{Note: The Madonna Timeline is an ongoing feature, where I put the iPod on shuffle, and write a little anecdote on whatever was going on in my life when that Madonna song was released and/or came to prominence in my mind.}
We need a little levity of late – things have gotten decidedly too dour and dreary, even if we are ensconced in the midst of winter. To that end, the iPod has shifted to ‘Candy Shop’ – one of my least favorite Madonna songs, but one that has enough cheeky silliness to attempt a slight smile. From the moment the demo first leaked, and through all of its live incarnations, I have not been left with a sweet taste in my mouth. Instead, I find myself trying to find the decent melody and hook that Madonna has consistently delivered – and every time I can’t. I think it fell short of its metaphors, and wanna-be street-cred, and failed miserably. As the quasi-title track from her ‘Hard Candy’ album, it was supposed to be all high-sugar, super-sexy concept, but never quite succeeded. You cannot build an entire album around a trifling concept and a few leftover Pharrell beats – and in this case you can’t even build a single song out of it.
The lyrics are whimsically serviceable enough, shot through with enough possible double-entendres to remind that this is still Madonna, and she can still be quite cheeky, but in today’s world of salacious naughtiness, this is more safe-fun than scintillatingly-provocative. Madonna is at her best when she is at her most risky – either in boldly controversial moves, daringly personal revelations, or shockingly good musical turns. This lackluster track misses all those marks. Wisely, despite its title tie-in, ‘Candy Shop’ was never a single off of ‘Hard Candy’ – the much-more-impressive ‘4 Minutes’ was the kick-off – but Madonna still chose Candy to lead the Sticky and Sweet Tour, making it one of Madonna’s least memorable tour openings.
What does “My sugar is raw” even mean? I texted it to all my friends and only got a flurry of puzzled responses. “The purple moose flies at midnight” being one, “Bareback sugar is what’s up” went another, and then there was this from Suzie: “Raw sugar is the way to go in coffee fo sho.”
As for this song in the Madonna canon, it will likely settle near the bottom. I can’t even get a quick sugar-high from it. Most egregiously, the cover art for this album is a let-down, being a horrid cob-job of a bad photo shoot, and an even-worse use of photoshop. (By the way, I don’t care what the kids in Narnia say, Turkish delight is not that great.)
The vantage point of a lofty hotel room.
A pause in the middle of the day.
Suspended between work and play
we soon move on our way.
A purgatorial robe
not quite tied around the waist.
A pair of socks.
The trampled bed.
Passing sun, drifting moon, the clouds swim overhead.
The gray of dawn fills in with color
before dusk takes it back.
This trip to Washington marked my first time at the Kennedy Center. The National Symphony Orchestra, under Christoph Eschenbach, was performing a program of Beethoven, Mozart, and Bartok, featuring soloist Dan Zhu on the violin. It had been quite some time since I’d seen an orchestra in action. For a certain number of years I couldn’t bring myself to attend because I hated my experience in the Empire State Youth Orchestra so much. But now, coming back to it, I could focus on the artistic aspect of what was at hand, and not be affected by the competitive nature of the beast.
Sitting in the audience, I studied the players, wondering how much they had to sacrifice to be there, thinking of all the hours of practice and dedication required to make it to that level. I don’t know if I regretted or felt relief at never having had the single-focused passion that brought those players to that stage. It was a thrill to see and experience, and when a group of people come together like that, when so much artistry and cohesive, combined efforts unite to produce that gorgeous music, it conspired to leave me surprisingly moved.
Coupled with our earlier visit to the Botanical Gardens, it had been a day of restorative inspiration. My Washington visit was coming to a close. Chris and Darcey joined me for one final night-cap in Dupont Circle. We said our good-byes (my flight was departing early the next morning) and I walked hurriedly  back to the hotel. The night was frigid, but my heart was warm.
When it’s only twenty degrees out, and you’re still recovering from a late night of one or three too many cocktails, you need a little brunch, and a bit of peaceful solace. The best place for the latter, and one of my only sightseeing goals for this trip, was the US Botanic Garden. Like the National Zoo, it is a stop I try to make whenever I’m lucky enough to be in town, and it provides both a respite from a cold winter day and a place of active contemplation.
