18
February
2012
Tags: Gratuitous Nudity, Underwear
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Day of Departure

There’s no sadder morning than the last day of a vacation or trip. It’s part of the reason I book a morning return flight or train trip, or trudge to my car before the sun rises – the quicker it’s over, the better. Sometimes I’ve even left Boston at midnight, just to avoid the next sorrowful morning.

I know it’s just time games and mental tricks, but I don’t like saying good-bye, and that last day always seems like one prolonged farewell until I get home again. Who wants that feeling to last?

Yet over the years I’ve learned to slow down a bit, take in those final morning moments, even delay a departure to make the most of the day. It still weighs inevitably on my mind, but I’m coming around to a more leisurely approach to leaving. Sometimes, those last precious moments are the most memorable part of a trip – an early brunch, a morning stroll along the beach, or just another round of the snooze button – made more-so by their suddenly-fleeting nature.

Some people, myself often included, are happiest when in-flux, when we’re going or coming, en route and on the way. For us, the journey is the destination, and every minute spent waiting for a flight or dozing on the train is one of blessed relief from the usual drudgery of non-motion .

If I had to travel for my job, I might feel differently.

For now, the thrill remains, and the last morning will be met with both sadness and a smile.

 

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17
February
2012
Tags: Shirtless Male Celebrities
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The Shame of the Game

Last night I finally got around to seeing Steve McQueen’s devastating masterpiece ‘Shame’, and Michael Fassbender and Carey Mulligan gave two hypnotic and gut-wrenching performances. It was easily the best movie I’ve seen in a very long time, and it will haunt me for a while. Though my straight-date Skip ended up not going, I was lucky enough to be joined by my friend Vinny, so I didn’t have to go it alone. At the end, it turned out our friend Albert was in the theater as well.

That said, once it began, I sat mesmerized by the film, lulled in by its eerie quietness, and raw, often-literally, naked tone. It wasn’t always easy to watch, but you absolutely cannot stop. This is a harrowing view of modern-life, a seering, stark, unflinching glimpse at the way we live today.

Many of us, well, some of us, have been through what I affectionately term a ‘slutty’ period. It happens for different reasons – some chalk it up to youth, others to pain, some to abandonment, others to abuse – and for me it was a little of everything, coming at a time when I the first man I truly loved broke up with me.

Going into the movie, and knowing a brief synopsis of its sex-addict plot, I feared a triggering of unhappy memories. No matter how far-removed we may be from our past, it’s really just right behind us, still in our heads, still in our hearts, waiting for the right moment to re-appear and daunt us again in its power to remind and resonate.

Yet ‘Shame’ is not at all a treatise on sex. None of the romps depicted here are the least bit erotic or enjoyable. None of the nudity is arousing. If you’re only going to ogle Mr. Fassbender’s impressive appendage, you’ll be sorely tricked into feeling things not in your nether regions, but in the deep recesses of any hurt or pain that you’ve ever experienced. ‘Shame’ brings up the emptiness of our dimmest souls, the ones who have been so damaged they’ve seemingly gone beyond the point of redemption.

That the protagonists of this film seem doomed to never forget their atrocious pasts is little consolation, yet the glimmer of hope may be in that very fact. The only path through this life is a painful one. We are foolish to think there is any other way. Faith, in its dwindling, limited supply, gives us little to go on, and love is but a bond only waiting to unravel, to entrap.

The only way out is to stop feeling. The only way to survive is to calm the quivering heart, quell the firing synapses of the brain. When you can’t count on your own family, when you can’t count on love, what are we left? Or to paraphrase one hopeful character, Why are we here if we don’t mean anything to each other?

Yet even in the sad, awful, disturbing way we sexually conquer one another, in the sadistic, heartless, cruel manner in which we abuse ourselves, there is the slightest sliver of grace. It might come in the form of sadness and angst, sorrow and the absence of laughter, regret and loneliness, but it still comes.

