Category Archives: General

Even if wearing a mask helps me reduce the chance of transmitting a virus by 5%, that’s worth it for me to put one on. I don’t get the people who don’t. These memes offer some perspective. 

Glistening in a stainless steel colander, these fresh cherries are a feast for the eyes and the tongue, a dazzling duo that doesn’t always come to fruition. It’s easy to do one or the other quite well at any given point – mastering the double whammy is a skill best left to Mother Nature. Mothers always know best. 

Fresh seasonal fruit is one of the fleeting joys of living in the world. Even if it’s a chance-grab at some mulberries from a street tree, there always seems to be something sweet lurking around every summer corner. 

Yesterday was my day in the office, so the constant rain wasn’t the killjoy it might have been had the pool been literally waving to me outside the window. As it was, we needed the rain, badly, and it relieved the daily watering we’ve had to do this summer. There were hints of tornadoes on the airwaves, and in the air, lending a tension to all of the clouds and wind. References rife with Dorothy were scattered throughout the conversation of the office, and for lunch I didn’t make my usual walkabout downtown. 

The tension that has come to personify 2020 won’t be letting up for a while, and yesterday’s volatile weather was emblematic of that underlying strain. We’re all feeling it. We’re all a little exhausted from it. But that too came to an end. With the end of the storms came a surge of cool air. A crispness and clarity suddenly appeared, where once there had only been haziness and relentless heat. The blue sky was finally revealed as the clouds rolled away, then slowly turned dark to let the world go to bed with the sweet relief of all the absent humidity. 

August, and its requisite ups and downs, dipped and rose.

It floats on the surface, bobbing with the little waves, occasionally upending itself with the wind. It echoes the visitors from earlier this year, in happier and hardier and more colorful form. Best of all, it gives cheer and amusement to those who gaze upon it. 

This is our Rubber Duckie, a larger version fit for a pool versus a bath. I once used it to obscure my privates in an otherwise-naked pool shoot. (I’m not going to make it easy for you to find those shots – peruse the archives and type some words into the search engine and see if you can locate them. It’s easier than the quest for Carmen Sandiego – has she even been found yet?)

As for its wisdom, return to the first paragraph. Everything you need to know about life, and navigating its perilous waters, is contained there. This duck floats on the surface – it doesn’t go deep, doesn’t make waves, doesn’t cause trouble. It keeps things light and flexible, bobbing with the waves instead of fighting them, going with the flow instead of against the current, finding the easy way through rather than seeking out unnecessary challenges. It also upends itself from time to time, turning over on its side, or even going completely upside down. It doesn’t always keep itself perfectly upright. It doesn’t keep itself perfect at all. It allows the wind to wreck it a little, to fall down, sometimes face down, because it knows it can right itself again.

Where was this ducky when I was growing up? Where was it when I needed the lesson? Maybe it knew not to arrive until this year, when the student was finally ready for the teacher. 

Our pool is finally open! After a number of delays and issues, the new liner arrived and went in, so we were splashing in the water by Saturday. Of all the summers, it had to be the summer of 2020 that had such a rocky and lengthy road to such a simple thing that has always gone smoothly and without incident. You had us to thank for all the sunny and hot weather we’ve had so much of lately, and you will have us to thank for the next thirty days of rain that will no doubt fall now that the pool is operating. On with the recap!

Speaking of pools, here’s a glimpse of another one from a long time ago. 

These #TinyThreads surfaced again. 

This year’s birthday wish list, because no matter what 2020 may bring next, unless it’s my death I will be having another birthday nearer the end of the month. 

The underwear-clad beauty of Ben Cohen. 

Henry Cavill flexes his nerd muscles.

Presenting the Rose-of-Sharon. 

The last moments of July.

August enters.

A Sunday morning for the soul. 

A gratuitous Sunday night scene by Luke Evans.

Hunks of the Day included Josh Rimer, Gabe Kapler, Avery Wilson, Paul Abrahamian, Frederick Ballentine, Alden Ehrenreich and Karl Schmid.

It’s the stillness of early Sunday I think I like most. 

All the wild and crazy Saturday nights I’ve had, all the riotous and gloriously-anticipatory Friday evenings – they never seem to last. The memory is of the Sunday morning when no one else is up, and the world winks at you and you alone, and it’s a secret covenant between just the two of you. 

I do better than most people at being alone. 

That kind of silence and stillness makes most of the people I know uneasy and uncomfortable. They turn to their phones to see who might be up online. They scroll through the texts and fire off a volley of greetings for some interaction. They rummage through kitchen drawers and cupboards and coffeemakers in the thinly-veiled hope that someone else in the house might wake and join them for talking, for distraction, for noise. 

