The Easter Bunny and I have been trauma-bonded since that fateful photo shoot in the former Mohawk Mall, in which I was held against my will on a terrifying bunny’s lap. Of course you will get that shot below, because it’s everybody’s favorite fucking picture of me, people being gratuitously thrilled whenever I’m in peril or in uncomfortable situations. Maybe that’s why nothing fazes me anymore – you’ve all worn it out of me over the years.
Since no one was going to even bother protecting me from my fears, I was forced to face them head on, from the moment they paraded me into the dim lair of this Easter Bunny from hell to all the other hellish events I fought against over the years. And don’t tell me you didn’t know I was terrified – it’s on fucking film! (See below – that’s not a happy or calm kid.)
This simple crocus has always felt rather magical in the way that it just sort of pops up without advance notice and blooms, often earlier than I’m able to get out into the yard for spring cleaning. This year I almost missed it, but Andy took to opening the pool in record time when we had pair of days above freezing, and I ventured out to find it in full flower, bravely sending up its floral signal even before its foliage fully unstrapped itself.
Out of a hundred corms that I planted one fine fall, this lone crocus is the only one that survived the hungry greed of rodents in the area, somehow managing to escape their voracious hoarding habits. They often get the last laugh, as some years we’ll find the blooms felled by their nibbling before I even get a chance to grab a pic. If they weren’t so cute we’d probably shoot them.
This particular crocus is in a more hospitable section of the yard, as it has managed to come up earlier than our Lenten rose, which is usually one of the first to bloom. This year it is well behind, thanks to all the snow and cold we’ve had. I haven’t even gotten around to begin the yard clean-up which will help to show it off better, and with rain forecast for the foreseeable future, that may take a while.
NOTE: Michael Breyette was an artist who left behind a powerful visual legacy, a legion of fanatically-devoted appreciators of his art, and a world in dire need of his particular beauty – the images of hope, of lust, of summer, of love – and always, even after his departing, of life. It’s been a few months since we lost him, and I finally decided to post a letter I wrote to him after his death – my own way of grieving and hoping to heal, and trying to convey to his husband, and the world, how much he is missed. Artists may live on in their artwork, and there is some solid bit of solace in that, but when you know the artist, when you adore the person, that doesn’t diminish the great pain of missing them.
Dear Michael – Once again I find myself writing to a friend who left this world too early, and once again I feel at a loss of how best to say something that meets the sorrowful moment at hand. Despite a couple of decades of correspondence, I’d only ever met you once – at a gallery show in Provincetown. In person you were just as kind and friendly as your messages – a happy and increasingly rare circumstance of a favorite artist living up to the image and idea of a favorite artist. You were one of the first artists to immortalize me, seeing some bit of beauty in the raw assemblage of bones and flesh that once comprised my physical being. It came at a point in time when I wasn’t sure who I was – and you saw something that was somehow worthy of your artistic pursuit.
I’ve always fancied myself an artistic spirit, but never a great artist. You saw beauty in my words, and suddenly I could begin to see beauty in what I created. The fact that an artist I’d so admired might share a similar appreciation of beauty in me did more for my ravaged self-esteem than just about anything else. Your talent didn’t always seem wholly of this world. It was fantasy and hope and the embodiment of carnal desire. It was both pure and naughty – a celebration of sex, eroticism and lust. Above all else, it was the expression of beauty and love – and beauty would always be your gift to the world. It remains your lasting, immortal legacy – the physical creation of a body of work that makes living in our world so worthwhile – which is why your sudden absence is so keenly felt by all whom you touched.
Whenever I needed a jolt of inspiration, whenever I wanted a reminder that there was passion and artistically-brilliant execution in motion, and whenever I just needed some reassurance when times felt dark or sad, a visit to your website and a perusal of your work was all I needed to right myself.
It wasn’t talent alone that drew me to your creations, it was the heart of the man behind them. Only one who truly loved others would ever be able to so magnificently render fellow human beings in such a splendid manner. That became evident in our correspondence and shared admiration. When you asked me to write a foreword to your book ‘Summer Moved On’, it was an honor, a privilege, and a humble gift that would never quite do your exquisite work justice.
