Monthly Archives:

November 2014

Madonna: The Original Rebel Heart

While Madonna was with her family in Malawi (doing silly stuff like meeting with political leaders and overseeing the schools she’s opened there) two of the songs from her upcoming album were leaked. ‘Rebel Heart’ and ‘Wash All Over Me’ are the first we’ve heard from Our Lady since the glorious days of the ‘MDNA’ album in 2012. It ended a rather lengthy drought of Madonna music, even if not quite intended yet. While the new tunes have been getting largely positive reviews, there will always be heaters who are gonna hate. (Right Taylor?) Though this isn’t going to be another defense of Madonna, it’s worth noting that if ‘Like A Prayer‘ was released today it would get the same mix of reactions. That’s the problem with giving social media idiots like myself a platform like this.

What about ‘Rebel Heart’? I do love it. It’s a gorgeous return to a strong pop melody, but it’s got a retrospective wisdom that only Madonna could so convincingly espouse at this point in her career. Say what you will about her, she’s still standing, three decades into an unprecedentedly-successful run. And if you’re saying something bad about her, you’re the one who’s sort of stuck in the 80’s.

I lived my life like a masochist
Hearing my father say, “Told you so, told you so – Why can’t you be like the other girls?”
I said, “Oh no, that’s not me,
And I don’t think that it’ll ever be.”

Madonna was the original outsider. Disrespected by the music industry despite her enormous success, dismissed by the Hollywood film industry despite her compelling videos, and derided by would-be-hipsters bitterly jealous of her mainstream success, she forged her way in the face of all the haters. What appealed to some of us from the very beginning was this very defiant stance. She would do it her way. She would will herself into stardom with hard work and determination, and she would stay there for over thirty years (and counting).

Thought I belonged to a different tribe
Walking alone, never satisfied, satisfied
Tried to fit in, but it wasn’t me
I said, “Oh no, I want more, That’s not what I’m looking for.”
So I took the road less-traveled-by, And I barely made it out alive
Through the darkness somehow I survived
Tough love, I knew it from the start, Deep down in the depths of my rebel heart.

For little girls, and a few little gay boys, Madonna’s initial ostracism from critical acclaim gave her an under-dog edge that made her our perpetual heroine. In certain circles it will always be uncool to like Madonna, even more-so to publicly declare that love, but like the woman herself, some of us will not be shamed into silence. “The only thing worse than being talked about is not being talked about.” Besides, if you have to do the talking, chances are you’re not the one being talked about.

I’ve spent some time as a narcissist
Hearing the others say, “Look at you, look at you!”
Trying to be so provocative
I said, “Oh yeah, that was me.
All the things I did, just to be seen.”

This straddles ‘Ray of Light‘ and ‘American Life’ territory, but it reads more genuinely than the latter did. This is more than a simple ‘Woe is fame’ moment – this is a woman looking back over her choices, and her life,  owning up to some of it, but letting most of it go. It’s serious in a disguised way, with an accessible pop chorus that masks the weight of some of the words.

Outgrown my past and I’ve shed my skin
Letting it go and I start again, start again
Never look back, it’s a waste of time
I said, “Oh yeah, this is me, and I’m right where I wanna be.”
I said, “Hell yeah, this is me, right where I’m supposed to be.”

It took her 56 years to realize this, and though something tells me she’s far from where she wants to go, I’m going to be there every step of the way.

So I took the road less-traveled-by, And I barely made it out alive
Through the darkness somehow I survived
Tough love, I knew it from the start, Deep down in the depths of my rebel heart.
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Sometimes the Snow Comes Down in June

When they came into my brother’s bedroom to tell me the news, I was sitting on the bed listening to the radio. All I could muster was a faint, “Oh.” That was all. What they had told me was that my classmate – a kid I had known for all of my childhood – had shot himself. We were juniors in high school at the time.

Suzie was away for the year in Denmark. There was no one to talk to who might understand how to deal with death. We were all struggling, trying to find a way. A star athlete, a future with such promise, and a boy I used to tease (and who teased me in return) from first to sixth grade. Back then I was brave – braver than I was in high school. Yet for all my cruelty, he never turned the tables on me when he grew a foot taller and put on more muscle than my entire body weight.

