When I was a kid I hated big birthday parties. My social anxiety was such that those crowds of children always filled me with dread, and the idea of being forced to attend one (I had to be forced because I simply would have chosen not to go) was akin to going to the dentist or some other utterly unsavory experience. I agonized over it in the days beforehand, psyching myself into finding something to plan after the prescribed party date and time so that I could look forward to that. In the end, I attended their parties, sometimes letting go and having a good time, sometimes holding tight to my shyness and going through the minimal amount of motions to remain under the radar. As a child, I’m not sure how I felt or knew I was different – I simply did. It informed everything, holding me back as much as it enabled me to develop other forms of entertainment and socialization.
As for my own birthdays, happily taking place outside of the realm of school thanks to the late-summer timing, I kept things extremely small – usually only Suzie and one or two others joined in some excursion afforded by the limited number of people I wanted to be involved. Without a big group, trips to the Great Escape or a beaver sanctuary (because I was obsessed with beavers – ah, the irony) were an option – something that wouldn’t be possible if we’d included every single one of the 25 or so kids that were in an average class then. For that reason I was always grateful that my birthday was tucked into the end of August – no huge to-do of having an entire classroom of people singing Happy Birthday while I handed out cupcakes from a recycled Christmas box. It also afforded me the option to be different, and not go the traditional route of a big party with a bunch of kids playing silly party games, then sitting around and having cake and ice cream.
I’ve maintained that preference when it comes my birthdays as an adult. Small affairs, often only with Andy coming along, are how I’ve done things for the past twenty years. The one time I did try to throw an actual birthday party was for my 30th, and I sent out an invitation that touched on a long-ago suicide attempt which seemed to dampen attendance: hardly anyone showed up – proof that other people may have felt similarly about big birthday parties. No matter, it re-enforced my instinctual desire to celebrate things in a quieter, more intimate way, and since then that’s basically what I’ve done. There was a fun New York City jaunt for a Broadway show a few years ago, and a magnificent stay at the Lenox Hotel in Boston for my 40th– both were spectacular in excitement level, and minimalist in approach and participation.
For this year, I feel even less inclined to indulge in any sort of grand gesture or happening, content to spend a few days in Boston with Andy, finding our way in this new world and exploring old and new haunts alike. Like our anniversary, things will be done in a simpler way, eliminating stress and worry, and allowing for more genuine enjoyment of the day.
THEY SAY I SHOULD WATCH THE SHIT I POST, OH GODDAMN
SAY I’M TURNING BIG GIRLS INTO HOES, OH GODDAMN
THEY SAY I GET GROUPIES AT MY SHOWS, OH GODDAMN
As I quickly approach whatever unplanned birthday shenanigans may come to pass, it seems only fitting to celebrate in my birthday suit, which I’ve largely neglected to do in recent months just because it’s been done to death. The categories for ‘Male Nudity’ and ‘Gratuitous Male Nudity’ come with a long list of accompanying posts and links – proof that an examination of the physical body in all its unadorned fashion has proven as ubiquitous as flowers or Madonna in these parts. During the last couple of years, however, my interests have careened to other places and poses, changing the overall arc of this site, but every now and then a song calls for some sort of exhibitionist celebration, and rather than retreat into the shyness that social isolation has only emboldened, I’m challenging my online self to return to the glory that once provided so much clickbait.
SPENDING ALL YOUR TIME TRYNA BREAK A WOMAN DOWN
REALER SHIT IS GOIN’ ON BABY, TAKE A LOOK AROUND
IF YOU THAT THAT I WAS RATCHET WITH MY ASS HANGIN’ OUT
JUST WAIT UNTIL THE SUMMER WHEN THEY LET ME OUT THE HOUSE, BITCH
The last couple of years have seen the aforementioned turn for this blog, something that can only be appreciated and understood more fully and accurately with the benefits of hindsight and time. The way a person changes and evolves, the shifts and gradual gradations of movement a person makes – these are slow and incremental, often going unnoticed on a day-to-day level, and only more fully fathomed when months and years begin to pass and a bigger picture is revealed. This is one of those moments when I see how many corners this site has rounded, how vastly different it is from just a few years ago. The good thing is that I’m generally happier with the way things are, more fully confident and genuinely secure in the person I’ve become. It’s not something that can be completely taught, and it’s not something that can be accomplished with the help of anyone else. The essential nature of such growth is based on an autonomy of existence – from there, and only from there, can one invite anyone else into their world.
