My first choice of a striped faux rabbit fur arrived not as pictured. Online it was a cool blue/black and blue/gray combo with a slight touch of brown. In hand, it was mostly brown with undertones of gray and black. I wanted chinchilla. I got sable.
Those faux bunnies did not die in vain, however. The unused piece will be reserved for a future project. It’s beautiful fabric.
Knitting or crocheting fur is a process that baffles me. But if they say they did it I believe them. My backup fabric for the headboard was a charcoal ombre, crocheted fake fur. In daylight it resembles wide wale corduroy. In artificial light the channels disappear and it becomes a dull, shimmering titanium monolith.
The original idea was to pile all of the pillows in the center of the bed. On any given night, whichever end (or over whichever side) my face fell was the designated head. I liked the Mickey Mouse Clubhouse feel of everyday being Anything Can Happen Day.
But there was little support to sit up and read. And I got tired of kicking books off the wall in the middle of the night. My recurring dream of a passionate night with Liberace was abruptly interrupted one too many times.
The quality that remains consistent in all of my projects is the inability to manage or estimate time. This one was intended to be a two day job. It took me three weeks. The price paid for learning as you go.
One valuable takeaway in this go-round was how to work with old goose down comforters. Lock up those pesky feathers by basting off the section you plan to use before making the cuts. Otherwise you’ll be living a Lucy Ricardo nightmare, your apartment saturated in down for a week. I’m happy to report it’s all been cleaned up (I think) and the symptoms of white lung disease have subsided.
I also learned that feathers are mostly protein. They can be used in compost. I may have destroyed home life for seven days but I did my part to save the universe in the process.
Although I’m back to a traditional predetermined headboard, I reserve the right to sleep wherever I want.
John met Yoko in 1966 at her Indica Gallery Show in London. The conceptual piece he was intrigued by required him to climb a step ladder then use a magnifying glass to read a tiny word on the ceiling painting.
Those were different times. The corporate blandness of today’s culture with its numerous liability laws prevents one from participating in the type of dangerous behavior Ms. Ono encouraged.
With that lofty introduction one can almost feel the great art coming on. Or maybe not. Maybe I’m just coming to the end of a two-and-a-half year decorating phase and tying up loose ends.
When The Joy of Man’s Desiring was hung last year (emphasis on the hung), I knew I had to finish it off with a proper setting. I finally got around to it last month. Joy now floats on his blanket above a sea of Argent from the Evans & Brown Treasure Collection. Accent lighting is provided from behind a shield of polyurathene.
This love affair with ceiling medallions has yet to gain acceptance with the Academy of Home Decoration Arts and Sciences. The deco appeal of the geometric shapes just hasn’t translated well when they’re on the wall. When David from Boston was here he looked at the hexagon-split-in-half fixtures and said, “they look like rat traps.”
It’s the type of wicked aside that is so prized in my alternative lifestyle. This was no gratuitous queeniness, however, his message came through loud and clear. I was trying too hard and it wasn’t working.
I decided to make the hexagon whole by gluing it together and then tarted it up a bit. What I really wanted to cover it with was a black chainmail from New York that is $60 a yard. A little pricey for a novice who can’t sew. I settled instead for an electric lime sequinned piece from the discount bin at the fabric outlet. It was $4.83.
Sequins sewn on top of material are too two-dimensional and not really what I wanted. These baby ones are imbedded in netting that form one layer which lies flat. The color and texture are reminiscent of Monet’s moss floating at Giverny. The fabric feels right at home. My apartment often carries the stench of a polluted pond.
There’s a homemade quality to these things I do that makes me squirm. Mom’s got herself a zig-zag and she’s sewed some new rick-rack on her apron, ain’t it purdy? But, as with all my projects, there’s nothing to be gained by a close examination of the workmanship. I’m better at ideas than I am at execution.
To quell this self-doubt I settle myself by asking if the piece has the right impact. If it does, we move on. In this case, at least I’ve solved the problem of confused rodents scurrying around wondering, “hey, what’s this?”
To finish my light fixture I wanted a simple word like Yoko’s that packed some punch. I chose a four letter one that Bill Bryson, in his book The Mother Tongue, has called one of the most elastic in the english language. It can be used as an adverb, adjective, noun, verb or simply as an expletive. When used accurately, it can also describe a situation that is a lot of fun.
