In certain specific circumstances, a wedge of fruit is appropriate. A small one to slip into a bottle of Corona. A chunkier one for squeezing into a gin and tonic. But for instances where it’s mainly a garnish, and even when it’s used for fragrance and flavor, a wedge is simply too much. It’s obnoxious. Overbearing. Rude. The worst sort of look for an elegant cocktail.
A twist is much preferable.
A twist makes all the difference.
A twist can change your life.
Once upon a time I had a lava lamp. It was in the basement, in our little make-do recreation room where I’d watch soap operas and paint hieroglyphics on the walls. A brown vinyl beanbag provided a malleable surface for marble mazes. A tattered set of plaid furniture from upstairs formed the seating area, and we covered a lightweight wooden storage crate with a small blanket to make a coffee-table. A throwaway coffeemaker stood on a pedestal; I would put potpourri into it and the hot water would spread the scent throughout the small space. The gay boy in me would always find a way. (I’m not sure that my Uncle, who lived on black coffee and cigarettes, was as impressed by the double-duty of said coffeemaker, but he never said anything about the floral coffee that would later result.)
The lava lamp of my youth was a standard red and yellow version, glowing warmly on its stand, unlike the modern-day version you see here. I’m not sure which appeals to me more – each has its merits, each conjures and conveys a different mood. I’ve seen riveting purple versions, and if I were to get a new one, it would probably be that. Not that I’m getting a lava lamp. Some ships are better off not returning to port.
Yet they remind me of that crazy childhood basement room, where extra pieces of unused carpet made for a patchwork floor, and a fold-up cot was mounted on a former kitchen cabinet, rising almost to the ceiling in fun, if slightly dangerous, fashion. We were kids then, and my brother and I didn’t care about cohesive design or sensible furniture. Instead, I worked to create little pools of beauty – in a bouquet of dried flowers, a swath of colorful fabric, or the psychedelic bubbles of a lava lamp.
A few posts in the works: my recent trips to New York and Chicago, reviews of ‘Sunset ‘Boulevard‘ and ‘Hamilton’, and all kinds of closure and emotional mayhem. Somehow, I also need to begin the spring cleaning of the yard, a task that usually requires 40 lawn bags by the time it’s done. Spring is technically here. The air is warm, for now. Excitement is in the atmosphere.
The bad news? Mercury is once again in retrograde. Hang on to your hats.
Tricky month you are, April. Trying us with your incessant showers, keeping us hanging on with your promise of future flowers, why do you tease and displease so? All we want is some sun and fun, and maybe we’ll find some sooner rather than later. I’m due back from Chicago, so this post is a tidy little place-stopper until I resume real-time blogging. Hang on, little tomatoes.
Last April, not unlike this April, was all about The Delusional Grandeur Tour.
April 2015 was all about the Hunks (and a nearly-nude Zac Efron).
Minneapolis provided the backdrop for the bulk of posts from April 2014.
Cocktails, flowers, and shirtless guys – all the usual for April 2013.
April 2012 was more of the same – Madonna and bulges and the like.
Finally, all that remains from April 2011 are Madonna and Tom Ford. The way it should be.
Though they were all over my TripAdvisor account, I neglected putting food stories up during my desert postings, so here’s a quick visual feast for anyone needing a dose of goodies. Needless to say, as one can easily see here, I ate quite well during my desert sojourn, and will bring some inspiration back for a couple of May meals. After all, May is for margaritas.
Our first full week of April has come and gone, and if early predictions of temperatures today are correct, we seem to be skipping straight to summer. Ahh, the roller-coaster ride of the Northeast. And they wonder why I’m moody as fuck sometimes… On with the recap!
Simon Dunn exposed his naked ass to get things off to a rollicking start.
The Madonna Timeline returned with a whimper at first, with this unimpressive ditty.
Zac Efron and the dreaded camel toe.
Nyle DiMarco exposed his naked ass too. (I’m sensing a theme…)
Spring in a single photograph.
Seth Fornea churned butter in nothing but an apron, and it must have simply melted.
My shirt was on, but my pants were off for a new profile pic.
Holding onto the delusions a little while longer.
The Madonna Timeline returned again, this time in good, old ‘American Pie’ fashion.
