The other night, six men of a certain age walked into the restaurant Cook and Brown Public House at 959 Hope street in Providence, R.I. They all looked to be in their 50s, an assortment of working professionals, artists and academics. They had gathered for some drinks, a meal and to be together.
At the bar they caught up on one another’s lives. One man had just returned from Heidelberg, Germany. Another recently had surgery to remove some polyps. They raised their glasses and toasted the evening. It was all done as one might expect of men who had reached this point in their lives. Enjoyable but somewhat understated.
A few days ago, after we had an argument, my daughter Pickle, age three, announced she had another father. His name, she told me, is Bob Cheeks.
Evidently, this Mr. Bob Cheeks fellow never tells her it is time for bed. He can also read for hours without tiring and loves to be splashed repeatedly when giving her a bath.
Playboy, back in its heyday, published some great literature. This helped bring a bit of cover to those buying the magazine.
“Hey, I’m only interested in the articles,” was the standard line.
Next week the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition hits the stands. Although not completely naked, the models just about bare all. And the cover line this year for any guy caught by his wife or girlfriend glassy-eyed and drooling over the pictures?
A few weeks ago when Sienna Dice met her grandmother for the first time, the older woman began sniffing her. Big sniffs. Audible sniffs. The kind of sniffs one might expect to receive after not washing for a while.
But her grandmother was in no way upset or even mildly concerned with Sienna’s grooming habits. She was merely welcoming her granddaughter back home, after 10 years, in traditional Cambodian custom.
Theatre has a more vibrant afterlife than other art forms. Each play is a community event, a coming together of actors and directors interpreting a writer’s vision. With each performance the play takes on a new life and so, in a sense, a playwright’s baby never ages. It just continues to grow with each successive generation.
For many months up-Island has been a place of quiet, windswept beauty, the destination mostly for winter walks or slow drives through the country. This will change next weekend, though, as the Chilmark Community Center becomes the place to be on the Island for three days and nights of nonstop movie watching.
When my wife Cathlin and I were married the ceremony was part tradition and part theatre. The wedding was held at Judson Church in New York city. Cathlin wore a red dress for the occasion and we walked down the aisle together, entering the church already as a couple.
About halfway through the service, a very tall man stood up in the back row and began waving his arms and yelling, “Wait. Wait. What about the objections part? What about giving our reasons why this couple can’t get married?”
There is an inherent danger in reading the essays and books of Edward Hoagland. Suddenly, nothing else compares. Not just other books or other writers, but real life too. The phone rings unanswered, e-mails amass with no reply, and social engagements are shrugged off with little to no guilt. When under the spell of Mr. Hoag-land’s prose, the rest of us talkers or writers become toddlers, mere fumblers of language just embarking on our ABC’s.
The Vineyard in winter is a quiet corner of the world. Head up-Island to Aquinnah, say, and the outskirts of Lobsterville Beach. Most days all one encounters there are the wind, sand and stars. But surface appearances can be deceiving. Follow a certain dirt road, turn right at that old oak tree, left at the large bird’s nest, visible only in winter after the leaves have dropped, and one never knows who or what might be found tucked away in the woods.