I shan’t say more as I’d hate to diminish the sense of discovery you’ll feel when you visit.
I belonged to the Y Indian Guides when I was seven. It was the YMCA’s lighter, less fascist alternative to the Boy Scouts.
The fathers in our group were World War II veterans and they celebrated their bond with humor. I was a few years away from completely understanding it. Like the chuckles our adopted names received. Dad was Big Red Beaver, my brother was Little Red Beaver and I was the twice-removed Little Grey Beaver.
Stung by second rate billing only made me more determined. I got the best role in our skit when we joined other area tribes for a variety show.
Our Dads decided to dramatize one of their jokes. They built a cut out airplane we four little warriors stood behind. A narrator set it up: we were on a dangerous international mission when our plane suddenly developed problems. Over the loudspeaker the pilot explains there’s a weight issue and asks for a volunteer to evacuate. A Frenchman boldly steps to the door, exclaims “Vive la France!” then jumps.
The pilot comes back on to say we’re still too heavy. A British soldier cries, “God save the Queen!” Then he jumps leaving just two of us.
In desperation, the pilot pleads for one more volunteer. With bravura I shouted “Remember the Alamo!” as I turned to push the Mexican out. Maybe the Guides were more fascist than originally thought.
I was intrigued by the laughter and applause I heard from the unseen audience. The stage bug had bit.
Jonesing for stardom, I pursued music when I was growing up. I played french horn for eight years in the school band. It was a collective effort, only an occasional solo made me feel the pressure.
Individual attention came with the piano. I studied it for seven years. Every Spring students performed auditions for a team of judges. Results were announced at our public recital a month later.
One year I sat waiting my turn at the recital half-heartedly listening to my teacher’s general remarks. Amongst the blah-blah-blah I heard phrases like “one student stood above the rest” and “the judges noted a dramatic improvement in technique.” She was talking about me.
I hoped I’d saved face by getting it right the second time. Afterwards, however, Mother wasn’t buying it. All she could do was softly shake her head while repeating “you started over…you started over…”
The discipline I had as a child puzzles me now. Today, hands that once glided over Mozart can barely pick out chopsticks. And the embouchure that framed my triple-tonguing has been destroyed by years of, well, tonguing of another sort.
It’s from a 60’s dance show, the kind I watched to keep up with the latest crazes. I’d try to follow the moves and, when I needed a partner, would grab a doorknob on a swinging closet door. It’s unpredictable movement kept me on my toes.
While serious me pursued musical instruments, fantasy me wanted to be a regular on Bandstand. I longed to be like the tall guy in black pants in this clip at about :40. He doesn’t do much but those rubbery legs skimming across the floor are amazing.
I was probably closer in style to the black pencil skirt at 1:25 and 1:45. She’s all snake hips with plenty of bounce and controlled arm motion. Plus she’s having the time of her life.
The real stars are the couple who jitterbug at 1:00. They can barely contain themselves as they count off then blast into orbit when they lock hands. Their steps are at one with the rhythm, the music seems to emanate from their feet.
At the time the song was dismissed as unhip and bubble gum. Five decades later I can confess I’ve always loved it. The infectious hand clapping beat, the way the volume increases with each chorus–it’s so exciting.
And I marvel at the guys in these videos. They dance like that and they’re straight? This is America, goddamnit, they can’t do that.
I learned of Top 40 in 1961 because of Del Shannon’s Runaway. I became a devotee of the Saturday morning program for the next decade.
Feeling personally invested in that song, I was elated when it hit Number 1. Then Roy Orbison’s Running Scared knocked it out a couple of weeks later and I was furious. I vowed never, ever to support that blind guy’s music again. A 10 year old’s lifetime grudge can’t last more than a month. I soon became an Orbison fan too.
Shaffer is a wonderful musician who has kept basically the same band for 30 years. No small feat. Here he generates enthusiasm by osmosis as he physically submits to the music playing the bridge. His above the melody line in the following verse gives me goose bumps.
When it ends the band seems delighted with their rendition of this great pop song. There aren’t too many other choices this Old Grey Beaver made 60 years ago that still stand up today.
