When you work out and hone your body as much as Ashley Parker-Angel, it’s only right that you should show off a little on Instagram or whatever pictorial outlets that are on hand. Thankfully, this Angel has been doing just that, supplying a steady flow of delicious images, some of which can be seen here without a stitch of clothing to block the good bits. Mr. Parker-Angel has been a Hunk of the Day before, and likely will again. For now, we’ll hold the page with a couple of cheeky nudes.
WHEN IN THE SPRINGTIME OF THE YEAR, WHEN THE TREES ARE CROWNED WITH LEAVES
WHEN THE ASH AND OAK AND BURCH AND YEW ARE DRESSED IN RIBBONS FAIR
WHEN OWLS CALL THE BREATHLESS MOON IN THE BLUE VEIL OF THE NIGHT
THE SHADOWS OF THE TREES APPEAR AMIDST THE LANTERN LIGHT
WE’VE BEEN RAMBLING ALL THE NIGHT
AND SOME TIME OF THIS DAY
NOW RETURNING BACK AGAIN
WE BRING A GARLAND GAY
It was at this very time of the year when I first listened to ‘The Mummer’s Dance’. I was searching for an escape, a way out of the winter’s end. There was dirty snow everywhere, but hints of spring came on the night winds. I’d slip out of the condo late at night and walk into the South End, where a century of Boston had passed and many of the brownstones that had seen it go by were still standing, silently watching. Who else had they seen dancing in the night?
Beneath a mystical moon I’d walk, watching it blink from behind the Prudential building, or peek out from what will always be known to me as the John Hancock tower. It changed its garb nightly, but the rows of brownstones remained the same, stalwartly guarding their denizens. I liked it best shrouded in clouds, when wisps of water vapor trailed around it like the most sumptuous silk. As the nights grew warmer, my steps grew livelier. The heart wants to dance. When will we let it?
AND SO THEY LINKED THEIR HANDS AND DANCED
ROUND IN CIRCLES AND IN ROWS
AND SO THE JOURNEY OF THE NIGHT DESCENDS
WHEN ALL THE SHADES ARE GONE.
Josie joined us last weekend, and we made a trip to Saratoga on a Saturday morning. We’d done this once before, and it’s always a good time. A little shopping on Broadway followed by a lunch at Cantina, all in the service of finding Josie some jewelry for a very special event coming up next month. If it was to be found in this area, it would be found in Saratoga, which has the most unique shops, as evidenced by a few photos I got during our excursion.
The shops along Broadway offered all sorts of whimsy and enchantment – crystals and incense and silk capes, jewelry and coffeehouses and ornate boxes for trinkets – a little of everything precious and beautiful. Not a bad way to spend the last Saturday of winter, and the company was stellar. We returned home to this previously-heralded dinner by Andy and ended the day in fine, and full, form.
It was originally a summer fragrance for me. With its fruity rhubarb brightness and underlying white musk, Eau De Rhubarbe Ecarlate by Hermes was a surprise addition to my fragrance cabinet during the last fair season, yet it sort of got lost in the summer shuffle. When I was putting together an outfit for the first day of spring, and red was the chosen color of pants and tie, I recalled the red bottle of this gorgeous scent, and resurrected it a little early. Crafted by Christine Nagel, it’s a slight departure from the Jardin series that Jean-Claude Ellena left as his Hermes legacy, but it retains the elegance and sophistication of the house.
I’ve been out of the Hermes loop for a bit, so I’m not sure what they have on offer for this spring. I do know there is a new Tom Ford Private Blend coming out – Sole di Positano for the Portofino line – and another Oud, thrillingly titled Oceanus – so I’ll practice patience and see which one speaks to me the loudest. For now, we have rhubarb dreams and summer memories.
Andy pounded out a few turkey breasts and breaded them with panko before dropping them into our new deep fryer. They cooked up perfectly, and formed the decadent homestyle topping for a bed of pasta and Andy’s own marinara sauce. I made a side of rappini in olive oil and garlic, with some extra fennel thrown in for good measure, and the slight bitterness of the greens was a glorious counterpart to the pasta and breaded turkey. It was a simple meal, but substantial and filling – the very best thing to have at this seasonal crux in the year.
I always forget how, at certain times of the day and particular portions of the year, the snow reflects the blue in the sky more than its own inherent white hue. It usually happens as the afternoon turns to evening, and in the shadow of direct sunlight. There’s a magical transformation then, something that both softens and cools the way it glows.