It is a quiet grace, a stilled grace, a grace that weeps at the moment of ejaculation, a grace that cries silently into the rain. It haunts the heart and pierces the mind. It hurts like hell and then recedes into nothingness. It is the grace of being human, and being in this world. It is, I think, the saddest grace, and for that I will always be a little sorry. And thankful.

“We’re not bad people. We just come from a bad place…”

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16
February
2012
Tags: General, Madonna, Music
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The Madonna Timeline: Song #63 ~ ‘Bad Girl’ – Winter 1993

{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.}

This is one of those songs that has a number of memories attached to it, adding to its resonance over the years, evolving into something that morphs to the scene at hand. That’s the way it is for many of Madonna’s best songs – they open themselves up to multiple-readings, myriad meanings, and in so doing operate on many levels. ‘Bad Girl’ was released in the rather snowy winter of early 1993, a rocky time in the aftermath of the ‘Erotica’ brouhaha, and over the years all I have left of the song is a pastiche of rather shaky memories, without narrative or structure – mere wisps of images, elusive as smoke, and as hard to grasp.

Something’s missing and I don’t know why
I always feel the need to hide my feelings from you
Is it me or you that I’m afraid of?
I tell myself I’ll show you what I’m made of
Can’t bring myself to let you go…

Scene 1:
The back roads of upstate New York. Holding my high school girlfriend’s hand, not knowing if we would make it through the coming summer – our last at home – not knowing how to hang onto the night, I sit in the backseat of a friend’s car. The snow muffles the evening, as our friends sit in the front and talk of other things. Beneath amber street lamps, it glows an eerie yellow. On nights like this, the snow is a frigid comfort. As the wheels spin on a slippery patch, it seems as if even in the case of a crash, the snow would cushion the blow, blunt the impact, gently toss the car back on track. Luckily, there is no crash that night, just the soft crunch of white stuff beneath the wheels. I look out the window, gaze up into the falling flakes, peer at receding eternity, and squeeze her hand a little harder.

Don’t want to cause you any pain
But I love you just the same
And you’ll always be my baby
In my heart I know we’ve come apart
And I don’t know where to start
What can I do?
I don’t want to feel blue…

Scene 2:
The snow has turned dirty. The years have clicked ahead. The messy end of another winter leaves mud and salt swirling on the streets. A new girlfriend, an end to innocence, and the difficult duplicity of adulthood.

A betrayal of the heart. A betrayal of the body. A betrayal of the sacredness of sex. The scent of another woman on her fingers, the impossibility of it, the slutty suspicions confirmed and quickly sent into oblivion with a smile. We had both been bad then, and we both smiled to ease the double blow. We took the pain we inflicted and felt and ran with it, delving deeper into our mutual destruction, powerless to salvage more than a slow-fading disdain.

The snow soon melted, dirt unto dirt, and the winter went away. The women of my romantic life were filing into the past, into the dim but warmly-remembered history of a somewhat messy path to the man I always was but never acknowledged. The age of women, at least for me, had come to its conclusion, and the only question was how much trickier might men prove to be?

Bad girl, drunk by six,
Kissing someone else’s lips
Smoked too many cigarettes today
I’m not happy when I act this way.
Bad girl, drunk by six,
Kissing some kind stranger’s lips
Smoked too many cigarettes today
I’m not happy, I’m not happy…

Scene 3:

A stranger’s bed. A morning after. A dim gray glow of dawn. He has had his drunken way with me, and I with him. Untangling my limbs from wrinkled sheets, I sit on the edge of the bed, rubbing the sleep from my contact-irritated eyes, blinking to see clearly, and wondering at another mess I’ve made. I seem to recall a third guy – yes, there were three of us – and it was never as hot as it’s made out to be. Even in the supposedly-fun and unattached debauchery, there are jealousies and entanglements, but somehow I had been the one to last, to win, to stay the night – though in the rising sun it felt anything but a victory. One cannot win through submission. One cannot triumph in degradation. One merely survives, if one is lucky, and moves on.

