Glamour Galore

Boyfriend Ducks

2009-10-14T18:45:00Z

Now back in Boston I stopped on one of the bridges over the Muddy River in the Fenway to say hi to my friends the ducks. I could hardly believe my eyes when two boyfriend ducks posed so beautifully, swimming in liquid color reflecting on the ringed surface of the water.

Fall Foliage Tour of Vermont

2009-10-13T23:22:00Z

Double rainbow Prospect Hill, Brownington Village, the North-East Kingdom, Vermont

As you may know my husband, Leo and I are Vermonters at heart. We renovated a historic property at Kents’ Corner, Calais Vermont, creating a fine dining restaurant and Inn called, The White House where we lived and worked from 1980 until 1990. Much of my heart and soul lingers up there in the mountains where the haunting cry of the loon claims the mountain lake as wild space.

One of the great miracles of Vermont and New England in general is, of course, the autumn season when all the latent colors of the rainbow pour down upon the landscape drenching the mountains with infinite color. In the Northeast Kingdom there is urgency in the short growing season which comes to a climax in that brief moment of enchantment we know as autumn. This glorious pageant ends all too quickly with the days of dancing leaves. Then, the clear air is filled with colored scraps of summer’s waning moments, torn by chilly winds from high tree branches.

The dirt roads of hard packed clay rise and fall over the landscape following the ambitions of men. Even as we pass by, bright colored leaves cover our tracks, jealously guarding the secrets of the mountain. Now that I am here, what need have I for roads? Where would they take me? I have woken up and already arrived at the journey’s end.

The turkeys have returned. I see them all over the country and they seem to be thriving. One day I came across a fearless flock in my own Fenway neighborhood. Yes, half a dozen gobblers were progressing at a leisurely and dignified pace over by the Rose Garden between Fenway Park and the Museum of Fine Arts. They were softly mumbling in a high pitched patois and I wondered if they, like everyone else in the Fenway, were mulling over the Red sox game.

These two country cousins were foraging at the edge of a field in Danville. The flock numbered about two dozen. Unlike their city brethren they were modestly cautious, quickly ducking into the forest at the edge of the field when they sensed my unwarranted attentions.

We stayed at Injun Joe’s Court on Joe’s Pond in West Danville. The pond used to be called 'Sozap Nebees' - Sozap means Joseph, Nebees means pond or stream - in the language of the Abnaki, a branch of the Algonquin Indians who lived in the local area. Joe's Pond, and neighboring Molly's Pond, were officially named after members of the Micmac Indian tribe, Joe and his wife, Molly, by the Vermont state legislature on June 11, 1785 in recognition of their service in teaching necessary survival skills to the area's early settlers.

The ever charming Mr. Leo on the front porch of number five, Injun Joe’s Court

The interior of our cabin featured a lot of knotty pine paneling with two diminutive bedrooms each with comfortable double beds, separated by an equally diminutive bathroom.

The tree in the left of the photo was ladened with heavy clusters of red-orange berries that had attracted an abundance of robins who were chowing down from dawn to dusk. Unlike the dilatory Robins of urban ease these guys have to move on before the snow flies so they have a healthy appetite. In the depth of winter in the North-East Kingdom cold snaps drop the temperature to 20° to 30° below zero.

(added Oct. 20, 09) My friend Dale Linder emails me to say that the tree in question is a Mountain Ash or Rowan tree, thanks Dale

The View of Joe’s Pond from the front porch of cabin number

The central bandstand on the Danville green is surrounded with simple benches constructed with sturdy planks supported by upturned maple sugar buckets. In the center of the photo big sister is introducing a snuggly puppy with a wee tike.

“Autumn on the Green” is the aptly named fall foliage festival in Danville. This harvest celebration is a perennial delight, filling the spacious town green with a jumble of tented booths offering a great variety of merchandise. Arriving at 9:AM, our first concern was to find the donuts and coffee booth where we were easily seduced by raspberry scones and warm slices of pumpkin bread as well as a half dozen fresh donuts all wash down with piping hot coffee from Green Mountain Roasters.

Next we perused several booths offering farm made jams and jellies along with heaps of pies and cakes, muffins and scones and, of course, Vermont maple syrup. We stocked up on Carol’s Blueberry and Strawberry-rhubarb jams from this year’s garden harvest. Then we strolled the aisles, inspecting booths filled with fancy woven baskets, hand throne ceramic pots, country antiques, soft knitted hats, gloves and scarves as well as handsome pine and oak furniture and cabinets. We marveled at colorful blown glassware and an abundance of other art works ranging from original paintings and photography to jewelry.

Above the hub-bub of the crowd we heard the lilting music of a country fiddle band coming from the central band stand so we saunter over to have a look. Four squares of dancers were performing traditional country dances with stately dignity as their dance master called the steps with a rhythmic patter.

Photo credit, www.tirnadesigns.com

One half of a great couple, Tom Beattie posing in his shop, Diamond Hill

A visit to Danville would not be complete without a visit to our friends, Tom Beattie and John Dauteuil at their spectacular emporium of delight, Diamond Hill Store. If you want true sophistication in a delightful country setting stop by Tommy and John’s either in person or on line. They will be glad to make up gift baskets of Vermont artisan cheeses and other local products and ship them out to you or your friends for a great holiday gift or stocking your own larder.