The light lasts longer now, staying a couple more minutes each day. We’ve broken the back of winter, but I’m sure it will throw some tail-whip lashes in before the snow goes completely. For now, I’m enjoying the way it’s been melting, and how the light so majestically moves over the afternoon. What spring wishes ride on the wind as it rises over the snow? Which ones follow the sun only to get caught on the hook of a crescent moon?
A bright spot in the darkly twisting trajectory of ‘Sunset Boulevard’, the role of amiable Artie Green is played by Preston Truman Boyd, who makes his Hunk of the Day debut in this post. He joins his onstage pal Joe Gillis (Michael Xavier) in this week’s build-up to my return to a favorite show. Boyd brings levity and warmth to the musical, especially the rousing Act One closer ‘This Time Next Year’ and his website illustrates an impressive theatrical roster.
Hip hip hooray!!! The season of hope is at hand at last! We wait all year for this to arrive, and we’ve got a few weeks of cold weather to get things in shape for warmer weather. (Hopefully that means my stomach too.) As for the arrival of the season, let’s celebrate with a quick look back at this day in years past.
2016 was as wintry as ever, despite some red witch hazel.
In 2015, I was cuffed on the first day of spring.
Shirtless furry guys warmed the first day of spring in 2014.
In 2013, the music for the day was ‘Appalachian Spring’.
As always, it’s a mixed bag.
Sick of the winter yet? Well, this is your week, as we officially begin the spring season today. The weather usually doesn’t follow until a few weeks later, but I’ll hold out hope. Considering we just got two feet of snow in one fell swoop, I’m not banking on an easy ride just yet. On with this recap of the last week of winter 2017. Bye Felicia.
It began with a basketball memory. (Yes, I have one.)
Harry Judd is furry, fit and fine.
Biggest snow job of the year.
Semi.
Sexy shirtless gingers for St. Patrick’s Day.
The day I turned into Woman Woman.
My upcoming reunion with, and at, ‘Sunset Boulevard’.
Simon Dunn got naked… and sizzled.
Hunks of the Day included Sam Asghari, Luke Evans, Anatoly Goncharov, Kevin Sessums, Asger Skovgaard and in honor of my upcoming ‘Sunset Boulevard’ return, Michael Xavier.
There’s nothing I like better than staying in a hotel, and there’s no better hotel in which to stay than a Kimpton. This coming weekend I’ll be trying out their Muse Hotel in New York while returning to ‘Sunset Boulevard’. The only other New York Kimpton hotel I’ve tried was 70 Park Avenue – and it was delightful (back when it was under Kimpton ownership – it has since shifted to new management). I’ve enjoyed their properties in Washington, DC and San Francisco, CA however, so I’m not sure why I don’t try their NY locations more often.
From the animal-print robes to the proliferation of those ‘Raid the Mini-bar’ credits offered by their Karma Rewards program (it’s free to join, and more than worth it if you spend any time in a Kimpton), they have a way of making their guests feel like part of a big happy family (especially during their happy wine hours). It’s a sense of community and camaraderie missing from so many major hotel chains, and part of the Kimpton charm that keeps me coming back for more.
Far more important than those touches of whimsy and delight, this is a company that cares about its clients. That care is evident and genuine in ways small and large, from a simple note of welcome to a concern for their guest’s well-being. (It can also be found in a Tweet on their very engaging Twitter account.)
As for the Muse, it will be calling my name this weekend. The bar/restaurant on premises (NIOS) looks intriguing – and with our notoriously fickle weather it’s nice having a safe haven close to a home-away-from-home. I’m also scoping out hotels for an upcoming Broadway trip with my Mom, and if the Muse proves a worthy home base for a Broadway excursion, we may be making a repeat reservation come May.
A pleasantly oft-forgotten footnote in the saga of my 1996 crush is its connection to ‘Sunset Boulevard’. I won’t rehash everything that went on in those embarrassing days of the mid-to-late nineties, when every date held the promise of a life together, and every guy who was unfortunate enough to cross my path was subject to obsession. It’s all there in the Madonna Timelines for ‘I Want You’ and ‘You’ll See’ and ‘You Must Love Me’. Hell, repercussions were still being felt in ‘Don’t Cry For Me Argen-freakin-tina’. My track record of romantic tumbles and fumbles speaks for itself, but in the last stages of my crush during the waning days of 1996, there is a story in the parting gift I gave to the hapless gentleman who had struck my fancy at the time.