Something’s happened and I can’t go back
I fall apart every time you hand your heart out to me
What happens now? I know I don’t deserve you
I wonder how I’m ever gonna hurt you
Can’t bring myself to let you go
Don’t want to cause you any pain
But I love you just the same
And you’ll always be my baby
In my heart I know we’ve come apart
And I don’t know where to start
What can I do?
I don’t want to feel blue…

As for the song, it was a commercial dud, adding to the perceived failure of the ‘Erotica’ album, but it came with one of the best videos Madonna has ever made. Directed masterfully by David Fincher (yes, that David Fincher), it tells the dark story of a woman losing herself in wine and cigarettes and one-night-stands. We’ve all been that woman at one point or other – at least I certainly have – and it’s a frightening place to be.

It doesn’t seem so at the time. I mean to say, it’s a long spiral downward – and not all of it is bad – so when you’re finally looking up from below, it can come as a shock to see how far you’ve descended.

Bad girl, drunk by six,
Kissing someone else’s lips
Smoked too many cigarettes today
I’m not happy when I act this way.
Bad girl, drunk by six,
Kissing some kind stranger’s lips
Smoked too many cigarettes today
I’m not happy, I’m not happy…

This is an epic video – cinematic in scope and visuals, with just enough intrigue to drive the narrative, and it features one of Madonna’s strongest performances. Her blank face beautifully framed by the softest of bright blonde curls, she gives off the emptiness of her character while fighting for feeling. Through it all, her hurt is palpable, her pain apparent, and her trajectory bound solidly to imminent destruction. It is the perfect almost-apology for the ‘Erotica’ period, a video capsule of self-punishing come-uppance, in which Madonna may be sending her naughtier-self into an exile from which she has never returned.

I’m not happy, I’m not happy this way
I’m not happy this way
Kissing some kind stranger’s lips…

Song #63: ‘Bad Girl’ – Winter 1993

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14
February
2012
Tags: General
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When the Bathroom Floor Becomes a Life-Changing Experience

If there’s one thing you want on one of the windiest and coldest nights Washington, DC has seen this year, it’s a heated bathroom floor. Having never had the pleasure of experiencing one until my recent stay at the Dupont Circle Hotel, I can whole-heartedly say it is a life-changing experience. The rest of the hotel offered a similar eye-opening pleasure, starting with the friendliest hotel staff I’ve come across in a long while.

From the doorman to the check-in clerks to the ever-present Concierge, everyone was exceptionally, and genuinely, attuned to the needs and comforts of their guests. Service in the attached Bar Dupont and Cafe Dupont would prove just as gracious later on in the stay, but for the first impression, the hotel staff made check-in a pleasure, even for a disheveled traveler straight off the plane and Metro.

The Dupont Circle Hotel manages the tricky balance of blending a very modern and chic style with an elegant warmth. So many hotels sacrifice the inviting and welcoming for the cold and clinical in the name of being cutting-edge. This is that rare breed that successfully melds contemporary panache and classic comfort (and I seriously cannot extol the virtues of that impressive heated bathroom tile floor enough).

The room itself is expansive, with an almost-open bathroom plan that makes impressive use of strategically-placed frosted glass. It’s sufficiently private for those who are shy, yet open to the extent that it adds dramatically to the open-space feel of the room.

One of the successful design tricks the hotel uses to great effect is the varying textures found throughout – a suede-like gray wall covering in the hallways, a glossy dark burlap-like texture backing the bed, a cream-colored leather chaise, the smooth marble walls of the bathroom, the mottled dark stone of the floor -it all works together to embrace and cushion, so the whole experience is one of sensual delight and constant discovery. From the crimson ginger and anthurium blossoms of the lobby to the fiery velvet pillows on the bed, there are judiciously-placed pops of color that set this space apart from so many modern rooms and their unwavering beige/brown/black palettes.

