Another birthday pictorial...?

Night Hotel NY

...why, yes. Yes, it is. Because YOLO, as the Youth said in 2012.

I unintentionally turned inward in 2013, especially in the fall months. Perhaps that's why I opted for a solitary birthday celebration. If "celebration" is the word...I aimed to make 2014 the year of the Very Goth Birthday and didn't fall too wide of the mark.

I'd accrued a couple of free nights on Hotels.com (which I use to book all my work travel), so I checked into the Night Hotel NY (not to be confused with its sister hotel, the Night Hotel Times Square) (although both of them are pretty much in Times Square).

Mah room

I was running late the day I checked in (my actual birthday, December 21) and had to forgo one of my planned stops for the day, so I was in a bit of a snit as I stood in the lobby awaiting attendance. Though the ambiance was what I'd hoped for, the piped in music wasn't. "For fuck's sake," I grumbled to myself as my lip curled in a disgruntled sneer, "why are they playing this stupid dance shit? They should be playing The Cure, or Joy Division, or frigging Depeche Mode, or something." Thankfully, I could breathe a sigh of relief when I entered the blissful quiet of Mah Room.

It'd been a couple of years since I'd last visited the Museum of Sex so I betook myself there, verily. I couldn't help but note their earnest exhortation for guests' best behavior (pictured left) as I paid the entrance fee, but I told the cashier I wasn't making any promises. (Especially regarding that last bit, W00F.)

He didn't mean to turn me on, poor chap.

One of the exhibits was the darkly dirty and whimsical sex puppetry of Peruvian artist Ety Fefer called Grumildos (see image right). It was my fave of that particular visit, I only wish the artist had given us more scenes to enjoy...or, perhaps, made some for sale, so sick puppies like me could bring a scene home as a souvenir. You can see more (and infinitely better) pics of the installation by clicking here.

You'll be heartened to learn I found mine. (As it were.)

I'd looked forward to checking out the Funland: Pleasures and Perils of the Erotic Fairground installment but found it kind of meh. I thought the best (and spookiest) bit was The Tunnel of Love, in which one has to manage various twisty turns in the dark in search of the supposedly elusive clitoris.

I ambled about the MofS shop, then buggered off for some Burger King (not too exciting for a birthday dinner, I know, but I so totally dig their onion rings and that spicy dipping sauce that accompanies them) and Cold Stone Creamery (the night was mild enough to enjoy the chocolate and crumbled Oreo goodness). I went to the 10:15pm showing of Michael Keaton's Birdman, which was brilliant and engrossing though not the lighthearted romp I'd anticipated (if I'd actually read the reviews, I'd've known "lighthearted" and "romp" were hardly appropriate descriptors for the film). It was about 1am, I think, by the time I trekked through a still active Times Square to get back to my hotel. I was emotionally exhausted from the movie ('cause I'm sensitive and whatnot) and feeling myself very alone. 

As I entered the hotel I spied the restaurant/bar and strolled over to check out the action. There wasn't any, though the bartender Licensed Mixologist was still there. I asked if the bar was closed and was delighted to learn drinks could still be had, 'cause I needed one. I ordered a Painkiller (again—so totally needed one), a cocktail composed of dark rum, pineapple and orange juices, cream of coconut, and a sprinkling of nutmeg.

As I sat and soaked up the atmosphere (and cocktail), I felt my shoulders sink down. Then I grinned broadly as the absolutely most appropriate song thundered from the bar's speakers—Depeche Mode's "Enjoy the Silence."

One Painkiller, to go.

When I settled my bill for the one cocktail with my Mixologist, I jokingly asked if I could get one "to go" (back up to my room, that is). And the answer, to my surprise, was YES!

Next day I went for an indifferent breakfast at some bistro around the block (Bistro Around the Block would be a brilliant name for a restaurant, wouldn't it???), then headed up to the upper east side to the Metropolitan Museum of Art so I could check out the (what else?) Death Becomes Her exhibit. Offered by the Costume Institute, this installation featured mourning garb spanning a century from 1815 to 1915. Bombastic organ music played as one meandered through the beautifully attired mannequins. Quotes from periodicals, journals, and letters of the era were projected onto the wall, and the lighting was fittingly sombre. I certainly admired the remarkable work, but after two hours was ready to leave death to its own devices.

Toward the latter half of this time period,
sparkly dress in light mourning colors of mauve and purple were acceptable.

