Turning 40 is a big deal for most people (present company excluded), but I have a feeling that my friend Skip is going to sail through it without issue, as he tends to be more pragmatic and sensible about such arbitrary matters. Since today is his 40^th birthday, I’m breaking with the usual black-out posting schedule for Tuesday and putting this up so he gets the honor that he is due.

To the best of my memory skills (which deteriorate by the minute) the first time we met was at my Venetian Vanity Ball – the holiday party we were throwing that year. I’d only heard about him from his then-girlfriend Sherri, but I trusted her judgment implicitly and figured he was a good guy. (Good people bring other good people into our lives.) Most of our co-workers who knew him said the same thing.

I greeted many friends that night, old and new, but only Skip’s introduction sticks out in my memory, which is slightly strange because it was so long ago – 2005 to be exact. At the time I had dark red hair (to match a dark-red Venetian-inspired ensemble) and Skip had, well, more hair (which he mostly kept hidden under a dapper cap). I sensed he had done his best to dress for the occasion, and anyone who makes such an effort gets my respect. We spoke a bit, but like so many other things I can’t recall anything earth-shattering or specific. It would take a while before we became friends, which is usually how the best friendships come to be.

Over a dozen years have passed since that first meeting, and in the way that destiny often designs it our friendship grew organically. He completely set up and designed this website as it now stands, bringing his web-building expertise to my utter lack of HTML knowledge, and after a few power meetings at our respective houses, one of us suggested we check out a movie at some point. The rest is happy history. By now, I’ve probably gone on more movie man-dates with Skip than with my own husband, and while it began with a shared love of cinema, it’s turned into something more.

I’ve never had many straight-guy friends, and at that point in my life I didn’t have the energy or desire to make new ones, but once in a while someone comes along who is supposed to be part of your journey, and if they seem to value you in return, so much the better. Soon our movies included a pre-game cocktail (and my introduction to the World of Beer) over which we’d discuss what had been happening in our lives since the last night out.

Far more than flattery or awe or simple admiration, Skip offered something that I don’t often feel I get from many people, friends and family included: a complete lack of judgment and an apparent enjoyment of my company. You cannot know the relief and exultant joy it is to be around that when the entire world seems hellbent on judging and appraising your every single move, to say nothing of how badly we judge and appraise ourselves. He also liked to talk, which is a nice break when you spend most days explaining things twenty thousand times to the same few people. Skip offered wisdom and a philosophical slant on life as it should be, and he showed me new ways of looking at things that I never would have considered otherwise. We were a good sounding board for each other, and on those movie nights we could escape from our daily lives and be, for a few hours at least, completely free of baggage, of worrying about whether what we say might be misconstrued. I could even wear sweatpants and he wouldn’t even notice.

Since that holiday party evening when we met almost thirteen years ago, we’ve expanded our hang-out time to include an annual outing to see the Boston Red Sox (check out last year’s side-spitting event here and here) and there are persistent, dogged and wildly-unfounded rumors of a possible podcast for some vaguely uncertain future date. In all our time together, there are a few things that have never changed, and I hope they never do: I’ll always ask if there is a new decaf soda at the concessions stand, Skip will always offer to play his memorization game with any game bartender, and we will always recount the tale of Thor to anyone who will listen.

There’s not much we can count on in these dark days, but the safety and comfort of true friendship continues to give me hope.

Happy birthday Skip – and many happy returns of the day!

We mourn the loss of an hour this past weekend, but we are picking up the pieces and moving on with some extra light later in the day. The ‘one to grow on’ portion of this post refers to a bonus post coming tomorrow – so be sure to come back for that, especially if your name is Skip and you’re turning 40. Onto the last week…

It began with a reminder that winter is still in full-effect. 

This snowy owl found a perch on which to roll with the winter storms. 

Our annual Mother’s Day weekend in New York is coming together nicely. 

Chinatown, at night. 

A big-ass collection of salacious and gratuitous links with lots of male nudity. 

Share and Cher alike. 

Adam Rippon began to bare his ripped body. 

Capitalizing on all things Stormy of late, this is a counter-programming post of psychedelic summer shenanigans, the likes of which would likely not be allowed on FaceBook or Instagram or Twitter, given those social media platforms’ insistence on prudish behavior. But you know you can always find the scandalous and salacious right here, where we drop trou and shake our noses and butts at the proverbial staid and stalwart. A quick search through the categories here will give you instance access to all sort of shameless tomfoolery:

• Bulge (I mean, hello)
• Gratuitous Nudity (well duh)
• Hunk of the Day (always classy)
• Male Nudity (hardly ever classy, often just assy)
• Naked Male Celebrities (the name says it)
• Shirtless Male Celebrities (where cross-referencing gets sticky)
• Underwear (I mean, come on)

To say nothing of David Beckham, Ben Cohen and Tom Daley…

An absolutely mesmerizing video of a snowy owl riding out the winter on the rolling ice seems a fitting way to pass this evening. If I had a coat of feathers like that, I’d perch myself in a similar place of peace and meditation.