(TALKIN’, TALKIN’, TALKIN)
GIVE ‘EM SOMETHING TO TALK ABOUT
SICK OF RUMORS, BUT HATERS DO WHAT THEY DO
HATERS DO WHAT THEY DO
Meanwhile, people are left to conjecture and whisper, sit and spin, and the rumors and the water will swirl about, encircling and clouding the proceedings if one lets all that stuff become anything more than what they are. My teenage self consistently reveled in the rumors – both in starting and being the topic of them – more often than not at any expense. Anything to enliven the doldrums of an adolescence in Amsterdam, New York. Anything to brighten up a summer. If I had to be the subject to add some drama to the stultifying non-events of our upstate New York world, so be it. “The only thing worse than being talked about is not being talked about.” You know the routine. Was it right or wrong? I don’t think it’s possible to say. The answers to all of life’s questions are rarely so clear-cut. Sometimes the mere rearing of a question is an end unto itself, the very symbol of a question mark a curvy symbol of nothing more or nothing less than possibility.
ALL THE RUMORS ARE TRUE, YEAH
FAKE ASS, FAKE BOOBS, YEAH
Y’ALL BE RUNNIN’ WITH FAKE NEWS, YEAH
CARDI AIN’T POPPIN’, NO, THAT’S A MACHINE (HUH?)
NOBODY LISTEN, THEY BUYIN’ THEM STREAMS
THEY EVEN POST IT ON BLOGS OVERSEAS
AND LIE IN A LANGUAGE I CAN’T EVEN READ
THE FUCK DO THIS MEAN?
Doffing clothing and diving into the warm water of a pool is about as innocent and scandalous as summer gets these days. So much of hype and hoopla and controversy lives solely in the heads and minds of those of us with nothing better to do. I’ve jumped into that wet and messy quagmire, and for quite some time got quite a bit of enjoyment and entertainment out of it. Now I’m just looking for something closer to peace.
But before we go all ‘Blowin’ in the Wind’ here, there’s still room for some butt-baring, ass-shaking, booty-bombing extra-ness, the kind of show that once dominated this silly site in ways that now feel more quaint and innocuous than they ever did before. Perhaps the rest of the world finally caught up with my antics, degrading its prim and proper stance and sullying itself in the sort of primal urges that supposedly made sex and nudity such dirty concepts in the first place.
LOOK, I’M A BRONX BITCH WITH SOME POP HITS
USED TO POP OFF WHEN THEY POP SHIT
BUT I’M CALMED DOWN AND I’M LOCKED IN
AND MY RECORDS LIVE IN THE TOP TEN
LIZZO, TEACH ME ABOUT BIG GIRL COOCHIE
LAST TIME I GOT FREAKY THE FCC SUED ME
BUT I’MA KEEP DOIN’ WHAT I WANNA DO
‘CAUSE ALL RUMORS ARE TRUE, YEAH
And so, we celebrate the body in all its wondrous forms and manifestations. We celebrate creativity and self-expression in all of their messy and mistake-laden turns. We celebrate the love and the kindness and the fun that make living in this world halfway bearable. Far too often, I’ve lost sight of that, allowing myself to be pulled down into the whirlpools of self-doubt and nagging insecurity, into the dim hollowed-out places where the echoes of vicious whispers are given life only through my own imaginings. We are our own worst enemies, when there are real ones enough out there, ready to believe the worst they can conjure about you – especially when it’s never really about you in the first place. I fell prey to such projection in the past, but no more.
On the verge of another birthday – my 46th if you can wrap your head around such a round juicy number – I slip into my birthday suit, dive into the water, make a splash, and laugh hysterically when I break the surface.
WHY YOU SPENDING ALL YOUR TIME TRYNA BREAK A WOMAN DOWN
REALER SHIT IS GOIN’ ON BABY, TAKE A LOOK AROUND
IF YOU THAT THAT I WAS RATCHET WITH MY ASS HANGIN’ OUT
JUST WAIT UNTIL THE SUMMER WHEN THEY LET ME OUT THE HOUSE, BITCH
No idea if this is the rainiest summer on record, but it certainly must rank up there, and we are all sick of it. After missing much of last summer thanks to an out-of-commission pool (when every day was sunny and 90 degrees) we had such high hopes for this season, and it largely sucked. But still we made it work, still we made it through… still, there was beauty. And some beauty is only present when it rains.
All this water also made for a happy garden. Most summers, by this point, find the garden gasping for rain, and a good soaking to see them through any hot days that are to come. It’s a chance to put forth one final growth spurt, a last run at sending out some fall roots before the long sleep of winter.
My friend JoAnn and I were texting the other night about the lengthening shadows of August – and the fall about to arrive. Neither of us was exceptionally sad about it – there were other sorrows over which to ruminate, and the turn of the seasonal calendar is nothing to be mourned, even if it is the end of summer. A summer that never ends would not be summer at all.
And so we pause, quietly, for a day of August appreciation, even if it’s in the rain.