I admit to being all Gothed out and in need of cheer. So I did some shopping at Desigual, made a stop at Starbucks for my usual (a lovely, buttery Toffee Nut Latte), enjoyed a fish'n'chips dinner at the Cock and Bull (heh heh) with a Dark and Stormy drink, and did some more shopping at Barnes and Noble, where I picked up another Georgette Heyer to add to my collection. I capped the night with a different Licensed Mixologist who, upon learning it was my last night there, insisted we do shots of Jack Daniel's Tennessee Honey. Now, I'm not really a whiskey drinker but DAYUM, that jazz was the bomb diggity, as the Youth said in...hell, I can't ever remember.

Right, so; that's all I got. Hope all y'all enjoyed every danged December holiday you cared about and wish you a happy, healthy, love-filled, and prosperous 2015.

Streaming Consciousness: The Post-Birthday Edition

I began this post bitching about my Kid, and then about annoying couples, but decided to spare y'all the goth mom angst and just focus on the good birthday stuff instead.

...I let Balthazar accompany me to one of two museum visits I'd planned for the day. We went to The Whitney Museum on the upper east side of Manhattan, to check out two exhibits that are right up my alley: Sinister Pop and Dark and Deadpan: Pop in TV and the Movies. Both focused on Pop Art of/in the 60s, an era which rather fascinates me. (I'm especially into the surf culture—it's the ginchiest!) We sort of split up to check stuff out independently. By the time we reunited to grab a bite in the museum's cafe, I'd been thoroughly distracted from my earlier teen-induced upset by all the art and films and whatnot. I'd had a thoroughly engrossing art experience which, admittedly, made me think a whole lot more than I usually care to, but still, I enjoyed the stretching of my poor remaining gray cells. Balthazar and I had a nice meal together, talking about what we'd seen, what we'd enjoyed, what we hadn't, etc. Then he buggered off back home to hang out with his friends, which was fine with me, because...

...my next stop was the Museum of Sex on Fifth and 27th, so I could cheer myself up with some smut. They have their standard exhibits (one examines sex in the animal kingdom, which is very educational indeed and absolutely the right place to take your kids if you really want them to learn about the birds and the bees), as well as more ephemeral installations. Right now, there's Universe of Desire, (though the Web site claims it would be gone after Nov. 4), which examines what turns the world on as evidenced by activity on the World Wide Web, as well as other electronic media. (Makes one more inclined to launch "Private Browsing" or its nearest relative when surfing the Web, eh what?) I have to admit to averting my gaze on more than one occasion for fear of succumbing to the vapors, but mostly I was able to look at all the kink square in the...well, you know.

...the next day, Saturday, I took myself to the Elektra Theater (at Times Scare) to see Silence! The Musical. This "unauthorized parody of The Silence of the Lambs" was hi-larious. The music was ok, the best of which, for me, was Hannibal Lechter's sweeping anthem, If I Could Smell Her Cunt. The gal currently playing Clarice Starling, Pamela Bob, executed the role masterfully, a high point for me being her response to Jack Crawford when he told her to stay put while he and the other FBI menfolk went to collect Buffalo Bill. Remember that scene in the movie? I remember feeling outraged that, after all the work Starling did, she'd be denied the glory of catching the murderer. Well, in the musical, Starling expresses that outrage with a convincingly stupefied monologue that riffs on the words, "What the fuck?" to uproarious effect. Loved it. Go see it, if you can.

...finally, on Sunday I took myself to see Hitchcock, starring Anthony Hopkins (neat little connection with the above, huh?) and Helen Mirren. It was a bit slow-moving, though enjoyable. I thought it would focus more on the quirks and foibles of making the film, but the emphasis seemed to be more on the relationship between Hitchcock and his wife Alma. After the film, I had to pick up the book upon which it was based, Alfred Hitchcock and the Making of Psycho by Stephen Rebello, as well as a honking huge book on pop art, Pop by Mark Francis & Hal Foster.

And that's about the extent of my birthday shenanigans. Please check back on New Year's Day for a topical post on facing the consequences of the previous night's revelry...

Christmas Tuneage & A Birthday

First, my top 3 fave Christmas Tunes...

Thank God It's Christmas by Queen Released in Europe in 1984, this tune didn't receive much (if any) airplay in the U.S., as far as I can remember. I happened to hear it in 1985, the Christmas my Dad and I spent in Portugal with his mum, about two years before she passed away, God rest her. Anyway, the first time I heard this tune on Portuguese radio, I felt sucker-punched by the fatigued sort of sadness it expressed, this mournful ache which hoped to find relief in the holiday. I had my tape recorder ready to go for the next time it played and managed to capture it, but what's become of the tape, I've no idea. It was only in very recent years I was able to find it online, and I'm so glad I did, even if I get all onion-eyed every time I hear it.