Oddly enough, most hotels today make rudimentary use of the most important piece of design – the lighting – settling for standard floor and table lamps, and one lonely entry-way ceiling light. The Dupont Circle Hotel offers a variety of lighting sources, and, perhaps most important, a dimmer switch on the extensive but never overbearing overhead spots. While one bedside reading lamp was not working, it seemed a small issue in the overall scheme.

There is an electric ‘Do not disturb’ light that goes on when you lock the door (that also illuminates the room number outside your door) – unless the light isn’t working, which in this case made for an earlier-than-wished-for knock from housekeeping, but other than that the experience was perfect.

As the winds barreled down and the snow squalls swirled, it was easier to stay on-site and check out the popular Bar Dupont (loud and crowded, but bustling with happy revelers) and the Cafe Dumont (better than standard hotel fare, with a French twist). I would definitely stay here again, without hesitation. (And did I mention the heated bathroom floor? Good, because it bears repeating.)

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10
February
2012
Tags: Theater
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The Very Model of a Major Good Time

There’s something thrilling about seeing a show you’ve never seen before. Yet even if you have the faintest familiarity with a production, when that red curtain rises it erases everything that came before – including 100 plus years of history and acclaim – and it’s as if it’s happening for the very first time. You can never recapture that moment, not with the grandest revision or the wildest reimagining, so I’m thankful that my first brush withThe Pirates of Penzance came at the hands of the Cohoes Music Hall.

I knew nothing of the show, other than the fact that it was created by the legendary team of Arthur Sullivan and W. S. Gilbert, and I’d had no more than a fleeting bit of pop culture exposure courtesy of the ‘Major General’s Song’. Beyond that I was pirate virgin, waiting for my pirate booty to be plucked and plundered with a snappy bit of song and dance. I’m happy to report that my Pirates of Penzance cherry was perfectly popped in the current production running in Cohoes until February 19.

A light-hearted frolic, wispy as the clouds of the opening set, Pirates is directed with a deftly-nuanced touch byC-R Productions own Jim Charles. Far from the darker fare peddled by modern day movies or real-life news, the pirates here wink and cajole, winning over the audience before the rest of the participants, a tribute as much to the stellar ensemble as to the original brilliant score, which soars and floats gloriously amid the February doldrums.

An operetta demands a blithe hand, and this romp is a broad, and at times earnestly moving, bit of escapism. Completely engaging as an effortlessly-amusing good time, it finds the pirates on the comical rather than fearsome side of things. The Pirate King is more Johnny Depp than Captain Hook, played with charismatic scene-stealing debauchery by Jesse Coleman. Mr. Coleman commands and pilots the proceedings with swashbuckling fierceness, moving convincingly between compassion, empathy, anger, and haplessness with delicious abandon. Anchored by the dulcet tones of John Farchione as Frederic and the glittering coloratura of Kellie Cundiff as Mabel, the production sails grandly towards its happy ending, pausing only at the show-stopping rendition of the Major General’s Song, sung flawlessly by Jerry Christakos, who brings the added depth of heart necessary to set the second act on fire.

Whenever ‘Pirates’ broad humor threatens to be too much, it suddenly offers forth a bit of wit and cleverness to keep it in check, standing up to the test of time, if not improving upon the original material. While the first act builds and builds, the second lands running, with an enchanting other-worldly set, and the non-stop entertainment that doesn’t give out until it’s over.

If it’s a witty frolic and some good old-fashioned entertainment you’re on the hunt for this winter, I highly recommend this pirate’s life for you.

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09
February
2012
Tags: Tom Ford
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Sweeter Than Candy, Prettier Than Flowers

Candy and flowers have never been my favorite gifts to receive. Yes, the thought is lovely, the chocolate is good, and the flowers are beautiful, but I’d rather have just about anything else, especially for Valentine’s Day. (Really, do I strike anyone as a flowers and chocolate kind of guy? I only wish I could be so easily appeased – life would be much more enjoyable, for everyone involved.)