Hunks of the Day included Aaron Lee Smith, Fabio Fognini, Braeden Wright, Guillaume Cizeron, Andrew Harris and Jake Jensen.
When pressed for a tablescape for a recent dinner (an admittedly first-world problem, but since I don’t live in the third-world we’ll just have to make do), I bypassed the traditional flower bouquets and went with two small pots of ivy. We need green more than ever right now, as winter refuses to limp away. There are dirty patches of snow everywhere, and even with all the rain nothing is getting those eyesores to budge. This was a bandage on that, and it lasts longer than any ten-dollar bunch of flowers.
Soon I will see if I can force some cherry branches, or possibly a dogwood, to hasten spring along. Some things are better rushed.
{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.}
A LONG, LONG TIME AGO
I CAN STILL REMEMBER HOW THAT MUSIC USED TO MAKE ME SMILE
AND I KNEW THAT IF I HAD MY CHANCE, I COULD MAKE THOSE PEOPLE DANCE
AND MAYBE THEY’D BE HAPPY FOR A WHILE…
Chicago: April 2000
A new millennium had broken, and now my heart was following suit.
At the tail-end of my most serious relationship to date, I found myself about to depart Chicago, where I’d moved to make a life with my boyfriend. We’d been there almost a year ~ arriving at the end of summer, kicking leaves through that bright burning fall, and breaking up like patches of ice at the end of a difficult winter ~ but as I packed to leave one final time, I felt a tug at my heart at leaving the sprawling city where I hadn’t quite put down roots. Mostly, though, I felt the pinch of having to leave a man I still loved, even if I knew it would never work.
DID YOU WRITE THE BOOK OF LOVE
AND DO YOU HAVE FAITH IN GOD ABOVE?
IF THE BIBLE TELLS YOU SO…
NOW DO YOU BELIEVE IN ROCK ‘N’ ROLL,
AND CAN MUSIC SAVE YOUR MORTAL SOUL
AND CAN YOU TEACH ME HOW TO DANCE REAL SLOW?
He had started sleeping in his own bed. There’s nothing lonelier than having someone sleep in another bed in the same house. Even being alone is less lonely than that.
I knew he’d made the right decision. In my heart of hearts I knew. But that didn’t make the hurt any less. That didn’t offer much consolation. Being right isn’t the best way to feel better about yourself.
I would hear him weeping quietly some nights after the decision was made. It made me feel better, that I wasn’t the only one in pain. ‘Good,’ I thought to my eternal shame. ‘Good.’
Would it have been better if there had been someone else?
I wondered.
Once, a couple of weeks after we’d already broken up, I caught him looking back at a guy on the street and smiling. Filled with a rage I’d never known, and simultaneously shot through with the knowledge that this was really over, I almost fell to the ground, paralyzed by the sudden sting of it. Instead, I calmly said I’d see him later, then ducked into a store to collect myself. I never let on. He never noticed. We might have gone through life that way if he hadn’t been brave.
WELL, I KNOW THAT YOU’RE IN LOVE WITH HIM CAUSE I SAW YOU DANCIN’ IN THE GYM
YOU BOTH KICKED OFF YOUR SHOES, MAN, I DIG THOSE RHYTHM AND BLUES
I WAS A LONELY TEENAGE BRONCIN’ BUCK WITH A PINK CARNATION AND A PICK-UP TRUCK
BUT I KNEW THAT I WAS OUT OF LUCK THE DAY THE MUSIC DIED
I STARTED SINGING…
BYE, BYE, MISS AMERICAN PIE
DROVE MY CHEVY TO THE LEVEE BUT THE LEVEE WAS DRY
AND GOOD OLD BOYS WERE DRINKIN’ WHISKEY AND RYE
SINGING THIS’LL BE THE DAY THAT I DIE… THIS’LL BE THE DAY THAT I DIE
This was a death for me. This would be the last time I’d ever give my heart so completely, the last time I’d ever enter into anything without a fortress strong, and a barricade. That time of innocence, that beautifully tender time of optimism and hopeful belief ~ I let it die. Maybe all my tears and sorrow were for that, and not just for him. Sadly, pain is pain, no matter what the reason or source, no matter how much one tries to talk or rationalize a way out of it.