As I sat on the bed, and my parents reluctantly left the room – because what more was there to say? – I thought back to the last time I’d seen him. In the hallway of high school, near the end of the day. Our lockers were near one another, and I was hurriedly trying to get what books I needed when I caught him staring at me. I looked up and scowled. “What?” I asked dismissively.

He looked at me. Haunted. Vacant. A little sad. At least, looking back that was the look. At the time I don’t think I saw the sadness in his eyes. He said nothing, only shook his head slowly. I studied the cross he wore around his neck. He felt far away. Far from our days growing up together at McNulty school. Far from the kid whose Mom threw him birthday parties with old-fashioned games like a clothes-pin drop.

On the radio that month, this silly Vanessa Williams song played over and over again. To this day, whenever I hear it, I remember that time. It instantly brings me back. For many reasons, I don’t like listening to it. Once in a while, however, it’s good to remember. It’s necessary not to forget. And it keeps a friend alive in my heart.

Sometimes the snow comes down in June,
Sometimes the sun goes round the moon…

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A Very Mad Start to the Season

And so it begins, whether we like it or not: the Christmas Season. Today marks Black Friday, the one day a year you won’t find me anywhere near a store. This year I’ll be working, and it’s usually my most favorite day of the year to be in the office. Quiet, productive, and generally enjoyable for an introverted extrovert like myself.

As for getting into the holiday spirit, I find it best to revisit old ‘Mad Men’ Christmas episodes, such as the one featured below. It’s one of the best scenes of the series, featuring two powerful people sitting at a bar around the holidays, commiserating and coming to a new place in their working friendship. If you don’t know the show, it won’t mean much, but anyone who’s been watching it should thrill at this clip. Joan and Don. The dialogue crackles, the sparks subtly fly, and the fireworks explode on every atmospheric level. The song to this is perfect too. I’ll feature it more prominently in a later post. For now, enjoy the platonic pulchritude of a world that’s all wrong, and all right.

They are two people who seemingly have it all ~ admired and respected, feared and adored ~ yet I don’t think two lonelier people exist on the show. When they meet in the middle, just for this moment, it melts my heart.

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Three Hunks for the Post of One

While Monday is our traditional day for recapping things, let’s do a tantalizing triumvirate of Hunks to spice up the day of Thanks of this short week. Every one of the gentlemen featured here has already been named Hunk of the Day, but I sincerely doubt anyone will have an issue with revisiting them, particularly when additional photos only serve to solidify that original honor.

We begin with Charlie King, who has become gay royalty in the time since his first crowning. Mr. King came out earlier this year, and since then has been heating up photo shoots like this one. Keep up the good work, sire.

Second up is Derek Allen Watson, who’s gone on to the sunnier clime of California after cutting his teeth on New York for a number of years. Mr. Watson is heating up both shores with his modeling work, and a portfolio that’s practically on fire.

Finally, the gay-friendly/straight-ally hotness of Nick Jonas, who has thus far proven himself durably genuine in his support for our community. He has come quite a long way since his first days here, and his very first Hunk of the Day feature. Something tells me he has quite a way to go given the start of sex scenes like this.

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Family Thanks

On this day of Thanksgiving, I’d like to give thanks to my family, especially the two little folks seen in this post – my niece and nephew. Emi and Noah are always a favorite part of this site, and we had them over last weekend for a Goonies sleepover. While we never got around to see ‘The Goonies’ (a good reason to do it all again), we managed to have other fun, like making pizzas with four other kids (and their parents, I’m not crazy).

As usual, it was the little moments that mattered, like when we made an impromptu airplane out of a piece of cardboard, to fly a collection of toys around the dining room. One of the things I admire most in children is their indefatigable imagination. It knows no bounds, and they are game for almost anything.

A pair of leopard-print pajamas is always right for a sleep-over.

The next morning the twins practiced walking in the shoes from my most recent sartorial cataclysm. There was a minor scuffle as they don’t like to share, but it all worked out in the end. Uncle Al does not tolerate those who don’t share. (It just hits too close to home.)

The morning after saw a breakfast of scrambled eggs, roasted potatoes, bacon and toast by the twins. Uncle Al loves a helper. As the day was nice, we donned our coats for a bit of stalking squirrels in the backyard.