Engaging in the ancient art of blogging for the past couple of decades or so, I’ve found my creative output here has grown, while my other creative projects have dwindled. The last time I made anything worth mentioning was in 2019 when ‘Once Upon A Watercolor‘ came out, and prior to that it was the flight of fancy known as ‘The Delusional Grandeur Tour‘. These days most of my effort and work goes into what you are reading right now, as well as a few social media outlets.
FaceBook is largely unreadable these days, thanks to a toxic mix of idiotic commenters, misinformation, and downright lies perpetuated and abetted by a ridiculous and arbitrary set of rules that censor marginalized groups and allow hate groups to flourish. Mostly I post like to this blog and photos of friends to tag, keeping the content I see as free from awfulness as possible. I’m also quick to block or unfriend any moron that posts anti-vac shit or COVID jokes because I don’t have the space for such stupidity.
Twitter is markedly better at keeping things lighter, and I’ve culled and curated followers who share a thirst for the honest and good. There are trolls that abound there, but the block feature silences that nonsense quite well, and I’ve learned to not engage with anyone who doesn’t start from a sound place of truth and factual data.
Instagram is, oddly enough, one of my least-used social media platforms – strange because for so much of my life visual enticement has been a steady accompaniment to the words I use. It’s also the least annoying when it comes to the trolls and awfulness that are so prevalent on other sites, so I will do what I always intend to do and try to focus on cultivating a bigger presence there. The only problem being that I’m largely sick of the selfie (I’ve been taking selfies since 1986, so forgive me if I’m already over it).
Anyway, the melding of my social media personalities with my real life has been increasing and growing more cohesive as I become more comfortable with being myself, foibles and all, in every part of my life, and so the interchangeability of an online persona with a real human becomes more pronounced. That’s quite a relief when one has hidden behind an image that hasn’t always translated to a reality. This is what it means to begin living an authentic and genuine life – or at least the closest we can get in today’s fragmented, amorphous world.
{This whole hoity-toity post is merely an attempt to get you to follow me on Instagram, Twitter, or FaceBook.}
Reigning Prince of Peloton has already been crowned Hunk of the Day here (back when such a thing existed), and now he has earned a Dazzler of the Day honor as well. Thanks to his engaging and inspirational Peloton sessions, Rigsby has made a fitness name for himself while help putting Peloton on the map of popularity. (Anyone who grooves to Britney Spears is all right in my book.)
Caffeine has never been a friend of mine. I’m a decaffeinated guy – always have been. When regular coffee or tea enters my system, my hands start shaking, my heart starts palpitating, and it’s a big hot mess. Words start pouring out of my mouth in rapid-fire fashion and suddenly no one around me can handle it. I almost had to leave work for the afternoon because a stupid Starbucks barista once made my coffee with caffeine. It’s just not a good feeling, and in four and a half decades I’ve largely avoided the stimulant at all costs.
That said, I’m not naive to think that I can’t have any caffeine – it’s in far more places than some of us realize (hello chocolate) and even in the most decaffeinated products there is still some present. There have also been times when I’ve been given regular coffee or tea and managed to survive without extreme effects. So when I did some reading up on matcha, and how the caffeine is reportedly released slowly over time instead of in a massive jolt that one gets in coffee, I decided to give it a try.
Having been a fan of matcha-flavored items for a while, I did some research and it seemed that the ceremonial grade matcha was the best for drinking straight – something I wanted to do rather than dilute or modify it with milk or honey. I’d already had the chasen from some decaf matcha experiences, and I found a recommended brand of regular matcha from Ippodo Tea.
Following recommendations from various online sources, I sifted a small amount of matcha, then added a coupe of ounces of water that had been boiled and cold slightly. Using quick stirring motions in an ‘M’ or ‘Z’ pattern, I mixed in the matcha powder with the water until there were no discernible lumps (also why the sifting is an important part of the process).
From there, I added the rest of the water and stirred it well. The color was a deep, earthy green, matching the taste. It wasn’t bitter, and it wasn’t sweet. There was very much an umami thing going on – hints of the sea were more prevalent than anticipated – and the earthiness was palpable. I can see why many don’t take to it right away, but I loved it. Definitely part of the fall repertoire going forward.
“Drink your tea slowly and reverently, as if it is the axis on which the world earth revolves–slowly, evenly, without rushing toward the future.” -Thich Nhat Hanh
These adorable little veggies – which at first glance look like miniature watermelons – are actually a micro cucumber, sometimes called a Mexican cucumber according to the internet – and they were gifted to us from our neighbor Ken. Despite its shape, I find it hard to get excited about a cucumber, so when Andy told me about them on the ride home from work, I largely let it go in one ear and out the other.
When I got home and saw them, all of that apathy went out the window. Tiny and cute, and the very visual embodiment of little watermelons, they had me instantly smitten. Holding them in the palm of my hand gives you a slightly better perspective and rendering of their size.