Even today, I retain sole rights to the innermost chambers of my heart. Just in case.
I MET A GIRL WHO SANG THE BLUES
AND I ASKED HER FOR SOME HAPPY NEWS
BUT SHE JUST SMILED AND TURNED AWAY
I WENT DOWN TO THE SACRED STORE
WHERE I’D HEARD THE MUSIC YEARS BEFORE
BUT THE MAN THERE SAID THE MUSIC WOULDN’T PLAY
Suzie picked me up to drive all my stuff back to Boston. I showed her around Chicago briefly, but my heart wasn’t in it. There was nothing happy about this visit. As I brought her to various landmarks, I remembered how I had visited them myself, mostly alone, but sometimes with him. We had once watched the beluga whales at the aquarium, right after the break-up, and I remember wanting to cry in the blue-aqua light, peering in at such sadly-captive creatures, ghost-like in beauty and longing. Their perpetual smiles were the cruel masks of nature, and I remember reading something that said the corresponding alchemy of laughing and crying were quite similar in make-up. Again, understanding something does not always make it easier. If anything, you’re at a greater loss.
WELL NOW, IN THE STREETS THE CHILDREN SCREAMED
THE LOVERS CRIED, AND THE POETS DREAMED
BUT NOT A WORD WAS SPOKEN
THO CHURCH BELLS ALL WERE BROKEN
AND THE THREE MEN I ADMIRE THE MOST
THE FATHER, SON AND THE HOLY GHOST
THEY CAUGHT THE LAST TRAIN FOR THE COAST
THE DAY THE MUSIC DIED
We rented a truck and somehow found our way back to the apartment in the days prior to GPS and cel phones. I ran up and down the three flights of stairs a number of times with Suzie and him, and when the last item was loaded Suzie got into the truck and waited. I went back one final time. There was nothing much to say. It had been my longest and most serious relationship. It had been the one I thought would last. It had been… the one. I had no contingency plan, no other way to go.
We hugged. He said we did good. In the kitchen by the back door, we stood beside one another. I had made him dinner there. On chilly nights when the heat wasn’t enough I’d stood in front of the oven trying to get warm. Nothing very momentous had happened in that spot. Until now.
Somehow, by the grace of MapQuest or Suzie, we found our way out. Chicago was entering my rear-view mirror, a vestige of the past, and I didn’t look back until we were well beyond me being able to see anything.
WE STARTED SINGIN’
BYE, BYE, MISS AMERICAN PIE
DROVE MY CHEVY TO THE LEVEE BUT THE LEVEE WAS DRY
AND GOOD OLD BOYS WERE DRINKIN’ WHISKEY AND RYE
SINGING THIS’LL BE THE DAY THAT I DIE
THIS’LL BE THE DAY THAT I DIE
As for this cover of the classic Don McLean song (reportedly written in nearby Saratoga Springs, NY) Madonna did reasonably well at least according to some critics (and McLean himself, who gave her version glowing remarks). It didn’t catch on with the public, but the beautiful video, William Orbit’s luscious production work, and Madonna’s own creamy vocals (backed by Rupert Everett no less, when they were still on speaking terms) worked to create a reprise of musical Americana. The second of her movie-music bridge songs between ‘Ray of Light‘ and ‘Music‘ (the first being ‘Beautiful Stranger’), ‘American Pie’ was a rare non-event in Madonna’s lexicon. Intended to cross-promote her appearance in ‘The Next Best Thing’ (whose brilliant soundtrack had her prints ~ and two songs ~ all over it) ‘Pie’ found her biding her time until Mirwais arrived on the scene.
I was waiting for something else.
Sadness to pass…
Forgiveness to come…
Healing to happen.
BYE, BYE, MISS AMERICAN PIE
DROVE MY CHEVY TO THE LEVEE
BUT THE LEVEE WAS DRY
AND GOOD OLD BOYS WERE DRINKIN’ WHISKEY AND RYE
SINGING THIS’LL BE THE DAY THAT I DIE
THIS’LL BE THE DAY THAT I DIE
WE STARTED SINGIN’
WE STARTED SINGIN’
WE STARTED SINGIN’
WE STARTED SINGIN’
SONG #139: ‘American Pie’ ~ Spring 2000
A sigh, then, before the very last entries for The Delusional Grandeur Tour.