In the heart of the maelstrom that is our latest winter storm, the snow blows and throws everything into a frenetic, chaotic haze. Lost among the swirling snowflakes and billions of ice crystals is the hope of spring. I know it’s there, it’s just out of sight, hidden among the harshness of winter. Beneath the snow, the garden is still asleep. Like a kid on Christmas morning, I want to rush in and wake it up, drag it in its sleepy, rumpled state to the edge of snow, and make it wave the magic wand of warmth to force the winter away for another year.

Instead, winter still holds the upper hand. My eyes sting with the cold impact of suicidal snowflakes. Kill or be killed, and so I trudge on, struggling to gain an advantage, to find my focus again.

We must create our own oasis in the midst of this desert of winter.

The post-Oscar glow is still in effect as we look back on the last week. In many ways it was a tumultuous time, thanks to wildly-dramatic weather and equally-dramatic movie moments. 

March entered like the proverbial lion, but I’m holding out for the lamb.

A naked Darren Criss showed off those Hot Criss buns. 

This website has been around for fifteen years. And they said we wouldn’t last…

Anyone else going through Olympic withdrawal?

The witch is back. 

Twenty years ago Madonna released her greatest album thus far, and it completely changed my life. 

There hasn’t been a more moving movie than ‘Call Me By Your Name’ in years, at least for me. (And if you need a drink after seeing it, check out The Decimated Peach cocktail.)

Obligatory (and some might say obnoxious) Oscar commentary. 

Most of our Hunks of the Day last week were by request (so keep asking and you shall receive): Zac Smith, Miguel Ángel Silvestre and Scott McGlothlen. 

If I have the energy and the desire, I’ll be updating this with my own special brand of obnoxious Oscar commentary. As much as I want ‘Call Me By Your Name’ to win everything it’s up for, I know that’s not going to happen. But I’ll watch to see if Jennifer really does show up with Brad, and all the rest of it. Keep coming back here to see how much I feel like adding. (Or watch in more instantaneous time on my Twitter or FaceBook feeds.)

First up: Adam Rippon, strapped in for however bumpy a night it may be. (I believe this is designed by Jeremy Scott, who seems to enjoy his strap-ons.) The good news here is that all I have to do to make it to the Oscars is win an Olympic medal. 

Jane Fonda is forever immaculate – elegant, classy and resplendent in white. 

Echoing that white theme is Laura Dern, in a very good way. 

Rita Moreno (EGOT winner) is wearing the same gown she wore when she won her Oscar in 1962. Proof that true style never goes out of date. (It was made from a Japanese obi.)

Mary J. Blige rounds out a triumvirate of white gown eleganza.

Tiffany Haddish is wearing something I would wear to the Oscars. 

Allison Janney has the kind of sleeves I want to wear to work. 

Betty Gabriel makes her own colorful choice in a gorgeous shade of green. 

I adore Whoopi Goldberg, so the less said about that dress the better.

My favorite thus far: Salma Hayek in Gucci, though I’m guessing this will be polarizing. 

Eliza Gonzalez is our fashion canary. How’s the coal mine? 

Turns out that white wasn’t just for the ladies, as Timothee Chalamet donned an all-white tuxedo ensemble, and almost pulled it off. 

I see Jennifer Lawrence stopped at Deb for her Oscar dress. 

While I don’t feel ‘Get Out’ is worthy of the Best Picture Oscar (I liked it, but it didn’t move my soul), I do think Daniel Kaluuya should get some major credit for daring to break with black tux tradition. 

Nicole Kidman is how high school girls mistakenly envision their prom dress will look.

Viola Davis just made Jennifer Lawrence’s dress look like gold.

Maybe if they stopped talking about how long the show runs over, it wouldn’t. Same for these montages that span literally 90 years. It’s enough that the number is in the hashtag. We get it. 

Let’s see: the first of three mini-films by Walmart or a piss-pot stop? [Cue the pee.]

Lupita Nyong’o always manages to thrill with her sartorial selections, but on the Red Carpet I wasn’t sure about this one. Under the lights of the stage, however, it glittered and shone in all the right ways. 

Sneakers. At the Oscars. So cool, man. Cooler than sunglasses at night. 

I’m bored already. 

But Sufjan Stevens rescued the lull with the ‘Mystery of Love’ and a delicious jacket.

Ok, focus. No matter how well-tailored his jacket is, Tom Holland is lost in its double-breasted style.  