As for the taste, I was not sure what to expect beyond the usual, slightly-bland water-heavy non-remarkable dullness of a typical cucumber, but I was wrong: these are bright and crisp, with a slightly tart lemon-like zing that absolutely sings in the mouth. They may very well be my new favorite vegetable – I just can’t imagine the numbers needed and the amount of cutting required to make a dish. There’s an end-of-summer challenge in that – and I love a challenge.
Having already been named a Hunk of the Day here at such a young age, there was time for Billy Gilman to stage a second act – sure to be one of many for someone whose talent has grown and evolved over time. Today he earns the Dazzler of the Day crown thanks to his dazzling song ‘Soldier’ which is the latest highlight of his career. See his website for more evidence of his brilliance.
Sit with me, if you will, in the almost-silence of the moment, a moment about to be broken ever so gently by this Air, given a revision by the Klazz Brothers and Cuba Percussion – a companion piece to go with this song, another song of meditation in a world of murderers and car crashes and chases that end the only way any chase can really end.
Come, join me in the attic loft, where it is peaceful, and perfectly removed from the world below. The light, though only from a small window, and that blocked largely by a rickety air conditioning unit, magnifies itself in the pale white walls and floor, in the cream rug, and the beige chair. It is a place of tranquility, a place to be gentle with oneself, a place in which to listen – to the wind, to the rain, to the air, and to the music.
It is a place of comfort, with its calming palette of monochromatic, non-striking colors – all whites and creams and beiges – and a small collection of fragrances, most fittingly from Jo Malone – the beige version of scent. There is tea for you, too, however you like it. In my cup, it’s a simple, unamended hibiscus and elderberry herbal variety – something that works for mid to late summer, when the nights are getting cooler. Nature waits for no one, pausing for no wish to delay the sunny season. Still, I am finding peace with that too, in the way it so invariably happens, ticking away with steady advancement.
This Air is like that too, offering a steady and delicately pulsating piano accompaniment to the hands of the clock – the hands of time. Dive into the moment. Pause here.
Ideally, and if we keep working at it, our tastes and design preference evolve and grow over time. When I first encountered the style of Jonathan Adler, I wan’t quite ready to appreciate and love it, but back then (mid 90’s) I was in the midst of some very questionable obsessions. These days, I’m in full adoration of the bright and whimsical elements his work brings to a room, and so he has been named Dazzler of the Day here, because dazzle is what he does best. Check out his site here for more gorgeousness.
Andy helms the morning ride to work when I need to be at the office, for which I am eternally grateful. After driving myself to work for several years and dealing with a car left out in the heat of summer or the snow and ice of winter, this sort of arrangement is something that I never take for granted. On this particular morning, I slid into the passenger seat and set my striped bag on the floor in front of me, which contained a yellow lunch bag, topped by a pink and persimmon coat, on which I tossed a purple mask. Taken together, they provided a cheerful pop of color that suddenly cheered the otherwise uneventful entry to the work day.
Color makes me happy, and this unexpected combination zapped the gray of an overcast day entirely away. It’s the little things that get us through a sleepy morning.
Pine seedlings seem to have found a hospitable season with all the early rain we’ve had (even finding a place to sprout in the waterlogged wood of an aging fence). That’s all this post is about, and all it needs to be about. There is a little sliver of hope in this seedling, no matter what happens to it.
She very well may be the reigning star of this summer’s Olympic Games, adding to her medal count to trigger records right and left and all over the place thanks to her speed and consistency. This is Allyson Felix, who nimbly earns a Dazzler of the Day from her winning efforts at the Tokyo Olympics.
The finches have been having a daily party at our stand of cup plants, joining the masses of bees and a couple of butterflies, and now and then an iridescent dragonfly. If you want to see the one in the opening GIF, you’ll have to look fast, because it’s gone in a flash. The finches are even more flighty than the hummingbirds we’ve had lately, disappearing with the first movement of the door or the opening of a window. As such, we treasure their golden beauty all the more, because it is so fleeting. They will stick around until well into the fall, as the cup plant’s seed-heads continue to ripen. Doing their part to ensure the proliferation of future cup plants around the yard, the finches work on their picking and pecking to disperse the seeds far and wide. It’s not exactly welcome at this point as we have enough cup plants to last for a lifetime, and their roots reach down early and intractably, but I cannot begrudge the finches their food and their fun.
Taken along the Esplanade, this sunset closed out a recent day with Suzie in Boston, the adventures of which have already been posted here. Instead of rehashing that already, I’m taking this picture as inspiration to slow down and lean into these summer days before they’re gone.
Sit for a spell before the light goes out.
We can begin the drudgery again in the fall.
For now, relax – swim, sleep, walk, read, eat, enjoy…