The point of this is to make a plea for a bit of Lavender loving, in the form of one ‘Lavender Palm’ by Tom Ford – the latest addition to his Private Blend line – quite possibly the greatest fragrance collection ever assembled. I’ve just begun my hording of the scents, and one of the best parts of them is the way that they blend together.

It’s always risky to mix colognes, even (and sometimes especially) if they’re from the same fragrance house, but his are designed to work well together. In fact, the most surprisingly effective way I’ve experienced them is when a couple have inadvertently combined in a pile of sampled cards – and I sift through them trying to find the one that’s tickling my olfactory fancy, and it turns out that it’s not just one, it’s the collective combination of all of them intertwined.

There’s only one way to recreate that kind of magic, and that’s to have the sort of fragrance laboratory that subsists of an extensive assortment. (I’m not averse to his ‘Amber Absolute’ either – which is probably more readily available. See, I’m not impossible to please.) In addition, the deep brown apothecary-like bottles are not bad to look at, so it would add to the beauty of our bathroom. There’s no reason my wishes shouldn’t benefit the good of all.

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08
February
2012
Tags: Madonna
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The Madonna 2012 Tour

Here we go again: the quest for Madonna tour tickets is about to commence. She just announced her tour date itinerary, and it looks pretty impressive.

Historically (at least, for the last three tours she did) I would purchase tickets for both Boston and New York. The reason for this goes back to 2001, when I got tickets for the first Madonna show I ever saw, The Drowned World Tour. Back then she was returning from an 8-year hiatus from touring, and tickets were insanely difficult to get. I believe I set up a special AOL account to give me special advance access, and I managed to get two tickets for her show in Boston. (I should probably look into whether that AOL account’s been cancelled…)

I asked Suzie to go with me, and in the days leading up to the show, my anticipation and excitement were barely contained. Then, the tour date just before her Boston concert was cancelled for illness. Would she recover in two days for the show I was supposed to see? I couldn’t imagine any other way – I literally did not think I would be able to handle that. Suzie and Andy were preparing for a suicide watch in the event that I didn’t get to see her, and I tried to envision how I’d get over it, but I just couldn’t.

Fortunately, she rallied and put on my favorite show of all time. (You never forget your first.) Since that scary moment, I’d been getting two sets of tickets for her shows – one in Boston and one in New York, in the event that she didn’t go on one night. It was a little bit of insurance that I wouldn’t miss out.

This time around I think I’m only going to aim for a single Boston date. Having seen her seven times, there’s less pressure to insure I won’t miss a show. I’m also a little (just a smidge) less fanatical in my devotion, so if she cancels, it won’t be the end of the world.

Besides, in New York she’s only playing Yankee Stadium – and everyone knows I don’t do stadiums.

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07
February
2012
Tags: General
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Thanks for the Massage, Tim Tebow

On my last trip to Washington, we had the privilege of staying at the Mandarin Oriental for a family wedding. For some of our down-time, I ventured into the spa, which was the very first time I’d done any sort of spa thing. I didn’t get any treatments – it was relaxation enough to swim a few laps in the pool and spend some time in the sauna and steam rooms. I raved orgasmic over the experience here, and have been wanting to go back ever since.

The Mandarin Oriental in Boston offers a 16,000 square foot spa facility that looks amazing, so I’d been toying with the idea of getting a day pass on one of my Boston trips and recapturing that nirvana, but never quite got around to it. Their FaceBook page occasionally offers photo contests where you could win a day at the spa, or a dinner at their restaurant Asana – and I’d entered a few over Christmas, with some pretty Boston Public Garden photos that never made the cut.

For the Super Bowl, the contest was to submit a photo showing your love of the Patriots, and the prize was one of their Oriental Essence massages. Now, as a general rule, I don’t have many sports-themed photos – certainly not anything I’d consider entering – but since Madonna was at the game this year I’d gone and taken a few silly shots with my brother’s Patriots’ helmet. I figured why not send one in – I love all Boston teams – so off went this ridiculous shot of me Tebowing in the aforementioned headgear.