As the cruel winds blew through the locked gates of the outside gardens, we entered the Grand Foyer and were transported to a place of beauty and serenity. I have yet to find a balm that quells the restlessness and riot of winter as quickly and effectively as a greenhouse. And this was no simple greenhouse. Bamboo stretched to the sky, threatening to break through the high glass ceiling of the entryway. Trees soared upward ~ palms and umbrella plants – a trickling stream of water ran through the heart of it all ~ and a colorful carpet of mosses, creeping fig, bromeliads and orchids covered the lower story.
My idea of heaven is a garden like this in the middle of winter. It contains within it the hope and promise of healing, the calming salve of beauty, and the invigorating air of wonder. It is, for me, one of the only places of peace that is easily accessible, where you can find pockets of solitude in the hidden corner of some leafy canopy, shielded from watchful eyes behind sweetly-scented sprays of orchid blooms. As a fine warm mist fell from above, we breathed in the gloriously humid air, our senses already relaxing and letting go, becoming one with the environment once more.
Whenever I feel the tug of Winter heavy upon my heart, and I yearn for something to free the pent-up feelings of house-bound life, I seek out a garden of some sort. This one was worth the longer trip, and it will see me through a few more weeks of snow and ice. We lingered there, taking it all in, basking in this glass-walled oasis of tropical paradise.
There was more goodness in store for us, as Darcey had gotten tickets to that evening’s performance of the National Symphony Orchestra at the Kennedy Center. Art and beauty have a power all their own – not unlike friendship and love – and somehow I had started to forget that. It felt like I had come to this place for some very important reasons. For now, though, it was the simple message of a garden, making itself heard even through the bleakest of Winter.
Even if you’re coming from a place where the temperature is only eight degrees, nineteen degrees isn’t much better, nor much different when it’s only seven in the morning. Such was the case when I arrived in Washington, DC to surprise my pal Chris this weekend. A flight that departs at 5:20 AM is early for a lot of people, but I’ll always choose an earlier flight to avoid possible delays. Once things start getting backed up, it’s difficult to right it again. This time it was smooth flying, and I got in a few minutes ahead of schedule. The featured pic is from the Metro stop at the airport, as the sun began to rise.
This red bear sculpture was right across from my hotel, the Fairfax Embassy Row – which I’ll not review here since they tried to be so nice (but check out my upcoming TripAdvisor entry for the reason why I had to switch rooms at 1 AM – yes, AM.)
Fortunately all that fun was yet to come. On Friday, Darcey and I set the plan into motion. I scoped out the Mayflower Hotel early in the day for possible places to hang out and hide. Darcey had made reservations at the newly redone Edgar, and the plan was to have them sit down, then have Darcey come out and get me, at which point I would walk up to the table and sit down. (My friend JoAnn and I did this trick when we surprised Kim in Las Vegas – which means  it has probably run its course as far as surprise set-ups go – but there was enough left in it to work this time.)
I recycled a holiday outfit for the evening, then set out for the Mayflower.
The site of former New York Governor Eliot Spitzer’s transactions with a high-cost call-girl, the hotel is slightly tainted, but still gorgeously opulent. Marble floors and gilded accents lend it a regal flair, while rows of beveled mirrors line the main hallway.
I got into my second floor position, one flight above the restaurant, and neatly hidden from view. I waited on the couch there for their arrival. There is no greater anticipation than the one that comes before meeting an old cherished friend. Especially when it’s a surprise.
Darcey arrived first, and we chatted for a few minutes before Chris got there (not surprisingly late). She went back down when he finally arrived, texted me that it was time, and I walked in to surprise him. We pulled it off flawlessly (I guess texting has its benefits), and enjoyed a leisurely dinner filled with wine, one amazing crab soup, and the best company and conversation I’ve been lucky to have in a while.
They make a good couple, and one of the greatest joys for a friend is seeing another friend find love and happiness in a partner.