In one of our early conversations, he’d indicated that he loved Broadway musicals – the bigger and more blockbuster the better. (He’d so extolled the virtues of a performance of ‘Miss Saigon’ that I dragged my parents to it. The same went for ‘The Who’s Tommy’ – and neither impressed me all that much.) When it became clear that he wanted nothing to do with me romantically, I made a last-ditch effort to maintain at least a shred of friendship, and gifted him the double-CD soundtrack to ‘Sunset Boulevard’, which was still playing on Broadway. I didn’t exactly feel like I was Norma Desmond to his Joe Gillis, but comparisons and costumes will be made and we’ll leave it at that.
On one of my last days at Brandeis University (by the grace of God I was graduating early and wouldn’t need to endure another semester of shame) I stopped by the mailroom to send out the package. I was too shy to give it to him in person. As I walked out a corner entrance of Usdan, I ran into him. Knowing what I’d just done, and that he would receive a ridiculous double-CD in a day or two, I felt even more flustered and foolish. We made some awkward small-talk and then I quickly left. Yet instead of leaving things alone, I went back to my place and ordered two front-row tickets to ‘Sunset Boulevard’, which was then starring Elaine Paige. How could he say no to front-row tickets to a big Broadway show? (Don’t judge me.) The logistics of meeting up in New York City could be worked out in the future, but I was certain he would go.
A few days later the tickets arrived. I’d finished out my time at college and was living in Boston, and though we exchanged a letter or two (and I’d put him on my official mailing list) we didn’t really have any contact. I wasn’t quite ready to call and ask him to the show, though that was my vague plan. What’s the worst that could happen? (A question I’d asked and then received answer after disastrous answer, time and time again.) For whatever reason, I let weeks pass without getting in touch with him. I was still mailing him the postcards and letters and all those silly things I sent out to my friends at the time, but he had gone silent, and I had gotten the message.
On a solo trip to Savannah a few weeks later, I was beginning the long trek North again when I pulled over for some breakfast and a USA Today. In the Life section was a small blurb about ‘Sunset Boulevard’: it was closing a few days before the date for which I had front-row tickets. The final crushing blow to whatever vain fantasy I had, I sat at the wheel of my car, stunned and on the verge of tears. It was small consolation that he would not know about this sad final play for his affection. We would not see each other for the next five years, after which Suzie and I ran into him at Madonna’s Drowned World Tour in Boston. Since then, and mostly through the ease of social media, we’ve reconnected and forged a friendship. Those who make a mark on us in the flush of youth seem to have greater pull and power than those we meet later on. It’s the essence of youth to lend import to such things.
When ‘Sunset Boulevard’ was announced to be returning to Broadway, he joked that we should see it together. I called his bluff and said I was game if he was, and next week we’ll convene at the Palace Theater, in the front row, for Glenn Close’s turn as Norma Desmond, two decades later.
Not only will this mark a reunion with Ms. Close (whom I had the great fortune of seeing near the end of her original run) but a reunion with the guy who unwittingly played such a formative part of my college experience. In the years since our ill-fated ‘Sunset’ non-date, we’ve each gotten married, purchased homes, and he and his husband had a son. We’re worlds beyond 1996, but we’ve stayed in touch and have forged one of the most unique friendships I’ve been able to maintain. It’s not quite as if we’ve never said good-bye, because I bid adieu to my youth a while back, but we’ve found new ways to dream.
Mom and Dad gifted us with a deep-fryer this past Christmas, and during this week’s snowstorm I finally had an opportunity to try it out. I’ve been frying things over the years, to mostly disastrous results. I never used a thermometer to check the temperature, so it was either too cold or way too hot. The trick, from what I read, is to make sure that food items get cooked quickly enough to get a crunchy exterior, while not taking in too much oil. That largely happens when you have the temperature and the timing correct. (I can still remember the night I almost burned the Boston condo down trying my hand at fried chicken. I thought the trickiest part would be the paper bag shake, but it was really how to navigate the spattering oil and thick smoke that had the smoke detector exhausted by the time it was all over. The worst part was that the chicken, even with its perfect buttermilk dressing, was burnt on the outside and bloody on the inside.)