Tom hails from the prominent Beattie clan who have been a fixture of Danville for generations. He and his eleven siblings permeate the town from Mom’s dairy farm to the Creamery Restaurant and Diamond Hill Shop. The Beattie’s are the real and yet rare thing, an American generational family who stick together while giving each other enough space to flourish in the wide open country of the Northeast Kingdom.

The simple and handsome windows in United Methodist Church on Danville Green are bordered by scarlet maple leaves, a perpetual autumn celebration speaking of the presence of the divine in nature.

The town of Peacham is a favorite place for us so we dashed off from Joe’s Pond to the foliage festival at Peacham which is the next town over from Danville. Upon our arrival we were greeted by this dapper gentleman who was acting as a one man welcoming committee for the festival. His name is James Engel and he told me that that his handsome costume was made for him on the occasion of his graduation from Oxford University in 1950. He was married soon thereafter wearing in the same outfit so it had happy associations for him. Mr. Engel’s topper is of fine beaver and his vest of pail yellow suede is sewn with mother of pearl buttons. Note his immaculately polished boots.

Here is a neat row of handsome homes lining the main street of Peacham. I especially like the red brick house, front and center, which is located across the street from where Mr. Engel was greeting the leaf peepers, as tourists are affectionately termed. Behind these houses the land falls off allowing spacious views of the surrounding countryside and distant mountains.

Fall crocuses are always a surprise and these little darlings are a bright smile in an otherwise fading garden of one of Peacham’s well tended homes.

Down the street from the pretty lavender crocuses stands this temple of domestic bliss with its impressive Ionic columns. The beautifully proportioned simplicity of the architecture of this home makes it a distinguished example of the Greek revival style. The early ideals of our Republic were then expressed with sophisticated confidence even in this remote village of the North-Eastern Kingdom

The traditional wooden barns of Vermont are fast fading from the landscape as their maintenance is considerable and costly. The need for large cow barns with vast hay lofts is waning with the demise of dairy farming in the state. This midsized barn is nestled in a thicket behind the Civil war monument at the crest of cemetery hill, high atop Peacham Village.

The Fall Foliage Festival of the Northeast Kingdom ran from September 27 until October 3 this year. On the 2^nd we went to Barnet, a short hop skip and a jump from Peacham and Danville, for the Pancake breakfast in the vestry at Barnet center. Above is the small meeting house church next door to the vestry. Both of these severely simple buildings are perched atop a steep hill overlooking the golden hills shimmering with autumn glory.

Leo and I are great fans of the church breakfasts of Vermont. We became addicted to these hearty feasts in the 80’s when we lived in Calais where our Inn, The White house, was located. In Calais the volunteer fireman host a red flannel hash breakfast that we remember with wistful delight.

The Pancake breakfast at Barnet Center lived up to, if not surpassed, the rigorous standards of past memories. Generous servings of fluffy and steaming pancakes were heaped on our plates along with farm made sausage patties. Small pitchers of warm local maple syrup were at the communal tables. We lost no opportunity to douse our pile with plenty of Vermont Gold, that sweet distilled essence which rises in awakening trees, announcing the hope of another summer in the sun.

The “vestry” is the building on the left it is also known as “Green Mountain Retreat” because it hosts a kid’s summer camp. The dining room is at the back of the building and because of the steep topography the room seems to float in space providing a view of the surrounding hills pulsating with rich colors beneath a dappled sky.

The rolling hills surrounding the burial ground of the United Presbyterian Church in Barnet Center are in contrast to the white marble standing stones marking the graves of sturdy farmers. These ancestors speak to us of their time and the rigors of country life.

The graceful sweep of the road leads us north to Brownington in search of the Old Stone house museum, a place we remember from years ago and could hardly believe as real because it seemed so remote and pristine.

The Old Stone House was built in 1836 as a dormitory for the Orleans County Grammar School by Alexander Lucius Twilight (1795-1857) Headmaster of the school. The Brownington Historic District now comprises only nine buildings of what was once a thriving community in the early nineteenth century. In The Stone house there are historic displays called the town rooms because they were created by local historical societies with artifacts from Orleans County towns. These rooms are drenched in the atmosphere of bygone eras so that you feel almost an intruder in a place of precious memory.

Looking out from the Old Stone House the light peeking through moody clouds changes every minute, highlighting various aspects of the landscape and animating the distant mountains so they appear to dance with a legato rhythm of timeless tectonic majesty.

Along the back roads we come across someone’s pretty little swimming pond decorating the high fields surrounded by rolling mountains.

This is the beautiful Lake Willoughby. We are looking at Mount Hor on the western shore of the lake. Its shear granite cliffs were carved 12,000 years ago by glacial scouring. The depth of the lake is 300 feet making Willoughby the deepest lake entirely within the state borders. On the opposite shore rises Mount Pisgah and between these two precipitous cliff faces soar Peregrine falcons.

Here is Mount Pisgah with a few lake cottages at the base. The afternoon shadow of Mount Hor, across the lake, seems to follow the shape of the shear cliff. While I was watching the sun sliced through sullen clouds animating the rock face so that it appears to me as a giant duck or wild goose dipping its bill into the lake water.