I find solace in solitude. 

It’s always been that way. 

Such Sunday mornings bring a gentle smile to my face, the kind of smile that certain yoga instructors make a part of their practice, a smile that some Buddhist monks carry with them as their resting face – a smile I’ve tried to elicit without force during my meditations, and a smile that has thus far eluded me then. On certain summer mornings, however, I find that smile, and it starts the day. 

If it’s early enough, the perfume of the angels’ trumpet sometimes lingers from the night before, hanging in the thick humid air with potent force. Soon a pair of hummingbirds will flutter by, darting into the salvia and begonia, then flitting away in their magical form.

I let out the sigh of a Sunday beginning again, the sigh of starting over. The happy sigh of summer rebooting.  

Summer’s final full month enters to scattered applause. In this weirdly wild year, we look warily at what may be on the horizon, and hope for the best, or at least something simply not diabolical. A world on edge continues on edge, but the summer lends it a different shimmer. 

The month of my birth has always been a happy one, but tinged with a bit of ambivalence. The first flush of June is the space of celebration and the glorious return of summer. The heat and light-filled month of July signifies vacations and a sense of never-ending sunny days. August is different. 

It starts wth days like high summer – not much different from the July that came just yesterday. About halfway through the month, though, something changes. A coolness seeps into the nights. The gardens, having gone non-stop with all this warm sunny weather, take the moment to take a breath, the ferns starting their shriveling and browning that constant water will only slow, never reverse. You can’t go back when it comes to summer, only forward. 

There is still more sun yet to come, still more heat to annoy and bear. Most of September is summer too, and this year we need to make the most of it. I’m slowing the days in the only way I know – marking and making a moment at least once a day, even if they’re not to be remembered. The act is enough, the ritual is its own comfort. 

August, welcome. 

It wasn’t the best of times, it wasn’t the worst of times – these are merely, well, the times. July is typically more aligned with a happier ebullience, but this is a strange year which sees us at home more than ever and ticking off days filled with home officing and air-conditioned ennui. (I’m making ‘home officing’ a verb to describe working from home because I’m so tired of saying the phrase ‘working from home’ at this point.)

Here, then, lies the last of July. Vacations of the past come floating through the mind, when the scent of privet rides the breezes of Provincetown or the salty sea air of Ogunquit rolls in with the tide. If there are storms they pass quickly, the water dripping through the sun, the relief momentary before the heat returns, and the humidity creeps back up. Summer at its best and worst at once. 

It doesn’t quite feel like we’ve had it properly, suspended in the stresses and new reality of a pandemic and all this social isolation. That’s just how things are now, and how they may be for some time. August beckons… and still the privet blooms.

Most of the people in my world would happily watch Henry Cavill assemble a computer, and this post, with its poor-quality photos, is proof of this. You’re here for a reason. Here are some naked Henry Cavill photos in the event that you want a better look at the goods. PS – Mr. Cavill also makes some sexy appearances here and here and here. You just can’t get enough. 

It’s red alert time: there is less than one month until my birthday. Sound the alarm. All hands on deck. Coordinate those Amazon orders so we don’t have a duplicate of colognes like we did several Christmases ago. Better yet, go outside of the box and just get me any underwear from Tom Ford in size small (they run big). If you’re looking for a guaranteed grand-slam, here are several other offers with links where to get them in timely fashion.

Creed’s ‘Royal Oud’ is absolutely exquisite, and it’s got the richness and smokiness to see if out of summer, which is where my birthday is so dangerously situated. In many ways it was always the last safe celebration of summer. Labor Day was too late. (Helpful shopping hint: Saks Fifth Avenue and Neiman Marcus will sometimes have big single-item sales that extend to their fragrances – these are a steal for cologne, which rarely goes on sale.)

As mentioned many times in this space, Tom Ford can do no wrong. Here are some of my favorite underwear selections – I’ll give you several choices so as to prevent overlap, and even if there is some, that’s fine. There’s always room for an extra pair of underwear. Option one, option two, option three, option four, and option five.

I’m currently inspired by John Sargent Singer and his work with Thomas Keller; the former was friends with Henry James, leading me into this gorgeous cologne, ‘Portrait of a Lady’ which I’ve been resisting for a couple of years, thought it’s been haunting me ever since I first sniffed it in Boston. Fragrance and literature: a match made in heaven. (Again, look into whether Saks Fifth Avenue or Bergdorf Goodman has a sale.)

If you’re still in doubt, there’s always Amazon. 

