The man sits at the bar, smoking. He orders an Old-fashioned. Canadian Club. A beautiful woman approaches and requests a light. “Are you alone?” she asks. He looks up at her, and the shot fades out. Thus ended Season Five of ‘Mad Men’ last year. Tomorrow it returns, and just in time; my mind was almost made into mush by all the Real Housewives programming I’ve had in the interim.
‘Mad Men’ is the best show on television right now. (And I can honestly say that as it’s the only show I’m watching right now.) Apart from its sleek 60’s style and period-piece authenticity, the characters are complex and real enough to resonate today, and never more-so than in the protagonist. Don Draper may be surrounded by beautiful women, powerful men, and all the creative freedom in the world, but he remains almost-heartbreakingly alone. A cigarette and an Old-fashioned will only ever hide that, no more. Too few have the strength and audacity to answer the ‘Are you alone?’ question affirmatively. Those of us who do, well… we need all the smoke we can muster.
Was a more perfect end-of-high-school song ever written? If so, I haven’t heard it. (And don’t throw that ‘Theme from Ice Castles’ bullshit this way…) This is ‘Never Say Good-bye’ by Bon Jovi. It was not my theme from high school graduation, as I was not quite graduating from elementary school when this song came out. Instead, it reminds me of someone else, and of a summer day when we were still too young to shine.
Remember when we used to talk about busting out
We’d break their hearts, together, forever
Never say goodbye, never say goodbye
You and me and my old friends, hoping it would never end
Never say goodbye, never say goodbye
Holdin’ on, we got to try, holdin’ on to never say goodbye
We were hanging out under the picnic table at a high school graduation party for a neighbor. We were young – only ten or eleven, maybe twelve, but old enough to comprehend what was going on. The graduate – God-like, blonde, golden boy – came out of the house looking forlorn. The kids watched him walk by, basking in the glory by proximity, in awe of his ease among adults, wanting only to be older ourselves. He was so cool. One of the other kids said he looked dejected because he was about to break up with his girlfriend.
But they had the whole summer ahead of them, I thought to myself. As if reading my mind, the kid said, “He wants to end it now so it’s easier.” I nodded, taking in this sage bit of wisdom, thinking we were somehow cool for getting it, for feeling it a little bit too.
I watched him put his arms around the girl, marveling at the easy way he did it. I also held the secret we knew inside, emboldened by knowing something that she didn’t quite know yet. Part of me wanted to be there when he told her, to see how something like that worked. Would she take it well? Would she understand? Would she cry? Would she walk away? The scenarios unfurled before my active imagination, and I found myself selfishly, insanely, wishing he would do it soon, while we were still there. It appealed to my soap-operatic love of drama, fed by the likes of ‘Santa Barbara’ and ‘Days of Our Lives’.
The white tablecloth fluttered above our heads as we sat beneath the picnic table. Kids can go unnoticed like that, seeing what goes on, taking it all in, and processing it in our childhood minds. It was another step to adulthood. One day I might have to be the strong one, the person who moved first to end a relationship that would never work out. (In truth, that would prove to be a lesson I would never learn; I could not be the first to end something, as later years would attest.) For now, it was exciting just to be in the atmosphere of someone to whom real things were happening, someone not on a daytime drama, someone we kind of knew and cared about. Someone whose life was just taking off. We had a few more years to go before taking such flight. And we didn’t know how lucky we were.
The brownstones stretch around Union Park. Street lamps light the way. The tell-tale scent of spring carries on the night wind. It is the smell of awakening, or the re-awakening as it were. As it is. There will be a re-birth, like there is every year. We will celebrate anew, both forging and remembering. Whenever I begin to mourn the past, Kira reminds me that we are making new memories every day. Her optimism is like the spring – ever-renewed, everlasting – and the perfect antidote to my wintry pessimism.
On this Friday night, I wait for the spring to slip in while I sleep, longing for the first nights we can sleep with the windows open, air out the staleness of winter, rustle the dusty curtains.
Whether it’s the rotten cold weather we’ve had of late, or something deeper driving it, I’m finding it difficult to get excited, or even minimally inspired, to move on some home improvement projects. I’m equally unmotivated to get started on the gardens. Contrary to popular belief, I’m a pretty sensitive soul, and those around me have a direct effect upon my bearing and mood. When Andy is down, I tend to follow suit. In my case, it removes any sort of enthusiasm for a new couch and family room color, negates any thrill in the coming gardening season, and just makes me want to lounge around and do nothing.
To combat that, I picked up some paint chips for the family room, and browsed the Crate & Barrel catalog for ideas. I started reading ‘The Backyard Parables: Lessons on Gardening, and Life’ by Margaret Roach. And I may even shave my beard off. A change is needed. A re-boot is required. A new way…
I’m often given to hyperbole on this site. It keeps things interesting, and it’s more fun rising to the histrionic. In this case, I’m making the bold, and perhaps overused, proclamation that this is one of my favorite photos of all-time. Since it takes pride of place on our photo wall, there is something to back this up. It’s a photo of JoAnn and myself, taken by our friend Kira. And it comes with a short, silly story.
At the time (late 90’s) we were all working at John Hancock – a temporary job that consisted of microfiche and insurance numbers and a class-action lawsuit against the company – blah, blah, blah. To be honest, I wasn’t altogether sure what exactly we did, but I did it well enough, and was actually made a team leader (?!). It was my first office job, and it was filled with the variety of characters that comes in an office setting. Of course, in a few short weeks you whittle down those who will become friends, and JoAnn soon became one of my closest. We were just another ‘Will & Grace’, involved in the same riotous hi-jinks, and reveling in our foolishness as much as we laughed at ourselves.
