Monthly Archives:

July 2016

Sweltering Recap (And More Naked Nathan Adrian)

High summer is upon is, as is a heat dome, and I’m reminded of my hero Lee Bailey’s July mantra: water, water, water – and keep watering. Coupled with weeding, cleaning out the attic, and the rest of the house, it’s a stay-home summer of long-overdue tidying. Of course, it’s more than that, but I’ve yet to determine how best to work it all out here. For now, the usual look-back at the week that came before:

Let’s begin with a bang. The Hunks of the Day: Robert Sepúlveda Jr., Arthur Nory, Keith Milkie, & Max Whitlock.

Madonna and her Messiah.

Another lovely pair.

A light laugh.

The night I took my Mom to a gay bar.

Give it up for Roxette!

High, high hollyhocks.

Balling & bucking it.

Animal!

Summer sun(flower).

 

A very naked Nathan Adrian.

Our one true anniversary.

Salvation approaches…

Salvation arrives

Salvation at hand.

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The DG Tour: Spring Thaw Salvation ~ Part 2

Flowering cherry, signifier of spring.

Oh, early bloomer,

You beckon summer,

Even as you’ll disappear

Long before she arrives.

To put on such a splendid show, without waiting for an audience, is a certain act of defiance.

It is also an act of love, of beauty for the sake of beauty.

There is a lesson in all of this.

You must be still and quiet to glean it.

You must pause and be patient to learn it.

The world will do everything it can to obscure such mysteries.

I’m not sure why it should be that way.

Pink and green, such wonderful colors after a winter of grays and browns, backed by a sky of blue.

So richly saturated your heart wants to burst again, like it does every year.

The balm that erases and heals a winter of hurt.

This is what beauty does.

This is what art does.

Taken together, they can change the world.

“An artist, under pain of oblivion, must have confidence in himself, and listen only to his real master: Nature.” ~ Auguste Renoir

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The DG Tour: Spring Thaw Salvation ~ Part 1

Every spring arrives with the promise of hope, and the hope of salvation. After the tumults and little deaths we go through in the winter, the return of spring is a happy thing indeed. Far more than that, it is the chance at re-birth and resurrection. We could all use the opportunity to begin anew, to start over again, to re-structure our world.

As we did in the beginning of our journey, we pass through more portals. There is nothing to fear now, and the feeling with each approaching passage has a very different tinge to it than it did at the start.

Perhaps we have accrued a little wisdom, or changed our way of thinking.

Maybe it was something simpler, but somehow more profound.

At any rate, the spring brings the great thaw – of hearts and minds and earth and stone.

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Salvation Is Almost Upon Us

The Delusional Grandeur Tour shall resume shortly, and it’s been going for about a year now, which means we are very close to the end. I had such grand hopes for this summer, but with everything that has happened – and is happening – in the world, I’ve cut out some traveling and focused on making my home a little better, inside and out. It’s my version of nesting, I guess, minus the pesky lifelong albatross of a baby.

The summer of ’16 will go down as a very dark one, and I push back against it by improving the homefront. I like our house to be a little sanctuary – not just for us, but for everyone who visits – especially in such times as these. Not unlike this website, which you hopefully find a soothing and safe respite from the rest of the wretched internet. And not unlike The Delusional Grandeur Tour Book, which seeks to thrill and entertain as we make our way into the penultimate chapter. For now, a quick look back:

THE DELUSIONAL GRANDEUR TOUR: LAST STAND OF A ROCK STAR

01)  Intro/Curtain – Part One, Part Two, Part Three

02)  Sunset Pool – Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five

03)  On The Road Hotel – Part One, Part Two, Part Three

04)  Rock Star Addict – Part One, Part Two, Part Three

05)  Animal Demons – Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five

06)  Steam Punk Birdcage – Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four

07) Red Riding Wood - Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five

08) Winter Top Hat - Part One, Part Two

09) Warrior Retribution - Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six, Part Seven, Part Eight

10) Cologne Glamour Fashion - Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

11) Samsara Healing Water - Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5

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Our True Anniversary

Some couples – particularly same-sex couples – have multiple anniversaries. Because it was not legal for us to get married for so long, we had no choice. In our instance, we celebrate our “real” anniversary today – for it was on this day that we met. That was sixteen years ago.