The southern trail up Mount Pisgah passes by a beaver pond bridged by wooden walkways and then cuts through the deep forest with many sections formed by primitive stone steps.

A fellow pilgrim along the path, Mr. Toad’s textured coat blended into the surrounding rocks and leaves so well that I was startled when he hopped out of my way.

I can’t resist showing you what to me is the most beautiful step in one of the flights of rustic stairs that aid the hiker on this picturesque trail.

Along the way spectacular vistas open up through the veil of forest revealing the wealth of autumn gold cloaking Mount Hor on the opposite shore.

The first real open vista along the trail is Pulpit Rock. From that precipitous outcropping of rock we are looking down on the sandy beach at the southern shore of Lake Willoughby with a sudden outburst of sunlight igniting the foliage to its highest intensity of color

As the sun sets the last rays of light are torn asunder by dragon clouds reclaiming the wild spaces of the lake for the spirits of the night.

And so with the beginning is the end. The golden treasure of rainbow is the smile of the goddess. She holds us to her bosom and sings a lullaby of pure contentment. Be still and you will hear her singing the music of the spheres.

Boston Gay Pride 2,009

2009-06-21T00:49:00Z

Boston Gay Pride 2,009

Pride Queen, Gay Pride Boston, 2,009

I went to the Gay Pride March last Saturday here in Boston and found the pot of gold at the beginning of the rainbow, and here she is.

I arrived at Tremont Street where the parade was forming and boom, I was immediately drawn into the festivities by the above celebrant’s shimmering auras and I started snapping pictures. I was so excited I forgot to ask her/his name, drag or otherwise, so if anyone can solve the mystery please contact me via ‘comments’ on this blog.

When I came-out in San Francisco in 1969 just a month after Stonewall, my ambition was to grow my hair long, smoke dope and kiss boys. I hadn’t a political bone in my body and even if I had, there was no organized Gay movement that I was aware of and certainly no parade. Pride was the bravado cry of a few outraged drag queens and nothing more.

Our Lady of Perpetual Giggles, Gay Pride, San Francisco, 2,000

Over the years I have marched in or screamed on the side lines of many Gay Pride parades in; San Francisco, New York, Boston and Montpelier Vermont. The passing of the millennium found me back in S F where in the spirit of a never to be repeated holiday I donned a nifty wedding dress and a feathered fan.

In the seventies we used to reefer to drag or the mask as “gender bending” and we had a dishy disregard for sexual role playing. We were advocates of pansexual freedom, feeling that each individual had the sexual, emotional and spiritual potential to be male, female and all the rainbow hues in-between. It was this intoxicating ambiguity that sent us singing and dancing into the streets.

I think of Gay Pride as our birthday party. We have been given the gift of true love by our fairy Godmothers’ who are having such a great time they absolutely refused to stay at home and cry.

In The Province Lands

2009-06-19T22:26:00Z

In The Province Lands

The near border of far away

On the near border of far away, down secret paths through leafy woods leading to hidden water lily ponds, I sit on the bank eavesdropping on the conversation of the leaves as the wind makes the trees dance.

In the boggy shallows of the pond shore wild azalea bushes grow with zigzagy arms and cascades of shiny green leaves. Sticky white azalea blossoms pour waves of sweet scent onto the hot wind blowing in from the desert dry dunes surrounding the woods.

A path screened by thickets of blueberry bushes twists through the cattail marsh, penetrating an invisible barrier into an unknown place.

All is silence and watchfulness in the woods surrounding the lily pond. I have entered the other side of reflection, a lost distance, passing through my phantom face floating on the surface of the water. I feel the eyes of shy creatures peering from behind veils of greenery.

For a little while a capricious sea mist blurs the sun bringing cooler wind from the ocean, gently ruffling the leaves of the maple and oak trees. A soft whispering hiss of voices passes along the treetops and then the wind spills on to the pond, ruffling a soggy carpet of water lily pads.

Slender reeds provide a perch for dragonflies, fluttering transparent wings of blue green iridescence.

The silence is broken by a rhythmic twittering, chick-a-dee-a-dee-a-dee volleying back and forth. The tiny birds send out a scout and this curious fellow follows along beside me. I am happy for his company and I whistle a reply. Coming closer we inspect each other and I, tasting tangy blueberries wonder what my companion is thinking.

A brood of young black ducks dip and dive into blue-purple shadows, water reflecting black blades of green grass. They feed on weed roots while softly mumbling to each other the satisfied pleasantries of their day. At a slight distance the mother duck, poised and alert, keeps a watchful eye. She guards with pride and vigilance while her brood huddles in a knot feasting. Finding my attentions too presumptuous she leads a waddling march onto the bank and away, seeking the seclusion of their own company

On the bank above the pond, a grove of pitch pines reach for the sun providing a canopy of cool shadows, a place where emptiness has presence. There I am slowly absorbed into the stillness.