In that work, and in so much subsequent work that would come in the years that followed, your spirit and love for life would shine through. It was a thrill to watch as you gained rightful recognition and success in such a harsh and competitive industry. Throughout it all, you retained your uncompromising vision – portraying us in unabashed scenes of love and beauty and idealism. You put the best versions of ourselves forward, committing them to paper and canvass for all time, in scenes that inspired, moved, intimated, teased, celebrated, and lived in the way that the best artwork does. You did it so well, and with such remarkable consistency, that perhaps we took your gifts for granted, the way humans tend to do when the greatest artists live among us. I hope you knew how much your work mattered, how much it resonated and touched so many of us lucky enough to view it. I hope you understood how much you meant to me, and to so many people who had the honor of being in your presence or the presence of your work. In so many ways, you remain the living sentiment that beauty never dies, that art always matters, and that good people remain in our hearts even after they are gone.
Protest songs have played a vital part in times of history that feel dreadfully wrong – and we happen to be in such a time right now. Hailing from Ozark, Arkansas, Jesse Welles earns his first Dazzler of the Day crowning thanks to his multi-talented work as singer, songwriter and performance artist. Speaking out against the ills of the world, especially the terrors of our country at this moment in history, is dazzling enough – doing it with melodic brilliance and musical prowess is the stuff of power and grace. Check out his website here for upcoming tour dates and more.
According to the literature and folklore on the walls of the new Qamaria location in Latham, the first cup of coffee was brewed in Yemen, where’s been cultivated and traded for over five hundred years. My caffeine threshold would not stand for any sort of traditional Yemeni coffee, so I opted for their Iced Matcha Latte – about the most caffeine I can safely handle, tempered with a hefty amount of milk. That and the pistachio honeycomb dessert made for a delicate and not-overly-sweet sweet-treat on my first excursion out after a nasty sinus cold.
Both drink and dessert are subtle and refined (or maybe I still can’t quite taste everything) and the older I get the most I find myself enjoying the less bombastically sweet desserts of mile-high frostings and sundaes spilling over with hot fudge and caramel. On this early spring evening, one of the first without a discernible chill in the air, this green pairing is its own elegant celebration of the season.
It couldn’t happen to a shittier person – and Pam Bondi more than earns this FAFO Award because despite consistently kissing Donald Trump’s ass for the past decade or so and ruining the Department of Justice, she just go unceremoniously fired by the biggest scoundrel/scumbag/convicted felon alive. That’s gotta sting, even if she never had any shame. I mean, the Attorney General getting fired by a felon? You can’t wash that stank off! Trump’s own announcement that Pam will be going into the private sector on some future date sounds like the kind of karmic retribution death knell that Miss 50,000 DOW truly deserves. (And you know the felon already pardoned her – how else to keep her lips sealed about the Epstein Files in which he’s accused of child rape?)
When Suzie asked when I last had a library card, the year 1986 came to mind, but it may have been before that. We were discussing libraries and what I needed to get a library card to start visiting the library near our home – turns out daily coffee/tea and cookies/muffin take a deep toll on the monthly budget – and Suzie said libraries were free because we as tax-payers have already paid for them.
I don’t really have a need for the book aspect of a library (I usually buy the books I want to read because I believe in paying an author for their words). A quiet sanctuary in which I write these blog posts and a possible new project was more what I was seeking, and as I made my way into the florescent-flooded ‘low-volume zone’ of the second floor, my memories of the deserted pin-drop quiet space of the Brandeis University libraries (especially the science one) faded as a group of tables seemed mostly filled with tutors and students – taken together it didn’t sound very ‘low volume’ at all. Still, some surrounding background noise never bothered me much (see my beloved cafe culture, which I found myself missing already) and though it had been decades since I’d done any work in a library, this felt thrillingly familiar.
At a nearby table, a tutor awaits her student. When she arrives with her father, he says he will be right back with Starbucks and asks the tutor if she wants anything. She politely declines, and he departs to pick up the food for his daughter. In about fifteen minutes, he returns with one of those very berry hibiscus drinks, which he puts down on the table along with a cookie. He goes back downstairs and the lesson continues for a few minutes, until the girl spills her drink all over the table. Frantic motions by the tutor save the girl’s phone and some papers.