God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen/We Three Kings by Barenaked Ladies & Sarah McLachlan

It is deucedly difficult to find info about this track, so I gave up after a half-hearted Google search. But I will say that what I love best about this track, apart from how danged pretty it sounds, is that these two artists chose songs that actually focus upon what Christmas is really about. Rock on, youse guys.

And because I know how to have a good time...

The Twelve Days of Christmas by Bob and Doug McKenzie

C'mon, this one's just fun.

And the birthday...

Is MINE, MINE, all MINE! (OK, and Jane Fonda, Samuel L. Jackson, Kiefer Sutherlands, & possibly other folks', too.) In case you're wondering, the age I'll officially be at 10:41 a.m. today is the same number as the answer to life, the universe, and everything! (If you don't get the reference, do the research; us crotchety middle-agers think you young folk are shiftless layabouts who've never had to do an honest day's work.) I invite you all to drink to my health (seeing as I'm on meds which disallow the imbibing of booze, alas.) Still, there's always chocolate...

Dadisms

My Dad in the late 50s/early 60s,
an unwitting Proto-Goth.

In honor of my Dad's birthday today, I thought I'd share with you some of the wise sayings (hence, Dad-isms) he's laid down on my sister Star and me over the years. But I feel I must warn y'all in advance—my Dad grew up in a village, among earthy farm-folk, hardened by years of near poverty, who didn't mince their words. What follows is tinged with scatological humor that may offend the delicate among you, so don't read on if you're squeamish.

OK, so...

On Putting Your Crushes On A Pedestal
When I was a teen, I plastered the walls of the room my sis and I shared with posters of my musical idols, mostly Duran Duran. One day, my dad entered and caught me drooling admiring their handsome visages. With a sneer, he said, "Eles são muito jeitosos, não são? Imagina-los a cagar." (Translation: "They're very handsome, aren't they? Imagine them shitting.") This is somewhat in the vein of Jonathan Swift's poem The Lady's Dressing Room, and just generally good advice on not getting carried away by a pretty face, I must say.

On Economizing
My sis and I begged our Dad to take us to the mall. "What do you want to go there for?" he asked in English. "We need to go to Macy's, to get some facial cleaners and stuff," we said. That infamous sneer put in an appearance as he replied, "Oh, you need some more shit to clean your face?" leaving Star and me in hysterics for a good five minutes before we could resume our begging. What he really meant was that we could manage our beauty routines just as effectively with drugstore products, rather than blowing our cash on the higher-end stuff. Probably.

On How to Take Command of Any Conversation
If we ever asked him a question he wasn't in the mood to answer, for some mysterious reason (so, like, all the time), he'd reply, "É o Judas, a cagar no deserto." (Translation: "It's Judas, shitting in the desert.") 'Cause, you know, he's a staunch Catholic and enjoys teaching us lessons he can relate back to the Bible. After that bomb, we'd generally sigh and repeat the question, which seemed to please him, as he'd smile at our exasperation. I've asked numerous members of the family if this "saying" was a common one with the Portuguese and was advised that the coarser folk employed it, though it's not very polite. Yeah, no kidding.

So, Happy Birthday, Dad, and thanks for all of the life lessons you've painstakingly taught Star and me through the years. May we remember them always.

Seventeen years ago today…*

Balthazar, June 1995.

…at 10:21 am, I unleashed the fruit of my loins upon the world. Balthazar popped out of my pelvis weighing 7 lbs, 11 oz, and measuring 21” in length. Born of a slightly jaundiced mother, he did a brief stint under bili lights, which allowed me to get a bit of rest after my ordeal labor.

After fetching us from the hospital, his father left to pick up my sister, who was to stay with us for a couple of months to lend a hand and moral support, as needed (and both were desperately needed). I stood in the little hallway beyond the front door, cupping my one-day old baby in my hands, wondering what the hell I should do with myself. I looked over at his bedroom and realized I hadn’t put any bedding on either his crib mattress or the twin bed my sis would be sleeping in. As I pondered which to tackle first, the kitchen phone suddenly rang, an unpleasantly jarring shrill in the otherwise quiet apartment. It scared the crap out of me - and out of Balthazar as well. Literally.

I became aware of an unexpected warmth and looked down, saw the meconium oozing out of his diaper and onto my hands. The phone continued to bleat at me and I just stood there in the hallway, grossed out and nonplussed, feeling completely alone and useless.

Balthazar, September 2011

Today, he weighs about 160 lbs, stands at roughly 5’8”, and is hairier than I could ever have imagined.

And he’s still giving me shit.

:-D

 




*This is an updated version of a post I made on the message board of an author whose works I heart, under my other online persona, several years ago.