Visiting Old Friends

2009-05-06T20:22:00Z

Robert and Elise in front of the scarlet bougainvillea bush in their garden

The hoe is a reference to “American Gothic” but they were giggling too much to make that work

At the end of April I went to Encinitas California, just north of San Diego, to visit with my friends Elise and Robert Misiorowski. They live in a rambling beach house nestled in the most enchanted tropical garden that you can imagine. The neighborhood was once avocado, orange and lemon groves. In their walled-in pool garden, behind the house, giant tree ferns and royal palm trees rustle in the briny air from the near-by Pacific. There the scent of orange blossoms mixes with rose perfume as pink petals from an ebullient mallow bush drift down and float on the clear waters of the softly gurgling pool.

Inside the cool shaded spaces of their book lined and art filled home, a collection of antique clocks that Elise and Robert have inherited from their respective families make the space alive with musical chimes that gently mark the hours of our rich days together.

Elise is a very special childhood friend. We grew up together in New Canaan, Connecticut and our families were intertwined in many ways. We have been best friends for fifty-two years. She is a jewelry historian, gemologist and museum curator. Her current project is conceiving, assembling and creating a big gem and jewelry show at the Natural History Museum of San Diego in Balboa Park . The show is due to open the beginning of May, 2010.

Elise nick named Lelly, about 12years old

Don Roberto is a Film professor, director and producer . He is a generous mentor, enabling me to collaborate with him on a project to write a screen play based on my second novel, Naughty Astronautess.

Don Roberto in front of the famous bougainvillea

Our project has been rekindled after a worrisome year when Bob was battling some very serious health issues. We are now greatly relieved by his progress and recovery allowing us to light a fire under the Naughty Astronautess’ ass and blast her off the planet.

The world at large may be in for a surprise when they see Lilly Linda Le Strange rocketing over Hollywood. Varla Jean Merman and Brendan Fraser have engaged in an all out war over the part of the air born Lilly and Yma Sumac has come back from the dead all in a lather lusting after the part of Urna Flamanté. Don Roberto is cool about all the hub bub but I am absolutely thrilled!

killer Flood Becomes Golden Opertunity

2009-04-14T17:21:38Z

Killer Flood Becomes Golden Opportunity

As some of you already know my husband, Leo Romero's restaurant, Casa Romero, suffered severe water damage over the holidays and we were forced to completely rebuild the whole place. Below is a brief illustrated story of how that all happened.

On Christmas day Leo and I were returning from Trinity Church, Copley Square at 12:30 pm and decided to stop by the Casa Romero to pick up some things. When we entered the restaurant there was a flood of hundreds of gallons of water pouring from all over the ceiling of the entry way and front dining room. The floor was covered with two inches of water and the sub basement was 8 inches deep in water with more water pouring down, then the ceiling fell!

The floors above the Casa Romero had been the location of the French restaurant, L'Espalier. They had moved out of that location at the beginning of September to their new place at the Mandarin Oriental Hotel. During the cold weather before Christmas the water pipes broke in the old L'Espalier kitchen on the second floor above us. We were closed on Christmas Eve. So some time between mid day on the 24 and mid day on the 25th the pipes burst and had been flooding the building for hours.

The entire entry way, front dinning room, bath rooms and bar, were destroyed. The first step to recover was demolition of the ceiling and affected wet areas and drying out of the whole place. We then hired Coelho Contractors to rebuild our beloved restaurant and they worked tirelessly for 8, none-stop, weeks creating a brand new space that is better than ever. coelhocontracting@comcast.net

Photo by Anita Klaussen

Here I am at the new entrance to the Casa Romero with my photo that Leo calls “The Best of Mexico.” These colorful musicians and dancers perform a traditional folk dance called, “The Dance of the Old Men.” I was lucky enough to catch the men and boys of the troop in a moment of relaxation after their performance at Plaza Vasco de Quiroga in Pátzcuaro, Michoacán, 2007

Carlos and Hernan shake up a batch of “Perfect Margaritas” to celebrate the opening of Antojitos Tequila Bar at Casa Romero

Here is how the front dining room of Casa Romero was for 37 years before the flood washed us down the drain.

Here is the Casa Romero front dining room after the clean-up and dehumidifier company had done initial removal of the ceiling and a weeks worth of drying out. The old floor boards had swollen and warped raising each board about 3 to 6 inches on the seam.

The crew of Coelho Contraction Inc. begins to tear up the floor. The gray dots looking like water drops on my camera lens are in fact the dust particles in the air, hence the open back door for necessary ventilation even though you can see the January snow in the alley beyond.

After the first day the floor and old interior walls were removed and a pile of refuse is piled by the back door awaiting transportation to the dump. Uggh, what a mess!

After the old floor joists were removed, the space beneath the floor, only about a 3 foot crawl space with an earthen floor, was back filled with a concrete slab. The periphery of the space had new 12 inch, steel reinforced, concrete footing constructed. Into this new footing the new floor joists were embedded.

New floor joists (L V Ls, laminated veneer lumber) were installed every 12 inches, a little bit of over kill to make the restaurant solid as a rock.

So much was happening at once in order to make our deadline of February 14^th reopening. Here you can see the man with the shovel is working on the cement slab while the other men are installing the many floor joists.

Next the sub floor was reinstalled. The crew worked long hours from 7 or 8 in the morning until 7 or 8 in the evening 6 to 7 days a week, racing to finish before St. Valentines day. For the whole last two weeks of the project two crews worked far into the night. We finished the project in 7 weeks with details taking two more weeks after we opened.