Once again, the boundless imagination of children impressed me, as the kids devised ways of enticing and catching squirrels. It reminded me of the day that my favorite Uncle asked if my brother and I wanted him to catch a squirrel. “You can’t catch a squirrel!” I squealed back then. On this day, I was the Uncle, and the children were the believers.

Happy Thanksgiving to everyone!

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Apathy Breeds Beauty

Many years ago, I convinced my parents to buy me a Butterfly amaryllis for Christmas. At the time, it was a new introduction to the market, and was priced accordingly. Billed as a rare South American import, I cradled it lovingly in my hands before potting it up and setting it up in a prime southern-exposed window, beside a humidifier that kept the room in a near-tropical state. The plant promptly sent up two spindly leaves, the ends of which soon curled and burnt. It survived, but never thrived, despite my extra administrations. As for the exotic blooms, they never came. Eventually I gave up and it went the same way as other plants I’ve pampered and fussed over – such as a lady’s slipper orchid from White Flower Farm (the most expensive perennial I’ve ever purchased – dead after two years of watering with dechlorinated water. You try keeping that shit up in the heat of a Northeastern July).

Sometimes, the more you coddle, the less you get. And vice versa – as seen in the photos of this Oncidium orchid. I picked it up from Trader Joe’s on a whim last year, to accentuate the new kitchen, and I’d planned on throwing it out once its bright blooms faded. After that happened, however, the foliage remained bright and green, and it seemed in good health, so I put it in the front window near the other houseplants and soon forgot about it except to water it once in a while.

This past summer, when remembering to water it again, I saw it had produced a flower spike that was just about to start blooming. I almost missed it. Then, just last week, the same thing – another flower stalk already in bloom. I quickly added a bit of Miracle Gro to its monthly watering, and felt a little bad at my apathy toward such a strong performer. (Plants get me all anthropomorphic – even more-so than animals.) I’m not sure what I’m doing right, as the humidity in the house is typically low at this time of the year. I think it’s a combination of unintentionally sparse watering habits, and a slightly potbound situation (a number of plants will only bloom once their roots start crowding in on themselves.) Whatever the reason, it’s pretty – and beauty is a harbinger of the upcoming season. At least indoors…

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The Party in My Pants (You’re Invited!)

For all of my life, I’ve had an image problem. It seems that I come across as way too serious and mean than I actually am. Mostly, it has served me well, keeping otherwise annoying bits of humanity away from my vicinity. Yet it doesn’t really offer a window into my soul, which is sort of the point of this whole blog. To that end, I let my hair down here as much as possible, throwing out superficial, if sexy, hunks with wild abandon, and posting lengthy diatribes on Tom Ford Private Blends and Madonna as if they were tenets of the Pillars of Life. (I totally just made that last part up – I don’t even think there is such a thing. See, I’m a freaking hoot and a half!)

The point is, the humor and fun in my life is largely lost here at times (as a wise woman once said, ‘What’s the point of sitting down and notating your happiness?‘) but every now and then I get painfully silly, because if you can’t poke fun at yourself, or enjoy when others take the piss out of you, then there’s not much point in going on, and now we’re back to suicidal tendencies and losing the point of this whole post … [Sigh] To get us back in focus, I offer this delectable bit from Julie Brown’s parody of Madonna’s ‘Truth or Dare’ entitled ‘Dare to Be Truthful.’ It came out at the height of my obsession with the original, and as such I watched it almost as much as the OG, rocking out to ‘Party in My Pants/Vague’ like, well, like a prayer.

If anyone takes herself too seriously sometimes, it’s Madonna, but rumor has it that she enjoyed Ms. Brown’s skewering. Some of us have to take the punches. After all, if you’ve never gotten punched, how do you know you matter? There, a tear to go with your laughter. Salty buns, baby.

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A Pre-Holiday Recap

This is the week it begins for real: the holiday season. Unofficially kicking off at the Beaujolais Nouveau Wine Celebration, the holidays are now in full effect, as Turkey Day is already upon us. There are still a few days before things get hectic however, so let’s have a calm and peaceful look back at the previous week (where I admit to having gotten slightly lazy and letting the Hunks have their say – not that anyone seemed to mind.)

This post won’t get me on Santa’s good side, but I’ve long since given up any hope of that. Besides, it’s too funny not to share again. As ‘NSync once said, ‘Bye Bye Bye!’