What a difference a generation makes, I think. If I’d had to be tutored in grade school my father would NOT be bringing me Starbucks in the library. Though if I had a child I also would not be bringing them Starbucks in a library, so maybe it’s not a generation thing but an Ilagan thing.
I’m just getting used to writing in this atmosphere when a wailing cry sounds from downstairs. Someone is having a tantrum, while a group of other kids is running around to the point where some lady yells, “Boys! Somebody’s going to get hurt!” I couldn’t tell if she meant by accident or by her own hand.
By the time a very young girl, left to her devices with no accompanying adult in sight, stands right beside me to hide from someone below in a one-sided game of hide-and-seek, I know my time at this library has come to a close, at least for this afternoon.
Maybe I just need to find out when the downtime is and try again then. Or maybe I give up a new bottle of cologne and pay for cafe culture for another month.
Illustrator and artist Justin Teodoro uses his fashion pedigree to inform his witty and wonderful work, easily earning him this Dazzler of the Day crowning. His artwork has appeared in a multitude of publications including WWD, WSJ, Vogue, Amica, W Magazine, Glamour, GQ, Hercules International Magazine, Harper’s Bazaar, US Weekly and OUT Magazine. Most impressively to this Madonna super-fan, Justin played a part in the iconic costumes of The Celebration Tour. His newsletters offer an intimate at his artistic process, with witty observations and clever behind the scenes revelations, giving a fascinating glimpse into the mind of an artist. Check out his marvelous website here.
Opening the new month with a full-frontal spread by Harry Styles wasn’t on anyone’s radar, but here we are and who are we to deny the people what they want?
Freshly celebrating his ‘Kiss All The Time. Disco, Occasionally‘ album, Styles has given us a scintillating new era, with new images and exciting sounds, expanding his sonic landscape to include some flourishes of disco while retaining his signature Styles style. As for the full-frontal pics, keep scrolling, scrolling, scrolling… and going down, down, down…
Actress, activist and model Hunter Schafer has made a name for herself by fighting for trans rights – a fight more important than ever as this country seems hellbent on denying basic human dignity to all of its denizens. Schafer studied painting and design before working as a model and making her way into acting, where she has since been mesmerizing audiences in ‘Euphoria’. She earns this Dazzler of the Day for refusing to be anything other than her authentic self, and doing it with beauty and grace.
“I’m the nerd on the sales team,” the man at the table nearby says to his female companion, who doesn’t seem to understand.
“The nerd?” she asks, as I realize English isn’t her first language.
“Do you know… nerd?” he asks again.
I can’t hear what she says, and they seem to move on awkwardly.
This is very clearly a first date. Exploratory questions like ‘Where are you from?’ and ‘What do you do?’ and the difficult-to-read-what-it-means, ‘Do you see yourself here forever?’ are stilted and awkward, but mostly I wish the guy had steamed out the bold horizontal wrinkle in the middle of his short-sleeved sweater. But maybe that’s a good sign – at least he cares to fold his sweaters neatly instead of jumbling them up in a ball. Or maybe he’s a serial killer. Always so hard to read a first date… Still, a little steam on a wrinkled sweater never hurt anything.
With English not being her first language, some of his jokes are falling flat, taken literally and then followed by her questions on what was said; repeating a joke takes all the life out of it. (At one point she said she was traveling to Puerto Rico soon and he said he was jealous. She earnestly asked why he was jealous of her, and he awkwardly said, “Oh, of your going to Puerto Rico…”)
Ahh, first dates… are they still for finding lifelong love? Are they just perfunctory foreplay for sex? I have no idea, and no interest in really finding out. They talk of what they did during COVID, where they went to school, former roommates… and I think that the lives we lead seem so mundane when put into bullet points for first date fodder. And at the same time, how absolutely fascinating all those things become when you are interested in the person sitting across from you.
I can’t tell if this minutes-old couple is feeling any of that. Does love at first sight exist? The closest I’ve come would be Andy. It was pretty instantaneous for my part (though he’s the one who said ‘I love you’ first, in the very bar where we first met, and in his own special way).
Listening to this couple it sounds as excruciating as it does exquisite, if they are into each other. Abruptly, it ends. She says something and he exhibits a surprised look. They put on their coats and walk outside, separating and going to their respective cars. Based on his look of dejection, I don’t think it went well.