A lot has happened in the intervening time, and I wouldn’t change any of it.

The Night We Met

The Day We Married

Happy Anniversary, Andy!

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More Nude Nathan Adrian Pics

Because most of you couldn’t get enough of Nathan Adrian naked the first time around, here’s Nathan Adrian nude for the second time. Tom Ford once advised that tan lines like this aren’t bad – they actually give the illusion of lift. Not that Nathan Adrian’s ass needs any augmentation whatsoever… Naked Olympians are body-beautiful by nature.

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Suzie Sunflower

Suzie was over for dinner the other night (a dinner at which she fingered my wattamelon, but that’s another story) and it’s a fitting point of reference as she was present for the two most salient memories I have of sunflowers. Both are summer tales, meaning they’re light on substance, but imbued with the spirit of summer, at least for me.

The first was a spur-of-the-moment trip to Provincetown in late August of 1995. It was my virgin trip to that famed gay gathering spot, so I was naively unaware of the popularity of the place on summer weekends, even if it was rainy. Luckily that rain made travel a little lighter, and we rolled into a rather quiet town that was damp with the fallen water, but still warm and balmy. Of course there was no room at any of the inns, so like Mary and Joseph with a sequin purse as our baby, we made our way until Suzie found a pricey but doable pine-knotted room that would easily suffice for a night.

The sunflower memory that comes from that weekend was based on one that was blooming beside a gate near the house. I snapped a photograph of it as it shook off the rain and unfurled its sunny face to the world. Scentless itself, it took the smell of summer on as its fragrance, and every time I looked at the framed photo – which followed me from Amsterdam to Boston to Chicago and back – I smiled with the memory of my first weekend in Provincetown with Suzie.

The second sunflower memory I hold is a passing blur. Speeding along some wretched never-ending highway in Montana as we made our way across the country, a field of sunflowers stretched out on either side of us. A sea of yellow and warm summer faces enjoyed the last light of the day as we sped along, bringing Suzie home from her Seattle stint. Once again we were on the hunt for an elusive hotel at prime travel season, where the great park of America stretched its tourist call as far as Montana, making it difficult to locate available lodging. Eventually we did, rolling into some tiny and sterile Super 8, but I already had my sunflower memory to keep me warm at night. The rest was just summer fun.

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A Raccoon at Copley Place

A nocturnal animal meandering around at the noon hour is a thing of worry. Rabid or worse, they should be avoided at all costs. Of course, when you see a raccoon right outside Copley Place in the middle of the day, you can’t help but gawk a little and take some pics. Besides, there were two women between me and the animal, so if it charged they were my safety buffer. (I’m an equal opportunity scaredy-cat, and I’ll gladly hide behind man, woman, or child if it means saving my ass from rabies.)

Fortunately, this critter seemed less inclined to charge and more interested in escaping our prying eyes by climbing into a nearby tree. Of course, from here on out I’ll have to watch above me as I pass this particular stretch leading to Dartmouth. There’s always something.

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A Boston Ball and Buck

It’s my brother’s favorite store, and he used it as inspiration for his own current brick-and-mortar endeavor. This is Ball and Buck Outfitters, a rustic yet charmingly elegant collection of mostly-men’s gear and accessories, and a throw-back to a by-gone era, where shaves and haircuts are given old-school style. Located on Newbury Street, it provides a badly-needed foil to all the high-end holier-than-thou fashion neighbors whose glossier goods sparkle and shine out of the average person’s reach.

Some men’s stores have fizzled and faltered in this vicinity (Jack Spade, Marc Jacobs) but others are thriving thanks to their unabashed embrace of traditionally masculine rituals with a modern-day twist. There are jackets and coats that offer both form and function, a selection of colognes and soaps and beard oils for everyday manscaping and pampering, and various goods and sundries that should fulfill the pickiest male on any wish list. (I tend to go for a gift certificate and let my brother do the work.)

Subtle earthy shades and sturdy fabrics comprise most of the pants, while softer offerings are on hand to cover what’s above. A definite dose of Americana imbues the place as well; the American flag is a recurring motif that somehow doesn’t overwhelm.