The deep fryer fixed all those flaws, maintaining its temperature and still staying spatter-free. The potatoes I’d cut up went in and started bubbling like you see on the cooking shows, and after a few minutes they came out perfectly golden (or as Gram liked to say, good and brown). It was a rare culinary success, and I hurriedly sprinkled them with sea salt before they cooled. Served with an aioli and ketchup, they were reminiscent of the fries I’ve had at Five Guys, so I’d say I pulled it off. Next adventure: fried artichoke hearts. Wish me luck.
As is often the case, it was the costume that called to me first: red, white and blue, with fabulous accents of sparkling gold. Stars played a big part in the pattern, including red ones on a golden crown and bullet-proof cuffs. Red boots and a gold lasso rounded out the wonder of the whole thing. This was Wonder Woman, as portrayed by Lynda Carter in the 70’s television series, and she was my idol.
In the first of many diva homages, I set about to become this wonderful creature. I wanted her power, her charisma, and her intelligence. I also wanted to emulate her way of getting out of every difficult situation using truth and smarts, in addition to physical prowess. At the time, I didn’t see that – all I saw, and all I wanted, was the costume. That was also the only thing I could really approximate, so I set about to see if I could come up with something to recreate her magic.
It began with the star-spangled satin extra-short shorts. With a background of blue, and stars of white, I contemplated the Underoos they made for girls, but was disappointed that the pattern was only on the front – the back was plain white. Luckily for me, a pair of Batman Underoos that I already owned were blue on the front and back, AND they had a waistband of yellow that could double as her golden belt. The lack of stars was the only problem, but it was easily solved by using a sheet of golden star stickers, the kind that some teachers put on their students’ tests if they were done well. The eagle-emblazoned halter/bustier was more difficult to conjure, and I had to settle on drawing an abstract bird on a red t-shirt and calling it close enough. For the bulletproof cuffs and that headband, I drew red stars on yellow construction paper, cutting out the shapes that would result in those power-generating talismans.
If it sounds utterly ridiculous, I’m sure it looked just as silly. But back then, and through to this very day, it wasn’t about perfectly recreating a look. It was about the journey to get there, and the obstacles that required strategy and cleverness to conquer. I couldn’t go online and buy a costume already assembled – I needed to conjure the wonder of this woman through imaginative facsimile. When I finally did, and when I looked at myself in the mirror, I saw a superhero. I felt the power coursing through me, and it came from the inside out. The neighbors may have laughed, and my family may have looked the other way, but I felt empowered and proud. From construction paper and stickers and underwear, I made myself into Wonder Woman. All I needed was a cause and a purpose.
All this reminiscing was brought on by the new ‘Wonder Woman’ movie trailer that premiered a couple of days ago. It’s a marvelous tease, filled with gorgeous island scenes and dramatic war passages. My friend Skip says it’s all about that musical motif, the one that shows up so chillingly in electric guitar form at the end of the clip. I agree. Well, that and a shirtless Chris Pine. Definitely a step-up from Lyle Waggoner.
That where seems a far way off, and a long time away.
Everything out of my window is white with snow, or gray with dirt and salt.
Green feels like a memory, one that I wish would return to present reality.
Happy St. Patrick’s Day! May the luck of the Irish be with you! I got all the luck (and eloquence) I needed when I kissed the Blarney Stone a couple of decades ago, so anything else is just Irish gravy at this point. It wouldn’t be a proper holiday without a representation of gingers, and these red-headed gents look to heat up your frigid shamrocks and Irish tweed.
We must begin with the fine form of perennial favorite Seth Fornea, whose Instagram account is regularly on fire thanks to butt-baring shots like these. Mr. Fornea is ever-ready with a seductive smile and amiable spirit – the perfect charm to this day of luck.
Daniel Newman may be best known for ‘The Walking Dead’, but I prefer to think of him as The Sexy Red, thanks in part to nearly-naked romps like this. Greg Rutherford had this grandly gratuitous post, exposing his ass much as it is here.
Steve DiCosta gave good (red) head in his Hunk of the Day feature.
For his turn as HOD, Christian Kruse gave innocence tinged with scarlet.
Bryce Eilenberg is, simply put, a ginger dream. Lastly, lest we leave out royalty, the most revered ginger of the post may very well be Prince Harry, even if rumor has it that he’s off the market. (He was never in my market anyway.)