The male model was a mainstay of most days this past week, starting with Josh Kloss.

You can quote them on this.

Fare thee well, firelight. (Watch out Flutterbye!)

Derek Yates makes a play to be Ellen’s gardener.

The age-old battle of long hair versus short hair on a male model. (I think the FaceBook verdict was that short hair was better.)

My mind’s playing tricks on my memory.

Jesse Metcalfe tried his best to fix the internet that Kim Kardashian broke by posing in his skivvies. I think it worked.

Country singer Ty Herndon came out as a proud and happy gay man and was promptly named Hunk of the Day. (I came out as a relatively cranky one back in 1997.)

Male model Parker Hurley, and that’s all that needs to be said as the photos speak for themselves.

The most important outfit of the year bears another look.

As the holidays begin, I find it helpful to pause and reflect.

Would it surprise you to know that I once dabbled in basketball?

The genetically-blessed Broderick Hunter.

Onward to Thanksgiving

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My Days of Basketball Glory

It might surprise some of you to know that I once dabbled in basketball. Stop shaking your heads in disbelief, it happened. I may not be your average basketball player, being about half the height of most basketball players, and to be honest I didn’t actually play the sport, but I was a “manager” for the girls’ basketball team at Amsterdam High School. Junior Varsity, of course. It was in ninth grade, and by “manager” it meant bookkeeper and scorekeeper, though in the end I turned out to be more of a cheerleader and entertainment-provider than anything else.

I still remember when Kate and Missy approached me in the hall and asked if it was something I would consider doing. I didn’t know if it was their idea of a joke, nor did I know the first thing about basketball, but I accepted because I wanted to add to my extra-curriculum activities to get into a good college. Yes, I was fun like that. Still am.

I suppose part of it was that I was starting to feel lonely, and the reaching out of a friend or two meant a lot.

On the radio, Billy Joel sang, ‘We Didn’t Start the FIre’ and it seemed the perfect catch-phrase for a fourteen-year-old at any point in time, when blame was all we had and the beginning of adolescent angst settled in.

Back to basketball. I got to attend the games at home and, more excitingly, away, when we’d board a bus and I’d be the only guy in a pool of girls and feel perfectly safe and happy. Even back then, I was one of the girls, and I relished the role and trust implicit in my accepted presence there. Missy was the other manager for the Junior Varsity team, and she had done it all before. Thank God, because I had no clue what was going on.

There were a few times when she couldn’t make it to the game, and I was on my own. I could keep track of the fouls that each player had, but not much else. At one of the home games, someone foolishly left me in charge of the big scoreboard, and let me tell you, people get so bent out of shape if one little point is given to the wrong team. They will let you know as soon as it happens. Like, from all the way across the gymnasium. It’s palpable. Every single time. I never understood that – there are so many points flying left and right, what’s the big damn deal?

And that thirty-second clock? What a nightmare. Who has the sense and wherewithal to reset that thing over and over again? But people will pay attention to that too. Eventually (well, in short order) they took me off the scoreboard part of things, and I went back to keeping track of fouls with a pencil and paper. I’m always better old-school.

It obviously wasn’t the basketball part of the experience that appealed to me, nor, in the end, was it the addition of another extra-curricular activity that thrilled me, but the simple relaxed friendships I made with girls. Far less treacherous than my tricky dealings with boys, my friendships with girls were easy and fun. Girls may be awful to each other, but as a boy I had some bit of protection from that drama. I was also too small and well-dressed to be much of a threat or object of desire. They could confide in me (and too often did, something that I didn’t always honor, to my eternal shame) and I could count on them to appreciate my sense of style and humor.

For a young gay guy, there was safety with girls, something that was always in question in a locker room of guys. Being part of the girls’ basketball team saved me in ways I wouldn’t realize until later, forming a bedrock of security that would be missing from some of my own family sometimes. It was an acceptance that was unhesitating and sure, and when you’re fourteen and unsure about everything, that was of paramount importance. Those of us who have trouble as adults are usually missing that foundation. I was lucky to find it when I did – on the girls’ basketball team.

(Just don’t ask me to keep score.)