The temperature is scheduled to hit 98 degrees today because we still don’t have a working pool, and you have Andy and I to thank for all the wonderful weather we’ve had of late. Should our pool ever open again, prepare for the deluge of wet weather, if not downright snow. On with the recap because I’m actually starting to get annoyed now; even meditation has its limits. 

Ghosts of guest books past.

The pretty plumcot.

When in doubt, default to Tom Ford‘s words of wisdom.

Phloxy.

Andy and I met twenty years ago. 

Two decades of A&A.

Reaping the beginning of the harvest.

Give me joy, my boy!

Silent Saturday blooms.

An almost unhappy ending. 

Taylor Swift’s new album ‘Folklore’ is fucking phenomenal. 

Twice Upon A Watercolor.

23 minutes and counting.

Remembering and honoring a friend.

Hunks of the Day included Duncan Rock, Colin Cowie, Bubba Wallace, and Tyler Cameron.

It was at a cast party for one of the summer productions of the Ogunquit Playhouse where we first met Eric and Lonnie in person. We became instant friends, and they were gracious enough to fold us into their friendship circle with ease and assurance, as if we’d been friends all our lives. That evening we promised to get in touch whenever we found ourselves in Maine, and through the years our friendship deepened.

Eric had been the first to reach out over FaceBook, and in person he was just as gregarious and charming as his online posts had been. Quick to engage and laugh, his smile was a wonder to behold. He could summon it with just his eyes, even before the world went hidden behind our masks, or he could use his whole face to widen it and encompass all the joy of the word in one single look. It could be mischievous and cunning when he was cutting with his wit, or quiet and somber when contemplative with the weight of the world. Above all else it was kind and generous, gathering in his loved ones as if in one constant, continuous embrace.

He and Lonnie made one of those couples who become an entity of themselves. It was always Eric and Lonnie, or Lonnie and Eric – the best kind of love and companionship when two people become gorgeously intertwined for all time. We never knew them apart from each other – there was never a time when they weren’t in love.

We were lucky to meet up with them for dinners and lunches in Ogunquit when we were in town. They added to the charm and magic of our favorite beautiful place by the sea, lending the rich resonance of friendship that makes travel even more enjoyable and enriching. My Mom joined us all for a lunch, and she was instantly smitten with them as well. They took to her immediately, and it was a lesson for me in how being open and welcoming to people is its own form of kindness, something I’d never really considered in my socially-introverted world.

They were sweet enough to invite us to their wedding at their home in Grey, and it remains one of the most touching wedding ceremonies we’ve ever attended. On a glorious summer day they stood in their beautiful backyard beside an abundance of flowering prettiness, exchanged their vows, and brought their friends and family together – all of us meeting new friends and falling under the spell of Eric and Lonnie and their uncanny way of making everyone feel like part of one big family. They cultivated friends like Eric cultivated his magnificent gardens – each of us some special daylily or dahlia in their eyes. It was a testament to their own goodness that everyone we met that day was filled with a kindness and grace that I often find missing in our daily brushes with humanity.

That trip also offered us a chance to stay in nearby Portland for the first time, a place that Lonnie and Eric had found so enchanting, a feeling we would discover on our own. We would return a year or two later, meeting up with them for dinner and drinks, and as another summer burned itself into the past we promised to meet up again in Ogunquit.

We never made it there to see them again. Eric was diagnosed with cancer, and I followed his difficult journey from a distance. He managed to throw it off the first time, but another bout ended up taking him. He and Lonnie were able to make one last trip to Mexico, doing what they loved most, and I was always happy to think of that.

His obituary expresses it best: “Eric Stoddard Baxter completed his life circle.” He did indeed, and what a wonderfully full and rich life it was. Now, my thoughts turn to Lonnie, who keeps Eric’s spirit and memory alive in all that he does. Another friend gone from this earth, but not distant from our hearts.

After dissuading a pair of robins from nesting next to our patio, I stumbled upon their second attempt at a nest deeper in our small backyard, cunningly camouflaged within the variegated foliage of the Wolf’s Eye Chinese dogwood tree. There, in the crux of the branches, was an intricately-woven marvel of engineering that housed a trio of the tell-tale blue eggs (hence the original nudge away from heavily-trafficked areas such as the patio – had we allowed them to stay there, we would not have been able to walk past without risk of territorial attack).

I was happy to have the nest where it was, since I was the one who oh-so-unceremoniously put a kibosh on their original location (as is my habit this year, it seems). This was much better, and afforded me the opportunity to visit and keep track of their progress. Every day I would walk out to the protective canopy of the Wolf’s Eye dogwood, gently part the branches to reveal the nest, and from a safe distance snap a few photos. 