When I was a teenager I suffered from facial psoriasis, blotchy, sometimes imperceptible patches of flaky skin that can be so irritating. Comments from others, especially fellow classmates, were often cruel.
Then one day in Granddad’s barn I noticed a container of salve used for dry cow udders. I tried a little on my forehead. The results were instantaneous, years of personal anguish erased in seconds. Who knew? Bag Balm as facial moisturizer.
I still stand by it today. Some friends tell me I look even younger now than I did in 1969! (Sorry, photo unavailable.)
Our Republic has come a long way. The nation’s first President could not tell a lie when the cherry tree was cut down. Today’s President does nothing but lie except when he recounts his days cherry picking at the Miss Universe Contest.
Washington and FBI insider Robert Mueller has accomplished what he set out to do. Nothing, Give the appearance of holding elected officials accountable but in the end just preserve the status quo.
Hundreds of millions of dollars have been wasted on an inconclusive report. The decision to pursue charges or share information with the public was left in the hands of an Attorney General whose only qualification for the job was his agreement in advance never to release the report. Roseanne (not his real name) took one look at the cover sheet and made his decision.
Of the people, by the people, for the people. Well, some of the people anyway. Those corporate entities whom the Roberts Court sagaciously declared were people and entitled to the same rights as individuals without requiring them to share any of the same responsibilities.
If you were on Wall Street and receiving blank checks from all three branches of government on an hourly basis would you want to change the way things are being done?
Every afternoon Grandmother would take a break to “pile down.” That was her term for a short nap, her favorite part of the day. When we were young we were expected to join her.
Sometimes she would sing “Go Tell Aunt Rhody” while my brother and I stifled our giggles. Her voice was a little warbly and a song about a dead goose seemed odd.
Naps were also a time for Prime Minister’s questions, we could ask anything. Once I wanted to know why, if “darn” was such a bad word to use, did so many people do it? Without hesitating she replied, “because they can’t think of the correct word to use.” For the record, I never heard her say darn.
She didn’t take many liberties with language. When a lighthearted mood struck writing a letter or diary entry, she sometimes succumbed to giddy contractions. Phrases like ’twill be good to see you, or ’tis another beautiful day. Other than those reckless moments of abandon, there were only two slang words she used regularly.
One was dope. It must have been an elastic, catch-all expression like “stuff” that was popular when she was in her teens and twenties. Among other things it’s what she called her homemade chocolate sauce. I enjoyed my friends’ astonished looks when Grandmother served ice cream and asked if they’d “like some dope with it.”
Her other word was chum which was reserved for a select group: her college girlfriends. When she talked about them I sensed they were special people from a wonderful time in her life. The expectation set, I entered Indiana University in September 1968.
It was fun the first two and a half years on campus although I felt lonely and isolated. I was getting by in my friends’ straight world and resigned myself to accepting it as the way life was going to be. Back then here were few context clues in rural Indiana of the subculture that awaited..
In March 1971 I was stalked by a tall, lanky and creepy journalism student, Harry. Unbeknownst to me, he’d trailed me a couple of months and knew my name, address, hometown and class schedule. To quote Pete Rose on Ty Cobb, he knew everything except my cock size. He found that out too.
Attracted more to the situation than him, I closed my eyes and thought of Fire Island. Nothing much came of that relationship except that he started introducing me around the community. Friendships grew rapidly, many forming on the spot with like-minded gay-boys. I was awakened.
The joy I felt was accompanied by underlying sadness. College was a temporary state. In my childhood I’d been through enough school changes, neighborhood moves, and summer camps to know tight bonds can dissipate quickly.
I was a senior after five semesters, on track to graduate in three years if I went to summer school. Then I came out and it took five more terms to finish. Separation anxiety caused me to prolong the last year as long as I could.
The fear of losing friends was unfounded. Besides the fun most college kids experience, we were bound by something that changed American culture. While Harvey Milk remained in the closet protecting his job, our generation drew a line in the sand: this is who we are, take it or leave it.
They also were here to celebrate Dale’s 70th birthday, which we did Saturday night at Che Fico. On Sunday, dinner was at our chum Eric’s house.
