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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Cool Pool Recap

The weather, having been both stormy and hot, made for an interesting week poolside. After work, I’d get home, jump in the warm water, and let the day wash over me. Not that it was all fun and games. I also began cleaning out the attic before we slide completely into Grey Gardens territory and it’s too late to turn back (not unlike this recent battle with the side yard). On with the posts that somehow got posted too…

When it gets hot, the best thing to do is strip off all your clothing and pose for an ESPN photographer.

Tom Daley in a Speedo is always a treat.

Roses, Rufus, and restoring the faith.

Tricky color.

Thyme out.

Hot & wild.

Pablo Neruda too.

Man candy with shades of male nudity.

The Special Guest Blog returned with Colin MacArthur. (Who’s up next?)

Hunks of the Day included: Trey Hardee, David Plummer, David Lurs, Matt Grevers, Seth Rollins, Adam Gumula, and Adam Kenworthy.

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Summer Refreshment

A cocktail off-the-fly. Or is it on-the-fly? No matter. Here’s a quick do-it-your-own-damn-self cob-job of a cocktail that incorporates vodka, limoncello, lemon juice, St. Germain, and a couple of basil leaves – shaken with ice – and poured out poolside to satisfy a summer afternoon idyll. What’s your favorite refreshment for a sunny summer day?

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Special Guest Blog: Colin MacArthur

{It’s been a while since someone has deigned to grace this blog with their writing, so I’m especially thrilled to give today’s post to my online pal Colin MacArthur. I’ll allow him to make the introductions below, but having read his piece it gives me great pleasure to see there are others who defy gay stereotypes, while still managing to embrace them. I’m guilty of at least half of the references (ok, 75% if you want to get technical). The good thing is, there’s room for all of us. And now, without further ado, I give you Mr. MacArthur.}

SPECIAL GUEST BLOG BY COLIN MACARTHUR

My name is Colin MacArthur, 45 year old gay man living in Sydney, originally from the UK. I am a dad to twin boys and hope that they grow up feeling surrounded by love.

It is hard work being gay (well by that I mean being what people think it is to be gay)

You have to maintain a 32-inch waist no matter how old and lazy you get (which I am becoming more and more). You have to have a gym membership even if the heaviest thing you want to lift is the post off the doormat. You have to have an assumed knowledge about all things to do with women’s fashion even if you don’t have a single fashionable female friend (if you are reading this you know who you are). You have to know the words to every song ever performed by Kylie, Madonna and Bananarama and at least 3 other 80’s pop stars (I have to admit this does come in handy at trivia nights). You have to know what all the ‘in’ bars and restaurants are, even if you have lived like a hermit for years (or want to live like one). You have to wear clothes that are in fashion, but not look like mutton dressed as lamb if you are an aging gay (note to self). You have to pretend NOT to fancy the hot straight guy in the office (this one I find hard). You have to look at least ten years younger than you are, and make it look effortless. On that note, you have to have immaculate hair even if you have just got out of bed after 12 hours of sleep (I hate product so struggle with this one too). You have to know someone that your straight friends can buy pills from, and I am not talking about headache pills, even if you have never even so much as puffed on a joint your entire life (ok maybe I did, but I did not inhale). And finally you have to be happy in the face of adversity, there is a reason you are called gay, now go face that firing squad with a skip and a hop and a great big smile on your face…

Of course, you can just be yourself and not live up to the stereotype, which trust me will bring you much more happiness and fulfillment.

{Featured photo is of author and his children.}

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Suck on This Man-Candy

It’s summer.

It’s hot.

And this post is only going to make you hotter.

Man-candy. It’s what this website does best. Open up and say Ahh, because he’s another bit of super-hard sweetness to melt in your mouth. We’ve had some major man-candy here in the past, so here’s a look back at some of the favorites. Sticky and sweet, indeed.

Let’s begin with Tyson Beckford, who seems to getting more and more cheeky as his modeling career progresses. One of the OG male super models, he’s still defining what it means to be handsome and beautiful and stunning all at once.

Another classic, Ben Cohen, belongs in the man-candy hall of fame. He’s been missing-in-action these last few months, so let’s rectify that a bit right now.

The majority of man-candy here come in the form of male models, such as Filip Sjunnesson, Rick Fisher, and Americo Neto.

Some man-candy is appropriately named, like Rocco Hard.

Some man-candy can barely be contained in a single post.

And some cannot.

Man-candy might be red-hot.

Or Olympic gold.

But mostly you like it when it’s basic nude.

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The Happy-Sad Cry

Because the world has seemingly gone mad, and in all the wrong ways, let’s begin this Saturday with something bright and cheery, at least when it comes to restoring some faith in humanity. When the evils of the world threaten to bring us all down, I like to think of things like this (and realize that no matter what happens in this country, there’s always Canada).

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Thyme Out

The pale blooming of thyme demands an almost-microscopic view to be appreciated. Summer is sometimes like that, and when I’m outside away from the noise and the constant bombardment of social media and entertainment, my mind is able to calm itself, returning to the way everything was when I was a little kid. The scope of my view shifts then, and I shrink down and begin to notice all the tiny things that escape me in the usual hustle and bustle of this mad world.

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Hot & Wild Mid-July

The summer of ’16 is shaping up to be a rather alarming one. This is a scary time for many of us (and not just because the official Republican Platform includes gay conversion therapy – WAKE UP, PEOPLE) but I’m not indulging in scare tactics here.

Here, life is beautiful.

The guys are beautiful.

Even the orchestra is beautiful.

In mid-July, the garden exhibits its first hints of losing steam. I managed to capture these wild sweet pea shots before they started their decline, so they appear fresh and new, in the hottest shade of hot pink that the garden can muster. I’ll cut them back almost to the ground, as they are already going to seed, and one of these invasive monsters is more than enough.

For now, enjoy their strong color – the perfect reflection of this hot mid-July moment, when the world around us seems to be going up in flames, and the only thing we can do is recoil at the monstrosity and sad beauty of it all.

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Hallelujah

A moment of peace in the middle of the day.

We all need one.

A powerful performance of a powerful song.

I always a cry a little at something like this.

A cold and broken hallelujah…

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