After dinner, Chris and I stopped at the Jefferson for a nightcap at Quill. A couple of cognac side-cars later, we closed the place down. I was back in Washington, the site of so many memories going back as far as I can remember. Those ghosts were content now, or so I hoped, and, fortified by the company of one of my oldest friends (and the guy who performed our wedding ceremony) I felt safe. The surprise weekend in Washington was under-way.
Before I begin the Washington, DC recap, let’s get through a quick review of the week that came before. It was a damn cold one – cold even for the most robust of upstaters, which is saying something because we’re a pretty hardy crew. But when wind-chills dip below zero degrees Fahrenheit, there’s a big damn problem. I’ve taken to wearing two scarves (and you all thought my accessorizing addiction was purely aesthetic) and, gasp, a hat – if I know I’ll be walking to a place where the state of my hair won’t matter. Anyway, our weekly look back:
While I’m in travel status, I offer an invitation for you to read The Writings, especially for anyone who is new here. Some of my best work is written (no matter what you may hear on the corner), and over the years I’ve whittled down a large collection of mundane and mediocre work into a few bright spots of polished prose. For starters, you might like ‘The Secret I Kept for Twenty Years‘, which is pretty self-explanatory (a secret that I kept for, well, twenty years). If you have a bit more time and the slightest interest in what it’s like to serve on a jury for a murder trial, check out my stint as ‘The Reluctant Juror‘. For those who have ever experienced a difficult break-up, when you’re at an absolute loss as to how to navigate such treacly waters, take a gander at ‘Heart of Winter‘, set in my last days in Chicago. Finally, in the briefest of snippets of a coming-of-age story, I wrote ‘The Boys of McNulty‘ to immortalize a childhood friend who committed suicide. Taken together, they may not be the happiest or funniest group of stories I’ve written, but they’re among my favorites. Sometimes it’s not all rainbows and roses and unicorns. Butterfly in the sky, I cannot go twice as high…
A couple of visits ago, one of my favorite Washington moments was sitting at Quill – the bar at The Jefferson – and sipping a sidecar. I asked the bartender to make it with cognac instead of brandy, and to forego any notion of a sugared rim. He happily obliged, and the result was exquisite. Chris and I hung out beside the warm glow of the bar, chatting with the bartender, and ordering a second round.
A good bartender, a life-long friend, and a decent cocktail make a certain recipe for a happy memory. As the winter swirled wickedly outside the windows, we reminisced and looked ahead, talking about everything and nothing as old friends are wont to do. The perfect antidote for the winter blues.
If all goes according to plan (and assuming a winter storm hasn’t dashed all my plans as it did for a Miami trip several years ago), I should be in Washington, DC at the time of this posting. (If it hasn’t gone according to plan, I’ll have to quickly put this post into the ‘Drafts’ folder and hold onto it for another time.) The reason I haven’t written about this excursion to DC is because I’m hoping to surprise my friend Chris, whom I haven’t seen in about a year. With the help of his girlfriend, we’re hoping to pull the old Las Vegas switcheroo and shock him at dinner. Depending on whether my flight gets in, and Darcey and I can pull this off, it should be a fun time.
When plotting out possible events for the weekend, I told Darcey that my only real goal this time around was to stop by the Botanical Gardens, because I need a dose of tropical greenery, a quick piece of tranquility in this blustery season. Last year when I was in DC, it was brutally cold, and I’m not expecting much of a difference this time. It will take another month or two before it starts feeling Spring-like, and while patient folks may have waited until then to make the trip, I just couldn’t. It’s been too long.
So here I am, writing this in hopeful anticipation that I make it down there, thinking good thoughts and praying that Mother Nature will be kind. It would be good to see my old friends again…
Just hanging with a few good friends on this Friday night. Nothing too special, though their diets are weird. Gluten-free is one thing, but bamboo and insects? That sounds harsh for the hardiest stomach. But to each their own, and if it makes you happy…
I must draw the line at sharing living quarters though. This ain’t fairy tale theater, I’m not Elizabeth McGovern, and I’m much too old to wiggle my way into a hole in the ground. Still, it might be nice living with a panda. They seem peaceable enough. My lone patch of Fargesia nitida wouldn’t last very long though. What to do, what to do…