Don’t be put off by all the guns and shooting paraphernalia – the friendly staff is genuinely interested in making your shopping experience a good one, and will happily engage or disengage with customers as they read fit.

As mentioned, there is an on-site barbershop like your Dad or Grandad used to frequent, and well-worth an afternoon’s stop to go back to a time when guys indulged in taking care of themselves. (Some of us never stopped.)

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Beauty High in the Sky

Hollyhocks are a favorite garden plant of mine, but I haven’t grown them for years because of their susceptibility to rust and beetles. After seeing this relatively healthy stand of them, however, I may give them a go next year. While they are technically biennials (leafing out the first year and flowering the second before giving up, they reseed with such reliability that most people consider them perennials for all intents and purposes.

There are double pom-pom varieties that can be quite stunning, but they’re a bit too over-blown for me. You don’t need much more impact than their sturdy height and color. In gardening, less is so often more. When spires like this reach to the sky, there’s no need to gild the lily. Or the hollyhock.

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Fading Like A Flower

It started earlier this year, with the burnt tips of the Ostrich ferns giving warning that their feet weren’t quite as wet as they’d like to be, particularly without the usual shade provided for them. Since then, it’s continued, as frond by frond has burned out, quite literally, curling in on itself and drying up until it crumbles to the ground.

The flowers are around the bend too. This is the time of the year when things begin to fade. It’s too hot and dry for the fresh green exuberance of the garden to continue unabated. Thus, the long slow slide out of summer marks its doleful beginning.

In a time, where the sun descends alone
I ran a long long way from home
To find a heart that’s made of stone
I will try, I just need a little time
To get your face right out of my mind
To see the world through different eyes

Everytime I see you oh I try to hide away
But when we meet it seems I can’t let go
Everytime you leave the room I feel I’m fading like a flower…

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Taking My Mom to a Gay Bar

One of the more touching stories that came out of the Orlando shooting at Pulse Nightclub was that of a mother and son who had gone out to dance together. Such an advance in our cultural landscape was enough to bring a tear to my eye, but reading about how this woman had also beat cancer a few times, and was simply out supporting her son and dancing the night away made it even more affecting. They were in my mind as my Mom and I were recently in Boston for a condo meeting. As we walked by Club Cafe and saw the memorial candles flickering before a rainbow flag, I knew we had to go in. Club Cafe had been the very first gay bar I ever entered, and suddenly every gay bar was imbued with a bit more import.

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It was 1995. I was only twenty years old, but my friend John (the Structure store manager at the time) said getting in wouldn’t be a problem. “He looks better dressed and more professional than either of us!” he reasoned to his wary friend who was along for the proposed jaunt to Club Cafe. We were just finishing up our shift at Structure and John had invited me to join them for some dancing. I was wearing black pants, a white shirt, and a velvet vest. Hey, it was the 90’s, and I was an International Male devotee, Structure clothing be damned.

That fall I was transitioning from Brandeis to Boston, and, whether I knew it or not, from college kid to young adult. The brisk breeze of the season swept us along the cobblestoned history of Faneuil Hall all the way to the brownstones of Back Bay. I will admit to being a little nervous about getting into the club, but John reassured me that my outfit would get us in without any sort of ID check. More than that, I was a little nervous about what it would be like. Would they think I was arrogant? Would they think I was pathetic? Would they think I didn’t belong there? Would they think my vest was hideous?

When you’re a gay person going into the very straight world, these are the sorts of questions you ask yourself every single day. They become second nature, and so it becomes second nature to doubt and wonder about yourself constantly. If you’ve never had to worry about such worth on a daily basis, you cannot know what this does to a person. That’s the onus I had to overcome when walking into Club Cafe that night.

