they didn’t have). They were a little obnoxious, but such is the province of youth. I told Skip that was likely us ten years ago; he disagreed.
As a wave made its way around the park, we stood and raised our hands, and one of the guys behind us knocked the beer out of the hand of another, which promptly spilled all over Skip. He was good about it; the woman next to us seemed more upset – she wanted us to raise a ruckus and demand that they buy him a drink. Thankfully, cooler heads prevailed. Maybe we have grown up a bit.
When the game was over we walked back toward the condo, stopping for gelato at Eataly and making the most of a perfectly-marvelous almost-summer night.
The next morning we slept in, at least what constitutes sleeping in for middle-aged men these days, and the day was already heating up. Sunny and mid-80’s was the happy weather plan, and knowing this we wandered along our usual path on Newbury Street and all the way to Beacon Hill for some future project ideas (let’s just say someone got a cowboy hat). At some point Skip saw a guy in a t-shirt that read ‘YES SIR I CAN BOOGIE!’ which was on the playlist for this summer’s theme – and suddenly we had our song for the weekend like Magic!
By midday Skip was lagging, and I was feeling the heat too, so we made our way back to the condo for an extra-long siesta. The older we get, the more we value the afternoon nap it seems. That said, I didn’t get much shut-eye, and I wanted to try a possible summer cologne so I left Skip to his rest, and made a quick jaunt to Saks where I found a summer fragrance by Guerlain.
When I got back, we readied for an appetizer and drinks at Pink Taco where we enjoyed an excellent dinner last year, then walked around while World Cup madness seized the city. For the first time in a long time Boston felt alive and vibrant, caught up in the excitement of all the visiting Scots, and we found a Mexican bar in the South End where we set up to watch the game.
The weekend of sports didn’t end there, as we managed to catch the final minutes of the Knicks game playing in another bar, where we watched with a few other NY fans from the sidewalk, then found a pizza joint that had Skip claims is the first decent pizza we’ve had in Boston for all these years.
Walking in the twilight and stumbling over the uneven brick-laden sidewalks of the South End – tree roots like earthquakes buckling the ground beneath our feet – we made our way back toward home. Two men spilling over into the second half of their lives, still searching for what it all means, still finding ways of adapting, still embracing the friendship that makes it all worthwhile…
A preamble of sorts for the recounting of this year’s BroSox Adventures (coming up this weekend), this post celebrates the roses that were in bloom when last we were in Boston. It seemed that every square or garden we passed had some sort of rose show happening – the glorious sign that June was at hand and summer had, or was just about to, arrive. This first flush is usually the biggest and best, and it did not disappoint. They were tumbling off their trellises, rising and arching like some colorful fountain of fragrant petals. The red ones seen here were found along the Southwest Corridor Park, whose garden plots have been lovingly brought to beautiful life over the last decade or so.
Since I was not looking for anything specific, I kept my mind open to whatever the universe might throw in my path. That happened to be the gorgeous House of Guerlain, which I had previously sampled in the amazing Guerlain fragrance bar at Raffles. On this day, I was drawn to the golden honeycomb bottle of their Aqua Allegoria Forte line, and the one that spoke to me in cool whispers of refreshing brightness was this ‘Oud Yuzu Forte’.
Oud and Yuzu are separately two of my favorite fragrance profiles, yet for some reason I’ve never happened upon them in a combination that worked as well as this one. The woody aspects of oud ground the tangy effervescence of the yuzu. Citrus was made for summer, and while most citrus scents are gone within minutes, this one, being an Eau de parfum, lasts a decent deal longer. Carrying a golden sparkle, this scent strikes the perfect chord for a Solid Gold Summer, offering something a little deeper, a little more striking.
The hosta blooms rose early this year, in the weird way that nature has of delaying some plants, while accelerating others. I’ve noticed the seven sons’ flower tree already shooting out its buds, which shouldn’t bloom until August if we’re on the usual trajectory. This hosta bloom is backed by the brilliant chartreuse of the Aralia cordata ‘Sun King’ – the lilac color looking splendid against the bright green of earliest summer (though this King will hang onto its gorgeous bright green for the entire season).