I hate an Oscar gimmick. Getting some stars to surprise an unsuspecting movie audience? If I were in that audience in my sweatpants, then broadcast to the entire world, I’d be pissed.

A sentence I never thought I’d have to write tonight: I wish someone would move the hot dog so I could get a better gander at Emily Blunt’s dress. 

Wait, the man bun is still a thing? Can it not be?

Even with tinsel on, Margot Robbie is gorgeous.

Just when I think I’m over Sandra Bullock she adds an extra layer of charm and I’m helpless. 

Why do the presenters get the best backdrops, while the musical performances get nothing? Didn’t stop ‘This Is Me’ from shaking the rafters though. 

Wait, maybe I didn’t need a better look at Emily Blunt’s dress. 

Is that a side-bump-it on Jennifer Garner?

I feel like Miranda Priestley would purse her lips at Emma Stone’s bow-centric outfit. That said, I still kind of like it. 

Do I go for the height difference, the weird crutches, or what? I’m too tired to care. 

Bonnie & Clyde return to the scene of the crime. That’s all for #Oscars90.

Oh wait ~ didn’t think an Oscars ending could get more awkward than last year, but there it is. 

Very seldom does a movie based on a book live up to its source material, but ‘Call me By Your Name’ is an instant cinematic masterpiece. Maybe it’s because enough time has passed since I first read the book by Andre Aciman that this feels equally fresh and wondrous, or maybe its treatment at the hands of director Luca Guadagnino, and leads Timothee Chalamet and Armie Hammer, makes it its own work of art – whatever the case, ‘Call Me By Your Name’ is brilliant, and moved me more than any other movie has in recent and long-past history.

An idyllic summer in some vague Northern Italian town finds an American, Oliver (Hammer) visiting for several weeks. The son of the family with whom he is staying, Elio (Chalamet), is at first put off by the arrogance and ease with which Oliver quickly assimilates, but soon a friendship blossoms. It leads to other, trickier things, but it takes a while to get there. At first some people may find that it drags, but Guadagnino is merely setting up for a richly rewarding final third.

Set in the 1980’s, that decade is slightly removed from the timeless story, but does manage to creep in with a few pop songs, those iconic striped short-shorts, and the cumbersome walkmans. (Not to mention the widely-celebrated dancing scene in which Mr. Hammer comes into his endearing own.) The sun-soaked summer, with all its lazy pleasures, opportunities for fresh fruit, and revitalizing splashes in pools and ponds, forms the gorgeous backdrop to the proceedings.

As Oliver, Hammer brilliantly capitalizes on the arrogant, familiar, and all-too-cocky American role, but at moments he lets the golden-boy mask drop, and the devastation in his eyes, and the slightly wrinkled brow when he studies Elio as he sleeps, are gut-wrenching. For his part, Chalamet offers a revelatory, career-shaping performance. His Elio is all teenage awkwardness, preternatural wisdom, and hopeless, diehard romanticism even when he doesn’t know it.

While the movie is a glorious work of art on its own, on a personal level it moved me just a little bit more. Never in my life has a movie touched upon so many memories, so many key moments in the youth that formed me, yet the ache and longing of and adolescent’s coming-of-age-and-angst is a universal touchstone. By the end of the film we are left asking the eternally-terrifying question: what do we really mean to each other? In certain summers, when all is tender and raw and beautiful, the answer is… everything.

When the movie was over, Suzie and I went our separate ways – her car was in the downstairs lot and mine was on the upper level of the mall. It was around midnight. Snow was falling – impossibly-large and fluffy flakes, noiselessly drifting through the dark night. I sat in the car and wept for what I had just seen.

All those times I thought I was in love with someone, when the idea of them filled and informed every single thing I did, came rushing back. Four decades of loving and wishing and hoping and crying, hurting and lamenting and laughing and smiling – all the moments I gave in to the pain and the joy and the despondency – I cried for the ways we choose to embrace the miraculous ecstasy and exquisite sorrow, and for all of us who took the tougher path because we knew somehow it would be better. I never shied away from the pain because I knew there would be no escaping it; the only way out was through. And there were times and days, from the moment I woke to the moment I fell asleep, that someone else occupied my existence, robbed me of who I was, and chipped away at my soul, but somehow I trusted it would be better that way. 

In the end, I cried out of gratitude and gladness, because love is never wrong, and I would never regret giving it. No matter how it ended, no matter what would become of me, I knew what it was to love, and I wouldn’t erase the heartache or the hurt for all the blissful ignorance in the world. 

“We rip out so much of ourselves to be cured of things faster than we should that we go bankrupt by the age of thirty and have less to offer each time we start with someone new. But to feel nothing so as not to feel anything – what a waste!” ~ Andre Aciman