We made it past the doorman with ease. (God, I thought, do I really look that old already?) Suddenly, we seemed to be in a sea of people. Music videos played on small screens above our heads, as patrons danced and moved in a mass of unity. I joined them, half-heartedly dancing, but all I really wanted to do was watch – and so I did. What I saw was neither groundbreaking nor extraordinary in any objective sense, but to me it was a portal to a secret world for which I’d been searching my entire life. The mood was exultant, unembarrassed, giddy, dramatic, happy and authentic. There was laughter and smiles, some moody mayhem and lovers’ quarrels, and even a few sad-looking loners. Mostly, though, I was taken by how comfortable and carefree everyone was. No one was on-guard or afraid, no one was pretending to be straight, and no one was ashamed. Best of all, for someone who gets noticed in ways both good and bad, I went completely unfussed-over or bothered. For one of the first times in my life, I was quietly and nonchalantly accepted as one of the group. My ‘otherness’ did not merit mention. Not my vest, not my hair, not my heritage, not even my wit or charm – and at long last I felt at ease.

Once again, if you’ve had the luxury of being around people like you all your life, you cannot understand or comprehend the profound shift in perspective that being around similar people suddenly produced. More than a weight being lifted off an already-heavy heart, this was a revelation – a transcendent experience that illuminated the possibility of happiness and freedom. The only thing I’d been taught about being gay up to that point was shame and fear and silence. Two decades of that can do irrevocable damage to the soul, but somewhere in my heart I’d harbored the hope that I was not bad, that I didn’t need to be ashamed, that I was not less than anyone else. Two decades later, I think I’m almost there.

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As my Mom and I sat down with our gin and tonic and glass of wine, I looked around. There were far less people about, but the same easy and relaxed atmosphere prevailed. I told her how this was the first gay bar I’d ever been to, and I had one of those full-circle moments that most people dream about but never have the fortune to experience. On that night, remembering what happened in Orlando, we did it for that mother and son who would never go dancing again.

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A Lovely Pair

One of the many joys of the garden is when a pair of plants placed beside each other comes into beautiful complementary bloom at the same time. In this case, a Shasta daisy goes head to pretty head with an Agastache, and the battle is one of beauty and grace and perfect harmony.

It helps that each has a lengthy bloom season, at least compared to some plants whose blooms are spent in a day.

I do find myself favoring the purple cool panache of the Agastache, but daisies carry their own potent charm, so I guess I’m still torn. It’s a very pretty place to be.

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The Madonna Timeline: Song #128 ~ ‘Messiah’ – Winter 2015

{Note: The Madonna Timeline is an ongoing feature, where I put the iPod on shuffle, and write a little anecdote on whatever was going on in my life when that Madonna song was released and/or came to prominence in my mind.}

Madonna doesn’t always get the credit she deserves for some of her lyrics. Yes, she has a tendency to go a bit banal at times – and I know no one wants another waiting/hesitating/anticipating couplet – but if you dig into her deep cuts there are some jewels of gorgeous poetry at work, such as in this installation of the Madonna Timeline – the miraculous ‘Messiah’ from the stunning ‘Rebel Heart’ opus. The majestic track, with its dramatic orchestral flourishes and impassioned delivery ranks among Madonna’s very best ballads – a blending of ‘The Power of Goodbye‘ and ‘Falling Free‘ with a little ‘Drowned World: Substitute for Love‘ thrown in for good measure. In other words, a track that can cut you to tears – and I absolutely love it.

I AM THE PROMISE THAT YOU CANNOT KEEP.
REAP WHAT YOU SOW, FIND WHAT YOU SEEK.
I AM THE SORCERESS DOWN IN THE DEEP.
I AM THE EARTH UNDER YOUR FEET.

Winter.

The sky is dark gray, despite the early hour.

There is a brutality in the air, in the scent of smoke and snow.

An acrid metallic taste left on the tongue like blood.

An empty stretch of holidays, surrounded by family and friends, and feeling acute isolation.

Forlorn, forsaken, and forgotten – and from that we forge our fortitude.

Or we wait for another to rescue us.

A savior.

A messiah~

We seek him in the sky, on every distant horizon.

We wait in joyful hope, on every solemn occasion.

We think he will come, and change everything that’s wrong.

I AM THE MOON WITH NO LIGHT OF MY OWN
YOU ARE THE SUN GUARDING YOUR THRONE
I HEARD THE ANGELS WHISPER TO ME
LOOK FOR THE SIGNSHE IS THE ONE…

A son who never quite felt loved, who had to go out on his own to find unconditional acceptance.