Constructing the new bar, entry hall, dishwashing / bussing station for bar glasses, and the new banquettes in the Antojitos Lounge, etc. was an act of sheer will. We had very little in the way of architectural construction drawings. What we did have were design plans and a series of three-dimensional views drawn by Hernan Marrero who is our head bar tender at night and a talented architectural designer at Dewberry, Boston in the day.

This is the front dining room looking at the Tequila Bar wearing a new coat of sheet rock. It actually began to look like a real restaurant at this point. During all this time of construction I was wrestling with the insurance company and I must say, after my little Bull Dog badgering (is that a mixed metaphor or what?) they did come through with the dough. Our real savior was our Insurance Agent, Beth Berardi at Ivy West Insurance Agency beth@bethberardi.com If you need insurance, do your self a favor and email her.

We were able to save many hundreds of the original Talavera tiles that covered the walls of the old entryway. Out loyal staff came into work during the construction and patiently scrapped the back of these hand made tiles so we were able to reuse them as wainscoting as you see here. Leo had installed these same tiles 37 years ago when he first created Casa Romero.

Everybody was keep busy as bees. You can see the corner of the bar already covered with new tile from Mexico. The tiles were flown to us by a company in Texas, just in the nick of time.

“Ay caramba!” the bar is tiled. Carla Coelho stands at the corner of the bar coordinating the complex paints shades used in the Faux Finish paint treatments. coelhocontracting@comcast.net , thank you Carla!

Here is one of the wide boards of heart pine milled in New Hampshire being put in place. Although I have not shown you, the entire floor systems of all three dining rooms at Casa Romero were replaced including the sub floors, joists, etc. just like the front room. The joint was totally torn up! Uggh and a half, but now it all looks world class.

The General Manager of Casa Romero, Rogerio Padillia and Senor José Leopoldo Romero Jr. The Chief Proprietor of Casa Romero. A K A Rogerio and Leo, the heroes of our little world.

You can see the new golden faux finish paint treatment in the bar area that Carla and her talented crew accomplished. There are four different color areas incorporated in the new entry, Antojitos Tequila Bar and lounge. Each color area, including the ceilings, has three colors overlaid. The vibrancy of these colors in combination with the Mexican tiles and Leo’s Mexican folk art collection is unique and lovely.

This is a view of the entry way using the “Peace Dove” tiles and a new tile picture that Rogerio found and incorporated in the design. One of the little doves is up-side-down. This is our “Pajaro Borracho” or drunken bird. If you find the tiny tibbler Leo or I will buy you a drink. “Yes, madam, that was, one drink.” No sir, I did not mean a pitcher of Margaritas.”

This mysterious picture shows one of the corners of the Antojitos Lounge banquette being built. I have included it because it shows the color of that area in all its vibrancy. This is my favorite color area.

And here are the boys again, they will shake up the sauce for you including a staggering variety of Mexican delights and if you haven’t tried the Romerita, give it a go. I’ve been known to down a bunch in my time but watch out cuz these little darlings pack a powerful punch

The Big 6 - 0

2009-04-04T19:11:00Z

Iory 1949

Saturday March 29^th was my 60^th birthday. Now I feel like a cross between Rip Van Winkle and the Ground Hog. I am of half a mind to scurry back into my burrow and go back to sleep. I mean really, seeing one’s shadow is a big deal!

When I shake and shudder friends smugly say;

“Consider the alternative.”

Not exactly the repartee that commands a response. I am, however, considering the alternatives and I don’t mean the Grim Reaper.

First off I dashed back to Dr. Feel-good who gave me my total body transplant to begin with. You will remember the spectacular results from my author’s picture on my book covers. And yes, judging from the numerous slobbering compliments I got from that display of hunkiness, I know we were all happy with the results (most especially myself).

Buuuuut, not being able to leave well enough alone, I went back to the good Doc for a touch up and he gave me a prescription of horse pills.

“Take one at bedtime for the next 10 days and hope you survive the process.”

Well, of course I did not hear his cautionary clause. Gleefully I dashed home and swallowed my first dose. My first mistake was not waiting till bedtime, in fact I crushed the little fucker in my trusty stone pestle, mixed the resulting powder with a slug of Bourbon, and swizzled the sauce right there and then - at 10:AM in the morning. Well, I woke up the next day at about 6M sprawled on the kitchen floor with the most amazing feeling of youthful frivolity!

Needless to say I was thrilled to see the man in the mirror change from that stranger who had been hogging that reflective space for several long years now, transformed into the winsome youth whom all adored. Well maybe not everybody.

As the days progressed through the course of the prescription I changed from ballsy baritone to giggly squealing, until even I could see that enough was enough.

So now am sitting here with my Knob Creek bottle almost dry and wondering if it’s the booz or these chubby leggies that have me down for the count.

Iory 2009

Does anyone have a rattle I can shake or an extra play-pen?

Two weeks ago before all the above took place, I thought of hiring a sex therapist to console my loss of youth. I got a number off the web for Mr. Wonderful and I gave him a buzz. Well the fucker wanted a thousand bucks! In a tone of withering scorn, I asked,

“What are you gonna do for a thousand bucks?”

and he replied,

“Shoot you to the moon.”