Checking on them as the hot days unfolded, I finally found them in the midst of breaking through the bright blue shells, their tiny pink bodies entering the world, so pure and unprotected. So devastatingly vulnerable. How could such tender and delicate things ever survive this world?

Somehow, they lasted – first one day, then two, and soon they were taking more recognizable form. Fuzzy, downy fur developed into the tiniest feathers. Beaks protruded and elongated. Eyes eventually opened. Life took its course against all odds. 

The baby robins grew little by little, becoming more animated and engaging. When awake, they would crane their necks upward, straining to reach whatever figure was in the vicinity – parent or not – so eager were they for sustenance and care.

On the morning of our anniversary, Andy called me outside to a commotion in the Japanese maple across from the dogwood tree. It seemed all the birds of the neighborhood were screaming and squawking, gathering and hopping from branch to branch in excited, agitated, and apparently terrified distress. The robins were most upset, but there was consternation in the cardinals, concern from a catbird, and fear from a pack of finches. The cries sounded like anguish and warning. I thought immediately of the robin’s nest, and cautiously walked in that direction.

Pulling apart the curtain of dogwood branches, I found the nest upended and in disarray. It looked like something had pulled it apart. No baby robins were to be found in the tree, or under it. I assumed there was one where the birds had gathered in such upset but when I approached they began the typical swooping and dive-bombing that meant I was not welcome there.

At that moment the sky was about to open. It had turned dark gray and was just waiting to pounce. I hurried back toward the patio, when I came upon one of the baby robins. Calling to Andy, I asked what we should do. He asked if I could right the nest. I did so, and he scooped the little robin up in his hands and deposited it back in the nest. The birds continued their agitated vigil near the Japanese maple, but the storm had arrived so we had to rush inside. We’d saved one, and who knew if they would return to the nest anyway.

Andy surmised it was an attack from a hawk or possibly a crow – both have been known to raid other nests. The thunder sounded and the rain poured down in a deluge that I hoped would be healing. It passed quickly, and when we looked back outside a cat was prowling the area, licking its lips – the likely offender. It slinked back toward the maple where the birds were once again screeching. I did my best to chase it away. I looked for the other little birds but couldn’t find them. 

We watched from back inside the house to see if the robins would return to the baby we had returned to the nest. We didn’t have much hope. But when the rain subsided and light came back into the sky, we saw an adult with a worm in its mouth fly over to a branch near the dogwood, and then, in a wonderful moment of relief and hope, it returned to the nest and fed the last remaining baby. Together, Andy and I had saved one little bird from the cruel attack of life. It was all we could do and, on that morning, it was enough. 

Ever since a childhood of disappointing Crackerjack boxes, I’ve come to be suspicious of anything promising a surprise inside. And ever since an adulthood as a gay man, I’m even more skeptical of anything promising a surprise inside. At this point, the best surprises inside are those that arrive unannounced and unhyped, such as in this plumcot.

The plumcot is a cross between a plum and an apricot. I love both of those, so it makes sense I would love a plumcot, but such hybrids don’t always produce good results. (Think of when two pop superstars come out with a tepid duet – hello Britney and Madonna and the travesty that was ‘Me Against the Music’.) In the case of the plumcot, I was hopeful, but not quite ready to put all the stone fruits in one basket.

Luckily, I was happily rewarded – this particular variety of plumcot is absent of pesky fuzz, carrying the initial bright tartness of an apricot before resolving gloriously in a juicy burst of the plum’s sweetness. Best of all is the striking surprise color of what lies just beneath the otherwise subtle skin. Entire color schemes are built around shades like this. It’s the color of summer, of sweetness and heat, of all that is vibrant and living and brilliant.

Back when all parts of this story took place, I wasn’t quite as adept at figuring out when someone didn’t like me as I am now. Years of practice do that for you. Before 2000, however, I still had trouble believing there were people who really didn’t care for me. (I was nothing if not happily delusional.) When it became apparent on those occasions when I rubbed people the wrong way, it didn’t feel great, especially when I wasn’t expecting it.

It was early spring when Alissa and I walked into the Harvard Square Structure – one of my former stores (though I’d only worked in the Harvard location a few times – my main stores were on Boylston and at Faneuil Hall). On this day I was already retired from my retail years so we entered as customers, and what a lovely change in roles that could be. As we rounded a table of sweaters, I saw my former co-worker John standing there, looking at me with a distinctly unfavorable slant. He’d always been a little edgy with me, so at first I just attributed it to that, but soon it became clear more was at work.