When all else fails, and you find yourself in the spiral of another mid-life crisis or just the simple wear and tear of a few weeks of the current world, I find it best to re-focus my daily meditations, which have admittedly become lax in the excitement of the arrival of summer. As may have been evident in some recent posts, my brain has been a bit scattered, a bit manic, a bit all over the place. I’m attributing it to the end of a spring – perhaps the spring to end all springs, as I’ve never dealt with spring endings in the thrill of summer arrivals. Now, at the ripe old age of fifty, I’m thinking of endings a bit more, and I’ve come to the realization that unless an ending is actually at hand, there is no good worrying about it. In these times, I hone in on my daily meditation, re-centering from where I’ve strayed and drifted, and returning to the calm and peace I’ve always found there.
Even after meditating for almost seven years now, I still have to work at the practice, especially if I want to find that stillness of the mind that a proper meditation can elicit. It begins with deep, slow breathing – measured intakes of air – slowly, slowly – and then an even more measured release, narrowing the windpipe a little to allow for a slower pace of exhalation. Thoughts often flood this first part of the meditation process, so I let them come, acknowledging each and then letting them go by the time the next breath arrives. It helps me to focus on tangible things at first – so I’ll start with whatever physical sensation I might be feeling – a stiffness in the chest, a dull ache in the shoulder, the typical soreness in my back after bagging a bunch of leaves the day before. Honoring the body this way and allowing each little pain its moment is sometimes all the body wants to let go of some of the tension and hurt.
If I still haven’t calmed enough to have a clear head, and if intrusive thoughts continue to cross my mind, I’ll go through the previous few hours and what I felt during those moments, whether it was worry, fear, annoyance, anger, love, acceptance, sorrow – and allow each to have their moment. By this point, my breathing is usually slow and steady, my mind is clear and open and blank, and I’ve reached the state of mindfulness that is like the Savasana at the close of a yoga session.
The more I access that space of mindfulness, the more of life’s stresses flow around me rather than stop me in my tracks. Summer may proceed.
When I say ‘Summer Head‘ I mean the summer mind-set.
In my case, that’s an annoying amount of overthinking and overanalyzing and overdoing just about everything in my head. An exhausting and endless regime of mental gymnastics that always gets in the way of mindfulness. Thankfully, mindfulness is not merely its match, but its dominator. When set against overthinking, mindfulness always wins, if you know how to conjure it, if you can focus enough to make it happen. As with so many things worth having, there is difficult work involved.
The hobgoblin of the overthinking mind will try to derail the happiest summer days, blocking and obscuring the sun while you frantically seek shade and darkness to ease the headache, to find the coolness that will finally bring relief from the heat. You will try to find sleep, hoping it will bring peace, but the overthinking mind doesn’t allow for sleep. Its work is insidious that way. Diabolical.
I battle my own head games like vampires might battle each other. Formidable foes, so perfectly matched in viciousness and vitriol, fight not until the end of one, but the end of two. There is only ever complete destruction and utter annihilation. The summer head trip is designed to self-destruct like some Mission Impossible missive, yet the real impossible mission is in reconciling the mind’s night with summer light.
Hidden behind the shimmer of short-shorts or the smitten yet sinister smile put on for public appearance, for this very post perhaps, for the sheer vanity of survival – summer’s head trips spin wildly out of control, while the gilded sun of golden power glimmers from its far-off glory.
At the time that I write this, it is pouring rain outside. The sky is dim – a dull gray that portends a long, and helpful, onslaught of rain. The lawn and the gardens need it, especially the ferns. It is brooding weather – puts one in a dampened spirit, and it’s at odds with the pictures presented here from the day before, when the sun was shining, the sky was blue, and the clouds were merely artful accents unfilled with rainwater. The difference of a day. The difference of a night. Some things change, just like that. It’s the nature of the world. Ask any night-blooming cactus, if you’re lucky enough to catch one in bloom.
Golden is the hour, golden is the time. Golden is the summer, washing the luster away in the rain, because nothing gold can stay. Summer isn’t usually this pessimistic, but this is no ordinary summer. It’s my 50th full summer, and I can finally say I don’t really know what I’m doing. Some say that is the first step to learning anything. It’s a tenet of Buddhism, and the art of not knowing anything means you are fully open to learn of the present moment, allowing you to fully inhabit the time at hand with curiosity – ever seeking knowledge, ever open to learning more. Consider summer school in session.