So I says,

“Darling if I wanted to go to the moon I would call up the Naughty Astronautess.”

and hung up.

Now I know what Isadora Duncan and Lillie Langtry suffered after their blush of youth had dashed out the door.

Ten years ago when the half century gong sounded - I was looking for the exit doors. You’re supposed to be rich and famous at 50 - so I had to leave town. Mr. Leo, my Sainted husband, took pity on me, whisked me off to London, took me to the Ritz for lunch and even gave me a coffer full of jewels. I said,

“Hotdigity!”

This year Mr. Leo gave me a swell birthday party at Casa Romero, a gorgeous orchid and a nice card depicting a pretty nymph in a Fairy Circle. All strangely appropriate and absolutely charming. But I keep asking myself,

“Is charm enough?”

Ah well, Mama said there’d be days like this. So if all else fails - get a hair cut and shave off that ridiculous mustache! I sauntered over to the college barber cuz who the hell can afford a “stylist” these days? I told em,

“Luigi gimme a new do,”

He snipped away and created a whole new me.Then I went home and shaved the stash and while I was at it I shaved my balls too, always a tricky maneuver but the results make you look larger than life so, what the hey.

Now everyone I meet says,

“What did you do to yourself? You look great, sorta younger.”

You’ll be happy to know it’s not me nuts they’re gazing at - I do have some restraint and modesty. But I take their meaning to be,

“Darling you were looking like the wrath of God.”

At least I didn’t charge off to Venice and drool over Tadzio. I do have my dignity and my snuggle bunny hubby who apparently digs me like I am.

Top of the Hub

2009-03-24T21:12:00Z

Top of the Hub

Leo and I went to the Top of the Hub yesterday for lunch and to see what exactly it was the sea gulls saw. Well, lemme tell ya that yes on a clear day you can see over the edge.

I guess this is what the captains of industry are grasping at on a regular basis when they zip up to their elite aeries around the world in order to hedge their bets with funds provided by the suckers below, namely the US taxpayers and all the other poor slobs from Reykjavik to Beijing who watched their supposed investments go flying out the window.

This idea afloat that the talent pool of finance must receive their unjust rewards, code name "bonuses," in order to entice them to stay on or the business world will implode is shear genius on behalf of the political spin doctors. The only problem is, witch doctors are not supposed to be given credence or credit.

World markets have already imploded or to mix more metaphors, the vampires have already sucked us dry. If AIG feels compelled to honor their contractual obligation to the losers on their payroll, fine let the company make a profit and then they will have their thirty pieces of silver to distribute as they see fit.

The "real" world of high finance deals out plastic money like playing cards on the Black Jack table. Sooooo what the hey, gimme a house to fill up too! And yes we all stood in line to get our mortgages pumped up beyond a reasonable doubt, sorta like taking financial steroids. After all Manhattan was originally purchased with a bunch of beads so why not buy a Mac mansion with a hand full of jelly beans?

It seems to me that the US of A is the second largest Ponzi schemer after Bernie Medoff. We sold toxic mortgages to eager investors around the globe, how were they to know that equity had been translated into cheap confection? Bernie was borrowing from Peter to pay Paul, a juggling act that really did take talent but like the Naked Emperor of fable, Bernie had nothing to juggle except his “talent” and neither did the executives at AIG. So Bernie goes to the slammer, but the boy’s from AIG get more blood from the stone, a trick I thought every one could see through, silly me, not unless you have x-ray vision.

Glorious Spring

2009-03-23T15:01:00Z

Now is the winter of our discontent

made glorious by the lengthening of days;

patiently coaxing the bold crocus

to smile brightly in their pretty skirts.

Every spring I feel like I have to give birth to myself and this year is no exception. While fighting to wriggle through the birth canal I fear that I might actually have lost my way and be burrowing into my grave.

This year all that drama was held at bay by the reconstruction of our restaurant, Casa Romero, after a flood from a broken pipe in the building above us destroyed the main dining room. Because my attention had been riveted to the project from December 25^th until February 16^th I had hardly even noticed the strangle hold of deep winter. All’s well that ends well, said I, when the last carpenter and painter trundled off down the highway leaving us with a sparkling new Casa.

I hopped blithely back on my horse, raised my lance and charged into action, riding full tilt into the tournament of literary endeavors, in this case the continuation of The Mermaid and the Sailor, the third volume of my trilogy, Glamour Galore, which I have been threatening to unleash on the public low these many moons.

It was then that I noticed I was astride my steed backwards. A condition that rapidly disintegrated into the prenatal struggle as described above which, much to my horror, evolved in a Freudian direction of subterranean discomfort also mentioned above.

As any good midwife would advise, I breathed deeply and pushed! Unfortunately my psyche had not evolved to the human level and I was stuck in the dirt of despair wondering which way was out?

Have you ever wondered how a tulip bulb knows which way to grow? Presumably if it is the second time around, the sleeping beauty is already pointed in the right direction. But what if you were plopped in the earth last fall by a distracted gardener who pointed you stem down, what then? Deep breathing and pushing may not be quite the solution.