Our after-dinner entertainment that evening was to be Joan Crawford’s Humoresque which we’d all seen before. Over David’s spanakopita we shared hazy memories of the film: Issac Stern’s hand double role, the incredible cocktail shaker, the breaking glass. When Joan’s signature face-slapping came up, someone mentioned turning the other cheek.
Seizing a malapropism opportunity, I offered what was really said on the Mount: don’t retaliate just spread your cheeks. The table erupted in childish laughter. Coming up for air, Dale said moments like that were why he’s tolerated me for 50 years.
My whole life I’ve searched for the correct, or incorrect, word to use.
I hope that was an empty bottle, George. You can’t afford to waste good liquor. Not on your salary. Not on an associate professor’s salary. Elizabeth Taylor, Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf.
At midnight on Mick Jagger’s birthday in 1972 I waited for Deene in front of the St. Regis Hotel. We’d been to the Garden to see the Stone’s perform the last concert of their tour. We attended separately so planned to rendezvous afterwards at her hotel.
Deene’s father booked the room for her when she heard the group would stay there. She picked up this tidbit giving Keith a massage in his hotel room after the Indianapolis concert.
Although I’d been to see her a couple of times, that night I could not get past the front door. Not only was the St. Regis hosting the Stones, they were throwing Mick’s birthday bash on their rooftop as well. Security was tight.
From the sidewalk I watched the swells arrive while waiting for Deene. There was no one interesting until this tiny figure alighted from her limo. She was swathed in a charmeuse cocktail dress void of adornment. Whatever breeze there was in the July heat caught the fabric and made it billow on her 100 pound frame. A deeply saturated apricot, the dress was exquisite.
Ascending the stairs the woman acknowledged us with a wary half-smile and the attitude of someone who’d seen it all. Being Jackie’s sister, she probably had.
Lee Radziwill’s death this week marked the end of an era for certain social graces. She exemplified the upper classes love for glamorous cocktails. When the Princess offered, “you’ll have a vodka won’t you,” it came with layers of codependent enabling. It was tempered by her Forrest Gump-like presence in high society’s perpetual 20th century cocktail party.
When the cocktail fad started in the 20’s and 30’s she would have seen her parents cavorting amongst the Fred Astaire crowd. With a Moderne backdrop, they pursued the most esoteric liquors and the most elaborate concoctions with the most exotic names. To stay atop this ever-changing scene was a mark of true status.
In the 40’s and 50’s when cocktails became more middle class, the elite hung out at their clubs. With their casual attitude towards working they acted as if they could drink anytime, anywhere, without any consequences. Hit and run accident? Burned down the guest house? The attorneys will handle that.
The first few decades of the craze the downside to drinking was never mentioned. Like the billion Muslim women who all voluntarily “choose” to wear the hijab, no one ever seemed to have a problem with alcohol. Then in the 1960’s the perils were discussed openly. And treatment programs were developed.
In the era of recognizing alcoholism, Princess Radziwill could be found floating on her perfumed barge down de Nile. Usually with her bestie, the shit-faced booze hound Truman Capote.
Rumored to have done a couple of stints in rehab, it doesn’t seem she ever stopped drinking. In the clip of her offering the vodka her subtext is clear: “go ahead, one won’t hurt. You’re hip, you know these things.” Her tone is as smooth as that silk dress she wore.
My life with liquor has been checkered. In Dad’s family there was beer when the men went bowling but none was kept in the house. My Grandma, though, always smelled like the essence of Strohs. With a top note of stale Parliaments and Jungle Gardenia. We didn’t talk about any of that.
My other Grandmother led the local Women’s Christian Temperance Union. While being an unrelenting advocate. she neither challenged nor coerced those who disagreed with her. Her example and infinite patience she felt would eventually win out.
My parents were light social drinkers when I was growing up. More urgency was added in my teenage years.
Then there’s my boozing. Sadly, word count prevents me from elaborating on the topic in this piece. I can, however, mention hooch’s role in decorating my kitchen.
The loneliest part of kitchen cabinetry is the cupboard that juts out above the refrigerator. Sometimes it holds liquor but usually it’s just junk. It’s always under appreciated, never decorated. Until now.
Leafing through a box I found one of Jackie’s White House liquor bills. The perfect piece to hang in the lonely corner.