Around Here

I found these candlesticks at a flea market in lower Manhattan in my college days long ago. I was always on the lookout for bargains back then, not having a lot to spend on home accessories, but determined to acquire what I could to groovy up my pad on east 25th street, my first apartment in New York, a walk-up studio on the third floor. They’re silver plated, now heavily tarnished; I was attracted to their extravagantly slender stem and tulip cup, their nod to Art Neuveau, and vaguely churchy elegance. The twelve inch tapers that they habitually wore increased their drama. They followed me from one dwelling to another, one life to another, one of my few possessions that never fell off the cart in all those gypsy years. In my Staten Island apartment, my triumphal last digs in New York overlooking the harbor, they sat together atop a heavy oak speaker tower, one of two dramatic monoliths that were the last word in music reproduction back then. I had bought them at a close-...

After four days of unrelenting rain, the skies are clear at last. I’m a homebody but enough is enough. A cool front has arrived... jackets and jeans are in play. I think jackets are my favorite threads. They give designers a lot to play with, and variations are endless. And they have pockets, in the right places. I’ve amassed a small collection over the years. My denim Pepe birthday present from Mary, that people want or threaten to steal. The black leather bomber, both badass and classy. A camel ultrasuede sports coat, a tad rumpled and good with jeans. For the first time in weeks we’re sleeping with the air conditioning off and all the windows open. Soon the it’s too cozy to get out of bed effect will delay the mornings’ start and linger the remnants of dreams.

There is no scent in cyberspace. But then isn’t its sterility its appeal? Its retreat from the loam and volatility of real life? Scent is stubbornly non-negotiable. There are few if any aromas that repel an animal. Everything incites curiosity. Analysis. Evaluation. Dogs prefer their food a tad rank. Wild horses roll around in wildflowers to pick up their fragrance. Jungle cats mark their territory with a pungent spritz and nobody is offended. Few things are more transporting than the aroma of some savory dish simmering delectably on a stove. I'll walk by the local rib shack, smell the aroma of mesquite in the air, and damn near have to suppress a howl. Yet the odor of the slightest trace of this morning’s fried eggs in an unwashed frying pan is intolerable. What is it, exactly, that threatens and oppresses me? My refusal to share my space with an unacceptable olfactory presence is near absolute. One of us must go. I suspect I’m more tolerant than most. I like fragrance. ...

I get my cappuccino at the local coffee shop, owned by a lovely old lesbian, the stout and motherly kind, and her partner, a more ethereal Alice B. Toklas type, who likes my cologne. "You smell nice!"  When the shop changed hands and I first started going there, I was on the cusp of my paleo regime. I said that I didn't see soup and salad on the menu... was it available? “We can make whatever you want, sweetheart,” she said. “We’re not one of those corporate places where you have to eat what they want you to eat.” She had me at "sweetheart.” The first time I ordered a cappuccino, she asked me if I was sure I didn’t want a latt e . Seems people often order a cappuccino when what they really want is a latt e . I said I was sure. She quizzed me: “What do you call a cappuccino?” OK, I was game: “It’s an espresso, of course, with a head of foamy steamed milk on top instead of mixed through the coffee. A bitter kiss wrapped in a creamy hug.” “You know your cappuccino,” sh...