But the salvation of mucking about in the compost of my psyche is its intrinsic complexity from which all manner of snippets percolate if left to their own devices. And so in the darkness of the dawn I heard the distant voice of Anaïs Nin whispering,

“The morning I got up to begin this book I coughed. Something was coming out of my throat: it was strangling me. I broke the thread which held it and yanked it out. I went back to bed and said: I have just spat out my heart.”

This then is my visceral account of giving birth to myself and because the result of that leaves one with a bundle of joy who must be nurtured for an inordinate time I have returned to my blog for immediate gratification so that my tiny squeak may someday raise its voice and shout out, ‘Here I am!’

Mounted Police

2008-10-06T15:17:00Z

Mounted Police Officers, Steve and Tom

This last August when the dahlias were growing like Jack's bean stalk, I was writing in our garden in the Fenway, my latest chapter of The Mermaid and the Sailor. I was in the midst of a scene depicting the rehearsal of Lilly Linda Le Strange singing, "Aren't There Any Real Queens in Ptown?" when much to my delight along came two men in uniform-astride mighty steeds. A.D.D. kicked in with a two steep flourish as I hailed the local constabulary and lunged for my camera.
    "Good morning officers. May I take your picture?" An innocent request and one that they readily agreed to, reining in their mounts and neatly lining up to face the camera. As I clicked away, the horses munched with relish on our pink cosmos that were growing through the fence. I wondered if these massive beasts (the horses,of course) might be a little Gay themselves-I mean who do you know that will chow-down on a whole bunch of pink cosmos and not even burp? The, officers were as straight as an arrow (my Gaydar hardly had to click in on this occasion)  but I tried not to hold that against them as they were cordial and infinitely more stylish than the usual lot slogging by the garden.
    Anyway I chatted them up tiring to get a good photo and Officer Steve, on the left, gave me a big grin and a rather dashing pose. Officer Tom, on the right, was a little more circumspect and projected an image of official solemnity equal to his rank and lofty position. We chatted about the horse's hair cuts, cropped short at the mane and tail, and although I asked and was duly told, the horses' names went clear out of my head.
    Now, other than using this opportunity to gather photos to amuse you with, I was also tiring to be as friendly and supportive of the cops who "walk the beat." I know these particular Men in Blue had a lot of help pounding the pavement, none-the-less, they are part of our neighborhood  and they are getting to know the folks here.
     It is my idea that our police officers should be walking the beat in all neighborhoods so that they can get to know and be known by the citizens living there. I think that the police should get out of their tanks and mingle with the people on foot, bike or horse.  I believe that an orderly and peaceful neighborhood must be nurtured by the neighbors in concert with the police they know and trust.

Nine Eleven 2001 -2008

2008-09-11T15:50:00Z

This morning in the garden, the birds sing in the pure bright sun light. No one has told them to be quiet and remember the dead. Their lives go on in a parallel universe quite unconcerned with me. They bicker and peck at each other, holding claim to a space in time where a ripe berry or an insect will feed their hunger for a brief while. They do not remember the day when a fire-ball of hatred consumed the Twin Towers. They don't speak our language. They don't understand us.

This morning in the garden the gentle warmth of September sun caressed my back as I picked orange and purple dahlias for our home. A chorus of crickets droned incessantly in the long grass beyond the garden fence. Their pulsing song speeds with an urgent tempi. They can feel the shortening hours of daylight and the coming of winter. But the crickets know nothing of the sorrow of mothers and lovers, children and wives who seven years on, search the emptiness of their hearts looking for loved ones.

This morning in the garden the traffic beyond the fence on Boylston Street whizzes on by. A rude biker on his too powerful chopper roars through, dominating the moment with threat and menace. The news on the radio solemnly remembers the outrage of terror as over head a wedge of Canada Geese rise from the tall reeds by the Muddy River, honking commands to order their flight pattern.

This morning in the garden the dark purple butterfly bush radiates sweet honey perfume that dances in the warming air attracting two saffron-orange Monarch butterflies. These seemingly delicate travelers of continents have no interest in the elaborate precautions of men searching airport luggage for secret explosives and weapons.

Now in the safety and order of our home I arrange the garden flowers. I am quiet, I am solemn and I remember

Pieta

2008-08-20T17:01:00Z

Pieta

Here is a little bit of Boston rearranged and refocused, putting a new prospective on a few old monuments.

A boy named Jered, ventured forth from the protected harbor of his remote village in a small sail boat. The wind tumbling down from the inland mountains, gained in strength as it cleared the forest by the rocky coast. Jered trimmed his sail tight, catching the power of the wind as his boat skimmed fast over the sparkling sun-lite sea.

Soon Jered had traveled down the coast, well beyond all known landmarks. He sailed into a harbor half-hidden between tall cliffs. He heard a sweet voice singing a song without words, reminding him of curling waves and the deep ocean. Jered followed the music towards a place where the surf smashed against the shore.

He spied a naked girl perched on a smooth granite bolder. Her fair skin glistened in the sun and her pert breasts peeked through an unruly tempest of her golden hair. Jered stared at the girl as she coaxed a mother-of -pearl comb through her long hair all the way to her waist where he was shocked to see a blue-green iridescent fish tail clinging to the stone.

As Jered drifted closer his sail luffed and snapped around his mast, interrupting the mermaid's song. She turned in fright and seeing the boy, dove into the white foaming surf. Jered's heart lurched as if caught on a lure and he hauled in his sail chasing the mermaid.