A pause, if you will, before we careen into the final plunge of this ride.
A moment, tucked into the end, and saved just for us.
For the ones who remain.
You know who you are.
It’s been a while since we last posted a proper Delusional Grandeur Tour Book entry, and as we’re down to the final pages, each one brings us a little closer to the end of all ends. I’m not unhappy about that – to be honest, it will be a relief to definitively put a cap on my touring days, and all my delusions. One cannot live on fantasy alone. Even Peter Pan had to grow up, and it all happened off-stage. Still, this boy’s got a few more flights left in him, and while I’m in Chicago this weekend, I invite you to soar in other ways.
First, however, a quick look back at the first eight parts of this final chapter, because they’re each pretty and beautiful and gorgeous in their own way, and the world needs more of that sort of thing now.
On the cover of her classic ‘Like A Prayer’ album, Madonna wore a pair of denim jeans and a rope of beads. I searched for a comparable set for years – decades actually – before I simply made my own. They came out decently enough, even if they are a bit fragile. It adds an element of carefulness that I must abide if I want to wear them. I like that.
Most of us need a reminder to be more careful at times. The human mind is a sensitive receptor, and I tend to forget that. Everyone around me seems to forget that too, and I pretend it doesn’t bother me.
“The sensitivity of men to small matters, and their indifference to great ones, indicates a strange inversion.” ~ Blaise Pascal
It’s not a big secret that showing some skin gets a lot more notice than not showing skin. That’s basically what has fueled this website for the past decade and a half. When people kept telling me to put my shirt on in my Twitter profile, I scoffed at their insistence and laughed at their tens of followers. There’s a method to my naked madness. Besides, I like to transform from time to time, taking cues like a chameleon, donning different guises that include more than skin.
When I was ready to change things up, people were still telling me, in ways far from polite, to put some clothes on, so I kept the shirtless pose up simply on principle (and my own admittedly annoying stubbornness). It was more fun to ask them why they kept looking than to kow-tow to foolish supposed propriety. And again, traffic. Hits. Followers. Skin is always in. Yet I was getting bored with it, and as soon as the complaints stopped, I did it on my own. (Oddly enough, I quickly gained a couple hundred followers once I lost the nipple. Go figure.)
PS – I may have my shirt and jacket on, and even a pair of socks, but rest assured I was NOT wearing pants.
Since when does an old-fashioned butter-churning escapade turn into something too titillating (read: too gay) for Comcast to air it during RuPaul’s Freaking Drag Race? Since now, apparently, as the commercial below was just banned by Comcast in an effort to solidify its evil reputation. Oh well, you know the Boy butter company is only going to get even more publicity from this, so lucky them. I’m more interested in promoting anything that Seth Fornea features so prominently in. (I mean, hello. And hello. And, umm, hi there.)
And to think, the only butter-churning experience I’ve had likely involved some play-acting in Old Sturbridge Village by a woman who would probably give Skip Montross douche-chills. (Buy us a cocktail one day and he’ll tell you all about it.)
When the days refuse to yield anything spring-like, when the skies refuse to give up any glimpse of blue, and when the sun refuses to come out of its hiding place, I turn inward. I keep the days quiet, padding softly through them so as not to startle or disturb the sleeping sun. I’ve long known that threats or demands won’t work on such a giant. Why should the sun do our bidding?
A look back, then, at this favorite photo taken from my favorite place ~ Ogunquit, Maine. I find myself seeking this one out, taken as it was at the end of May many years ago, when the summer spread out before us, and the sun was not quite so timid. We will get there, I’m sure we will. For now, though, it exists in the mind, and in this photo.
If you thought these almost-naked photos of Nyle DiMarco were sexy, feast your eyes on what is coming up below. Wet and wild shower shots certainly flatter Mr. DiMarco, as does a simple white towel (though many would argue the latter is superfluous at best, bothersome at worst). For DiMarco’s debut as Hunk of the Day, it was all about shirtlessness and body oil, and no one was complaining. For another post, it was all about his underwear. Tonight, it’s about wet nudity.