A man who never quite felt loved, who had to be out on his own to realize his worth.

And I did that.
I went into the world to find what I could not get at home.

It was love – the love of another person who didn’t care that I was gay, who didn’t care what I looked like, who didn’t care that my jacket was Gaultier.

Yet it was elusive.

Hidden.

Unknown.

Fumbling in the darkness, I could not see where I was meant to be.

I could not find the one.

I’LL LIGHT A CANDLE HERE IN THE DARK
MAKING MY WAY TO YOUR HEART
I’LL CAST A SPELL THAT YOU CAN’T UNDO
‘TIL YOU WAKE UP AND YOU FIND THAT YOU LOVE ME TOO
‘TIL YOU WAKE UP AND YOU FIND THAT YOU LOVE ME TOO

By the light of a candle, late in the night, I chant my prayers.

The flame wavers, distorted by salty water, and multiplies in shards of kaleidoscopic light.

Shadows on the wall encroach on the single source of illumination.

They approach but they never quite reach it.

The light is untouchable.

I’LL BE THE BRIDE THAT IS MARRIED TO LIGHT
YOU ARE THE DAY, I AM THE NIGHT
WEAVE YOU A BLANKET OF SILVER AND GOLD
I’LL KEEP YOU WARM, DO AS I’M TOLD

Loneliness makes us do strange things.

Sick, sad, twisted, desperate things.

A lack of love does that too, until we reach a point where our desperation is written in everything we do.

Hurt begets hurt. Pain breeds more pain. A generous heart is doomed.

We put up with less than we deserve because we have been so beaten down.

For every queen, there is some deluded notion of a dominant king.

Such power plays are deeply ingrained in our history. Their poisonous roots run deep, housed in darkness, buried in cold. They can be masked as protection, disguised as safety, but they rot you from the inside out. The sudden wilt betrays a lifetime of unhappiness.

I NEED YOUR STRENGTH, IT WILL KEEP ME FROM HARM
I’LL BE YOUR QUEEN, SAFE IN YOUR ARMS
DON’T WANT TO GET TO THE END OF MY DAYS
SAYING I WASN’T AMAZED
I’LL LIGHT A CANDLE HERE IN THE DARK
MAKING MY WAY TO YOUR HEART
I’LL CAST A SPELL THAT YOU CAN’T UNDO
‘TIL YOU WAKE UP AND YOU FIND THAT YOU LOVE ME TOO
‘TIL YOU WAKE UP AND YOU FIND THAT YOU LOVE ME TOO

Then, all of sudden, and just when you were about to give up on the whole thing altogether, the key: acceptance.

Resignation.

It takes a great many battles and wars before there is any sort of peace.

But there – here – it was, arrived at after numerous attempts at love – at the very moment you realized you didn’t need it. Maybe you didn’t even want it. There’s a victory in that too.

A sad victory.

Because not every victory means you won something.

Sometimes a victory is merely escaping certain death.

I’LL LIGHT A CANDLE HERE IN THE DARK
MAKING MY WAY TO YOUR HEART
I’LL CAST A SPELL THAT YOU CAN’T UNDO
‘TIL YOU WAKE UP AND YOU FIND THAT YOU LOVE ME TOO

 

Awakened, you rise and repeat the mantra…

 

‘TIL YOU WAKE UP AND YOU FIND THAT YOU LOVE ME TOO

 

You say it with bone-chilling conviction, with all the desires you ever spent or wasted now conjured like ghosts backing up your army of one.

 

‘TIL YOU WAKE UP AND YOU FIND THAT YOU LOVE ME TOO

 

And all those you’ve ever loved, all those you’ve ever wanted to love you, and all those who didn’t know the first thing about love suddenly dissipate into nothing. It was only ever about waking up to yourself. You have no control over anyone else.

You never did.

No one does.

Love – true love – only arises when you learn to let go.

 

‘TIL YOU WAKE UP AND YOU FIND THAT YOU LOVE ME TOO

 

At the end – and only at the end – they do.

 

SONG #128: ‘Messiah’ ~ Winter 2015
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Hamburgled

For anyone else who needs a quick laugh on this Monday, here you go.

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