Beneath the sea Neptune looked up and saw the boy, slick with the sweat of desire, toasted brown against the bright blue sky. A hero reaching for glory, headless of failure. Neptune flung his jealous trident, a spiraling tempest of wrath and Jered's boat tumbled in the surf casting him against the rocky shore.

Jered's body was thrown against the rocks and into the bay where he began to drop slowly into deep green water. From her hiding place bellow, Griselda saw the boy sinking towards her. She swam up to him and seeing how beautiful he was, she kissed him on the lips, blowing air into his mouth.

Griselda raised Jered to the surface of the bay but Neptune tore their embrace asunder, casting the boy on the sandy beach and drawing Griselda down into his own grasp.

Jered was discovered unconscious by a lonely pilgrim on his way to consult the oracle about lost love. The old man tended to the boy's wounds until he awoke. When Jered relalized that Griselda was gone, he wept salty tears as he sang her song of the deep ocean.

Mike in Glass city

2008-08-14T17:53:00Z

The Man In The Glass City

This is a portrait of my friend, fellow gardener and blog tutor, Mr. Mike. I plucked his photos off the web, scrambled them around in my computer and voila, a multi- faceted prismatic vision.

His witty and literate Blog reports on Boston and the world at large according the Mennonno-sapien inner dialogue, a dialect of koo koo la roo.

Mike has this deep ballsy voice to match his hot body and he is liable to launch into steamy recounts of his sexploits which has this senior citizen riveted to the boy's every word.

He has a tendency to shave or  cut his hair and beard frequently so that I may be talking with him for a while thinking to my self, "hum, the kid looks sorta different" before I realize, "Oh yeah, it's the hair - beard -etc." His black curly hair is kinda faboo when he allows it to make an appearance which is not often or prolonged.

His mother ( a very sweet lady) was here visiting earlier this summer and she was threatening to get Mike contacts so we could all see his dreamy eyes. He gave her one of those , "Aw come on  Ma," looks. Needless to say he continues to lurk behind studious glasses but I agree with Mom, let's see um bro!

Spring Comes to Boston

2008-05-06T20:29:00Z

Yesterday Leo brought home tulips from our garden. Today the flowers are dancing in their vase, remembering the songs of birds and the warmth of the morning sun.

The yellow fringe of the witch hazel bush smiles brightly in the chilly afternoon sun of early March.

In a crevasse of the rock garden stuffed with last year’s curling oak leaves, blue bells ring announcing the triumph of spring!

Mr. Robin, classic harbinger of the coming season beats the rush by never leaving the neighborhood. His yellow beak, like a swelling daffodil bud, will burst into song—claiming the garden as his own.

The black twisted branches of a maple tree burst into life with chartreuse blossoms mocking the rows of soldier bricks held in the tight grasp of immutable mortar.

What does the maple tree know of Boston restraint? She bursts into bloom but the busy city people rush on by. Tomorrow seed wings will fly from branches high above the street while below car horns blare with impatience at slow-pokes at a traffic light.

Mr. Cardinal perches on our garden fence puzzling over the noisy traffic and wondering if humans ever sing.

The forsythia hedge squeezes together tightly, laughing at the tickle.

Looming above the blossoming crabapple in our garden, the tower of Babel presumes to insure against misfortune. Soon the spring flower petals will fall, dancing gaily, letting go with joy.

The magnolia wears chilly rain drops on her pink cheeks—jewels of spring turning pink blossoms into green leaves. Can you hear the robin’s song? It is short and oh, so sweet!

The red tailed hawk and the pigeon on shelters perch—each looking out for his own interest. Do they know how close they are?

Having spent the winter sleeping deeply in the silent earth, the gossiping daffodils are eager to speak.

The forsythia bush beneath the mulberry tree cannot speak to the blue sky in July so she must shout loudly when she can. Don’t you find her urgent cry beautiful?

The families of Johnny jump-ups are our true friends, always eager to say hello—staying till the end of the party.

A dramatic reading at Calamus Books

2008-04-23T13:36:00Z

“Have you heard? Iory will perform a dramatic reading from his novel
Naughty Astronautess , the second book of his trilogy
Glamour Galore
at Calamus Books, 92 – B South Street near South Station,
this Friday, April 25 at 7: PM”

Glamour Galore

Boyfriend Ducks

Fall Foliage Tour of Vermont

Boston Gay Pride 2,009

In The Province Lands

Visiting Old Friends

killer Flood Becomes Golden Opertunity

The Big 6 - 0

Top of the Hub

Glorious Spring

Mounted Police

Nine Eleven 2001 -2008

Pieta

Mike in Glass city

Spring Comes to Boston

A dramatic reading at Calamus Books

“Have you heard? Iory will perform a dramatic reading from his novelNaughty Astronautess, the second book of his trilogy Glamour Galore at Calamus Books, 92 – B South Street near South Station, this Friday, April 25 at 7: PM”

“Have you heard? Iory will perform a dramatic reading from his novel
Naughty Astronautess , the second book of his trilogy
Glamour Galore
at Calamus Books, 92 – B South Street near South Station,
this Friday, April 25 at 7: PM”