There was something off about him, and while I’m accustomed to the general public having a problem with me for no apparent reason, it’s different when that comes from someone I once considered a friend. He wasn’t just testy, he was aggressively angry, and it was instantly awkward. I tried to turn it round, and I thought I had, asking him how he was doing and requesting his updated contact information now that I was back in Boston. He wrote his number down, handed me the paper, and then went back to being nasty. At this point we were about to leave, and Alissa noticed the strange exchange, and backed slowly toward to the door, uncomfortably part of this odd turn of emotion.

“What was that all about?” Alissa asked, just as taken aback by the insanely tense atmosphere we had exited.

“I have no idea!” I said, wracking my brain to think of any possible slights I could have committed against him, but nothing came to mind. We’d spent an uneventful night together a couple of years before that, but nothing had happened so there was no reason for such viciousness. It was truly puzzling, because I usually know if I’ve done something to cause that kind of annoyance. More puzzling was the number in my hand, and why it was even proffered.

Immediately, I felt offended, and some pride was on the line. Partly as a show for Alissa, and partly as a way to save face to prove that he meant nothing to me, I walked dramatically to the nearest garbage can and tossed his phone number nonchalantly into the metal mesh without looking back. Some people find it easier to hold onto hate than love. I didn’t want that to be me, and so I genuinely let it go. Later, though, years later, I tried to make sense of it.

———————————————————————–

I’d met him when he came to work at Faneuil Hall as a relatively new manager. Gawky, bespectacled, and scarecrow-thin, he wore his clothes cinched tightly with a belt, and everything was big and baggy on him. We hadn’t gotten off to the greatest start. Early on we somehow got into a discussion on Madonna (and by somehow I’m guessing I insisted on it) and he had dismissed her with some disingenuous disdain. When certain problematic people find out how much I love Madonna, they will occasionally take jabs at her just to bother me, even if they like her. That’s all it took to leave me suspect of his taste and sensibility.

He was also openly gay, which by that time in my retail career was not in the least uncommon. While he was rather dorky, and I typically adored dorky, he wasn’t of romantic interest to me, which boded well for our working relationship. As for how well we worked together, I never had a problem when someone was ‘above’ me in the office or retail hierarchy. As the manager, he had the authority and say, and I was cool with that. It’s been one of my keys to success in every job I’ve ever held. Respect the chain of command, even if the chain took advantage of that. John didn’t do that, but I always knew if I pushed it he would not hesitate to pull rank.

After work one day we ended up going out with a group and crashing at my place at the end of the night. Both of us were too tipsy to do much more than pass out in the bed. I was between boyfriends so it would have been perfectly acceptable, if slightly messy, had we hooked up, but I wasn’t interested. That was something new for me. If a man with a working penis was in my bed, most often I made use of it. You don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. As the grogginess wore off and the first light of day crept into the room, I felt him behind me, pressing his body into mine. I thought about it.

Thought about turning toward him and kissing him.

Thought about how that might affect a working relationship.

Thought about how I didn’t want any of it.

He put his arm around me. Maybe it was just a simple act of affection, a friendly sleepover with nothing but platonic over-and-undertones.

I moved away from him and willed myself back to sleep.

It was how I said no back then.

We resumed our work, and a year or two later I moved store locations to be closer to the condo. Though I didn’t see John as often, he was still part of my retail family, and invited to all the parties I threw. That December, at a ‘festive gathering’ apparently, where I was introducing my old work friends to my new boyfriend, John attended, as testy as ever, so I mostly avoided him. He knew others there and was not on his own, and he was good enough to sign my guest book:

December 5, 1998 ~ ‘Alan – I promise you nothing, and in ‘nothing’ I promise you my respect and love. I would never discount anything that didn’t come at too high a price. I’ll never be able to afford you and it has nothing to do with how much I make. Keep being you. Love, John— This was probably more sentimental than I intended – please disregard.’

That would be the last time I saw him until our negative run-in at Harvard Square. During that interim I would move to Chicago with my boyfriend, break up and move back to Boston, and then feel for the shift of the seasons to save me. I never thought of John again after our mysterious falling-out until his name came across a FaceBook feed. I recognized the photo before the name. 

He had died a few years before the FaceBook entry. I barely remembered his name, but then suddenly it all came rushing back, in all its mixed emotional messiness. I hadn’t seen him in so long and had never been that close to him to shed any tears. It haunted me in a different way. In the way it had happened so many years ago and I never knew. The cold callousness of not knowing that. He succumbed to a disease I can’t remember, something I didn’t know about, and it ended up killing him. Before he was even forty years old. That’s what was so haunting about it too. I would never find out what caused the anger toward me. I can’t ask Alissa what she remembers from that time either, as she is gone too. 

The age of losing friends had begun.