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A Bridge to Boston… And Beyond

The hour is dawn. The road is mostly empty. Ahead, a bridge rises, high over a river, somewhere before the border between Massachusetts and New York. On my way to Boston, in the early morning light, I speed along the Thruway and turn the music down for a moment. The hum of the Mini Cooper and the faint drone of its heater rise slightly above the rush of the road.

It’s one of those moments when I remember to pause and listen to the quiet. I don’t do that as much as I should. There was a time when I drove through cemeteries, turning down the stereo to honor the dead, and restoring the soul in such stillness and silence.

At first it is a bit unnerving. So much noise and background chatter informs the bulk of life now. We are so scared to be silent. Yet it is so necessary, especially as the holidays approach, as our lives become ever busier, as the mayhem of living catches up with us all. As I get older, the riot of my heart may be somewhat diminished and assuaged, but other concerns take its place. The demands of a relatively new job, the ticking of the almost-40 clock, and the simple fact of being alive at this strange, dismal, wonderful, deafening time all take their toll. Finding peace is not always as simple as turning down the music and sitting quietly, but it’s one way to start.

As I cross the bridge to another day, I hasten to see the rise of the sun. In too many ways, it’s easy to be jaded and cynical and weary of the world. A sunrise like this, in a moment of quiet between two worlds, restores the order and quells the chaos.

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The Most Important Outfit of the Year

The biggest social event of Albany’s holiday season, at least for Andy and myself, is the Beaujolais Nouveau Wine Celebration to benefit the AIDS Council of Northeastern New York. We’ve been attending for the last thirteen years or so, and it traditionally marks the beginning of all the holiday excitement, as well as a chance to catch up with friends we don’t get to see every day (and make fabulous new ones too.)

Of course, it’s also an opportunity to dress up, which for me is no mean feat. A few years ago, a lovely woman came up to me and whispered that she always looked forward to seeing what I’d be wearing at the event, and since then I’ve put in a little extra effort into making sure that the ensemble for the festivities was worthy of such notice. This year, the inspiration was Tom Ford’s Atelier d’Orient line of Private Blends, specifically ‘Fleur de Chine’ and ‘Shanghai Lily.’ Once you have an inspiration point, the rest is easy.

Unintentional planning for this night actually began a number of years ago, when my friend Stephen (Suzie’s brother, for those of you who know the players) was visiting us. He was living in Hong Kong at the time, and had brought back one of those ubiquitous headdresses that girls wore (based on a traditional Qing Dynasty headdress.) While it was intended for his niece, I begged him to bring one back for me the next time he visited. A holiday or so later, he had a gift for me. With a few additional embellishments, it was the perfect focal point for the ensemble. Once you have that pièce de résistance, the rest is even easier.

The next part consisted of a silk kimono I’d found in a Japanese shop in Cambridge, MA. I was in Boston for New Year’s, and on a cold morning I hopped on the T to Porter Square to find a bowl of hot noodles. After warming myself with some soba, I stopped in a nearby shop and found a richly-colored kimono, lined with red silk and awash in flowers. At the time, I used it as a robe, and filed it away for future possibilities.

Being as this was scheduled to take place on one of the colder days we’ve had this season, a pair of pants would also be required. (I mean, this isn’t a garden party.) I had a colorful pair with a shade of aqua that would go nicely with the make-do obi I fashioned out of a long piece of sea-foam-hued fabric (this mish-mash of Asian-inspired accents lost any and all sense of authenticity when I looked to Tom Ford for inspiration.) The pants were actually what I had worn for our post-wedding-celebration brunch.

A proper get-up like this requires a very special coat, and though the coat is usually seen the least, for me it’s often the most important piece of the outfit, especially when it gets this cold. Besides, the most fun part of the evening is sometimes the ride to the gala, when the excitement and anticipation is high, second only to the ride home, when you get to talk about all that transpired during the evening. And if you’re doing it in a fancy coat like this, it makes all the difference.

This was a coat I’ve been wanting to wear for the longest time, but was never quite able to locate its perfect purpose until this evening. It was a SoWa Market treasure, one that was excavated in the middle of summer, with an eye for a winter unveiling. A thick embroidery of cranes and flowers, with a rich floral brocade of gold thread was backed by the most vibrant red, and spritzed with a little ‘Fleur de Chine’ and ‘Shanghai Lily’ – and its sumptuously oversized proportion allowed for all the excess silk of the kimono sleeves to nestle cozily and comfortably inside.