Lo and behold, as with all whims I carry out without much thought or hope, it worked, and yesterday I got an e-mail saying I had been chosen to receive the massage certificate. The comical uncanniness of this is not lost on me. Five days ago I didn’t even know what Tebowing was. Only when my brother mentioned it and (jokingly) said I should take a picture of me doing it did it enter my radar. The notion of me Tebowing in a football helmet is ludicrous on levels far too numerous and complex to mention here. But the Lord works in mysterious ways, and apparently the power of Tebowing cannot be denied.

Thank you to Tim Tebow, thank you to the New England Patriots, thank you to my brother – and most especially thank you to the Mandarin Oriental. I can’t wait for you to get your hands on me.

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06
February
2012
Tags: General, Madonna
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Madonna at the Super Bowl: A Queen Reclaims Her Throne

She arrived like Cleopatra – carried in by an enormous troop of gladiatorially-garbed men. A wall of larger-than-life faux palm fronds parted to the opening salvo of ‘Vogue’ ~ What are you looking at? ~ a ridiculous question when all eyes were so clearly on Madonna, revealed in an extravagant head-dress and sparkling golden robe. Half Isis, Half American Goddess, Half Woman Warrior- she was here to stake her claim as rightful occupant to her once and future pop throne. And, by most accounts, she slayed it.

It was dazzling, it was stunning, it was like she transported us into a different world. I don’t know about anyone else, but it no longer felt like a football game to me – and God knows I couldn’t be more thankful for that.

As with most things Madonna, it was the overall effect that powed and wowed. Her vocals were mostly lip-synced. Without a proper sound-check for an avowed (and proven) perfectionist, there’s no way she was going to rely on a live sound-system, and there’s no way she should have done that for a show like this. She wasn’t there to impress with her vocal stylings and nuanced singing – she was there to entertain and put on a show – and I defy anyone to do it better.

It managed to be intimate and grand, theatrical and universal, intricate and epic ~ the most difficult balancing act pulled off by one of the greatest entertainers the world will ever see. When Madonna comes to play there is no better show-stopper.

After the brilliance of ‘Vogue’, she went into a rollicking version of ‘Music’, where her only (exceedingly minor) flub was when she couldn’t quite get up onto a bench on the first try – so small was it that I missed the misstep entirely on first viewing. Hey, I couldn’t do that in high heels.

Surprisingly I enjoyed the LMFAO segment – a mash up of ‘Music‘, ‘Party Rock Anthem’, and ‘I’m Sexy & I Know It’ – and Madonna was clearly having a good time by that point. The dance break finishing it was killer. ‘Every day I’m shuffling,’ indeed.

Going back to her cheerleader roots, she performed new single ‘Give Me All Your Luvin‘ with Nicky Minaj and M.I.A., the latter giving the camera the middle-finger (another thing that went so quickly by I didn’t even see it – and I have to wonder if all the hoopla over this isn’t just a desperate grab at some sort of halftime show controversy where none really existed – most people I talked to didn’t see it either). Regardless, it wasn’t Madonna, so let someone else take the heat for once. 

A couple of drum corps snapping their snares announced the arrival of Cee-Lo, whose presence I initially met with raised eyebrow and low expectations, but he delivered too. As she exchanged bits of ‘Open Your Heart‘ and ‘Express Yourself‘ with him as band-leader, it instantly became another highlight for me. That two lines from each could have such a thrilling effect is one of the wonders of Madonna. She can pull from her vast, rich history and instantly evoke a memory, an emotion, a smile – and suddenly the very best of what pop music can do is revealed then instantly shrouded in tantalizing mystique. It is a delicious sprinkling of the Madonna magic, manifesting itself right in the midst of America’s biggest sports night.

As well as Cee-Lo did with his brief intro, I had my doubts that he could step up to ‘Like A Prayer‘ – I didn’t know if he had the gravitas, having only known him from his novelty ‘Fuck You’ song. It was another thrill to see him don a sequined choir robe and bring his A-game to the magnificence that is ‘Like A Prayer’.