In case you haven’t noticed yet, everything that had gone into this outfit was something I had already owned. The shoes and socks, however, were the brand-new additions that brought it all together. Procured from Seattle, they were the riskiest part of the entire operation, as walking in them proved challenging. (And standing on wooden stilts all night is murder on the heels.) They were more than worth it though, as no other shoe I owned would have worked. (Cinderella knows this.)

Thus ends another Beaujolais Nouveau outfit – and thus begins planning for next year’s sartorial assault…

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The Underwear-Clad Jesse Metcalfe

Finally, an image to fix the Internet that Kim Kardashian’s greasy ass supposedly broke a while back. This is Jesse Metcalfe in some gritty, raw and rough poses. It’s the only known antidote to the Kardashian Curse. Mr. Metcalfe has been featured here previously, in nothing but his underwear, and in his very first Hunk of the Day crowning.

And a brief glimpse at how he gets a body like that.

HARD WERQ.

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Throwback Thursday Memory Lapse

The featured photo of this post goes back to 2004 or 2005. You see, my memory falters after about 2003 or so. I can remember what happened in November of 1989 better than I can remember what happened in November of 2013. It’s a sad reality of the aging process (appended by my new bifocals.) Back in 2004 (or 2005) I crouched in the backyard as the sun went down, and waxed all contemplative.

A single strand of bamboo rises on the right side of the photo, while dried miscanthus, already devastated by the frosts and the winds of late fall, backs the middle and left. A wooden fence, bright and relatively new at the time, lends a bit of structure to the goings-on. It’s been about a decade since this was taken, and I’m not sure which has aged worse – myself or that fence – both are pretty worn. Yet still we stand, season after season, struggling with the rough days, basking in the good ones, and meeting in a mostly happy and fortunate middle.

Today I look out the window and study that wooden fence, as one might study the lines in their face, or the gray in their hair. The wood is lined with water stains, gray with age, and haggard with edges torn by the claws of scurrying squirrels, yet it’s a testament to the test of time. Eventually, it will fall – all things do – but another will rise in its stead. Good fences make good neighbors, someone once wrote, and we all could stand a couple of boundaries in our lives. The biggest one I’ve found is time, and no one ever surmounts it.

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Firelight

It was the lone light in the night. A single spot of warmth. We hovered around it, pressing close, shaking and holding out mittened hands over its heat. Behind us the darkness nudged us closer. The cold kept us together. Together they corralled us around the fire, where we made a friendly circle of flushed faces and sparkling eyes, fire dancing in pairs of irises.

I watch the heart of the fire go blue. I don’t know if it’s a trick of watching the firelight for too long, or if it’s really happening, and I don’t care – I just like the way it looks. A hypnotic and mesmerizing effect, it entrances the senses, and though the iciness laps at our backs and lassoes our feet, we stand there listening to the crackling of the wood, the dogged rush of the wind, the muffled laughter through scarves. This is how we get through fall.

Winter will be another story.

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My Favorite Things

You might be expecting a wish list for the holiday season, and I’d be lying if I said another one wasn’t on the way, but it turns out that my most favorite things in the world aren’t colognes or messenger bags or shoes, but far simpler: words. Here are a few of my favorite strings of them:

You do anything in the world to gain a reputation. As soon as you have one, you seem to want to throw it away. It is silly of you, for there is only one thing in the world worse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about. ~ Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

Better to reign in Hell, than serve in Heav’n. ~ Milton, Paradise Lost

“When the times are a crucible, when the air is full of crisis,” she said, “those who are most themselves are the victims.” ~ Gregory Maguire

Another thing they knew and shared and believed was that no one could really help anyone else, that sadness is solitude, but you could love someone, without reservation or fanfare, just love them, without expecting anything in return and, sometimes, it would be enough. ~ Whitney Otto

There were moments when he looked on evil simply as a mode through which he could realize his conception of the beautiful. ~ Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

“People who claim that they’re evil are usually no worse than the rest of us.” He sighed. “It’s people who claim, that they’re good, or anyway better than the rest of us, that you have to be wary of.” ~ Gregory Maguire

It was about wanting something that you have idealized to the point that, when you have it, you are still longing for it. Something can be yours and not yours in the same breath. ~ Whitney Otto

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