As the football field, markers and all, seemed to magically roll into the stage itself (the wonders of technology), Madonna had indeed managed to preach a world-reaching sermon in the sacred church of Middle America, thereby securing her hallowed place in pop culture for the umpteenth time.

Before you knew it, but after what felt like an entire concert rolled into 12 minutes, she was gone, having disappeared Wicked-Witch-like in a blast of smoke through the floor. Almost thirty years into this game, no one else can put on a more spectacular show. The Queen has returned, and this was her ultimate proclamation that she is nowhere near ready to abdicate the throne.

Witness the Wonder:

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05
February
2012
Tags: Gratuitous Nudity, Sports, Underwear
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Me In A Jockstrap

 

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05
February
2012
Tags: Sports, Underwear
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A Pigskin Ball, A Helmut, A Jockstrap, & A Marabou Robe

Let me be frank: there are only a few balls that I’m adept at handling, and none of them are made of pigskin.

I’m much better suited to donning a marabou-accented red velvet robe and making silly faces.

 

Stay tuned for more Superbowl madness – coming up next are the promised jockstrap shots. The things I do when Madonna is in the game…

 

 

 

 

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05
February
2012
Tags: Sports, Underwear
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Tebowing

Tim Tebow will be playing in today’s Superbowl game. I knew little to nothing about him, including this particular pose, for which he is apparently renowned. My brother taught me how to do it yesterday, so here’s my virgin Tebowing effort. PS – Turns out it’s nothing like Teabagging.

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05
February
2012
Tags: David Beckham, Gay, General, Madonna, Sports
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The Gayest Superbowl Ever

This year’s Superbowl may be the gayest one ever, with its attendant line up of Madonna, Tom Brady, and even an underwear commercial by David Beckham. To commemorate the occasion, I will be Tebowing and squeezing into a jockstrap for your viewing pleasure. Stay tuned… we tee off in a few short hours.

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05
February
2012
Tags: Cocktails, Madonna
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Lemon Drop Kick to the End Zone

“If I was a drink I’d be a lemon drop.” ~ Madonna, ‘SuperPop’

There’s really only one way I’m getting through the entire Superbowl, and that’s with the help of a little drinking game. I scouted around for good words to use – something that would be said with some frequency, but not so much that by the half-time show I’d be passed out. My friend Jen came up with ‘Blitz’ – which was perfect on a number of levels, and so it shall be. If you want to play along, take a sip of your beverage every time the word “Blitz” is used.

Contingency plan: should there not be enough blitzing after the first… half? quarter? How in the hell is this game divided again? – we will switch to the word “coverage”. Should that fail to ease the pain, we will drink every time the word “the” is used. And if that’s still not enough then get some help.

The libation of choice is, in honor of our half-time girl, the lemon drop – one of Madonna’s favorite cocktails. Here are the ingredients for one:

– 1 ½ ounces vodka (preferably citrus)
– ½ ounce triple sec (or preferably Limoncello)
– 1 teaspoon superfine sugar
– ¾ ounce freshly squeezed lemon juice
– Lemon twist (for garnish)

Since it’s the Superbowl (a rough and tumble event if ever there was one), we’re not going to be all FussyLittleBlog about this, so mix it up with some ice and simply strain into a cocktail glass of your choosing. Most lemon drops have a sugar rim to them, but there’s nothing I despise more than a sugar rim, hand to God.

So start your engines, because once the Superbowl begins we’re going on a tear, and there’s no telling where this game may take us.

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04
February
2012
Tags: Sports
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Tom Brady – A Reason to Watch Football

Tom Brady will be on hand for tomorrow’s Superbowl, and because of that, so will I. (Okay, I’ll really only be there for Madonna, and will shut off the television promptly after the half-time show.) Check back here for special Superbowl treats tomorrow… and try some of Tom Brady’s water!

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