On this particular day in spring, we sat on the steps of Trinity Church after lunch. It was sunny, and warm enough that we didn’t need jackets. I’d always scope out potential guys for JoAnn, and if a cute one came along I’d urge her to say hello. She never did. Sitting a few steps down from us was a guy smoking a cigarette and enjoying his lunch hour. I nudged JoAnn in his direction – she brushed me off. I laughed a little and told her to bum a smoke off of him to start the conversation. She ignored me. “Just ask for a light!” I demanded. Hey, it was lunch. I was working at an insurance company. I was bored. And I could be relentless. Exasperated, she turned to the guy and asked for a light. He brought out a lighter and was about to flick it.
“Oh, do you have a cigarette too?” she asked. He looked slightly confused and annoyed, but gave her one. I started cracking up then and there. I couldn’t stop. It was one of those laughs that leaves your belly aching and your eyes wet with tears. We had asked this guy for a light without having a cigarette (we didn’t really smoke that much), then we displayed the idiocy to ask for a cigarette after that. JoAnn kept a straight face, took the cigarette, and handed it to me. “Here, you wanted this?” she said. I roared. After the guy left (which he did pretty much immediately), Kira took this picture as we recounted what just happened.
It’s one of the rare photos of me where I am genuinely laughing and not paying any attention to the camera. It still cracks me up, and whenever I need a laugh I think of that day, those moments, and these friends.
The pond at the Boston Public Garden has not yet been filled, so the footbridge looked odd above the muddy expanse. Still, the anticipation of what was to come made things all the more exciting, and as I watched the leaf-blowers begin their winter clean-up, the heart thrilled at the prospect of a warmer season. Witch hazel, crocus, and a few snowdrops were all that bloomed, but they were at least a start.
The willows were just beginning to show their yellow-green color. The sky looked promising too. We’ll get there. All in good time.
Long before ‘Bridesmaids’ usurped ‘Hold On’ and Wilson Phillips for its own iconic ending, some of us remember when it came out for the first time, way back at the dawn of the 90’s. That’s the last century to you youngsters – hell, it’s the last millennium. And I was a wee lad of 14, enjoying the last few months of my freshman year of high school. Oddly enough, it would prove to be my favorite year of high school (I usually like the beginning and the end of things – high school and college were very similar in that respect – it was everything in between that kind of sucked ~ which has always proved unfortunate, as most of life consists of the in-between). As we neared the last quarter, and spring was indelibly in the air, I went on what I now see as my first date with a guy. At the time, I honestly wasn’t sure.
I know this pain,
Why do you lock yourself up in these chains?
No on can change your life except for you
Don’t ever let anyone step all over you
Just open your heart and your mind
Is it really fair to feel this way inside?
He was two years older than me, a junior already, and part of the older crowd. His interest in me was as puzzling as it was flattering, and would have been more enjoyable if it wasn’t so confusing. I didn’t even know for sure that I was gay at that point. I was still sort of hoping I wasn’t, and trying desperately not to be. And, it turned out, I wasn’t attracted to him in the slightest. That didn’t mean I didn’t like him. In fact, we quickly became good friends, exchanging long notes to one another (which should have clued me in to the gay thing a lot sooner, but alas…) His friendship and camaraderie shielded me from certain taunts, protecting me in a way I would only later realize when he would graduate and leave.
As the spring arrived, and Wilson Phillips ran up the charts with their California harmonies, we felt the antsy pull of the end of the school year. We wanted out. The weather had turned bright and balmy again. Trees were leafing out in bright lime green, and the bulbs were just finishing their show. He asked me if I wanted to go to the movies with him and his cousin, one of my friends. When she was unable to go at the last minute, he still wanted to do it, so I said sure.
This is when it sort of turned into a date without me knowing it was a date. And my parents, protective or curious or who knows what, had to meet him before he drove me to the movies all the way over to the Mohawk Mall. Mortified, (it was too late to argue since he was arriving at the door any moment), I braced myself for the embarrassment. He pulled up to the house and got out of the car. I blocked much of this from my memory, but I think they shook hands and introduced themselves, and then I waited in the front seat of the car. I still didn’t think it was a date. We were just friends going out to the movies, as I had done countless times, with countless girls, and boys, and it didn’t even dawn on me that it might be something more.
I still remember the movie, as notable for its awfulness as its place in my adolescent heart – ‘Bird on a Wire’ with Mel Gibson and Goldie Hawn. Not exactly my choice, but at that point I just wanted to get out of my house, out of high school, and out of the small town of Amsterdam. If putting up with Mr. Gibson and Ms. Hawn afforded just a few hours of relief, it was worth it. Besides, there was popcorn. In a mostly empty theater, we sat and talked a little before the movie began. It wasn’t entirely awkward, but I wasn’t entirely at ease. I’d only hung around him when other people were present – his cousin or other kids my age. Now, in the intimacy of just-the-two-of-us, I worried over what to say, how to act, what to do. He set my mind at ease with an easy rolling laugh and a casual way of leaning back into his seat, while I remained perched upright and almost on the edge of mine.
When it was over, we walked out to the deserted parking lot. The air was still warm. I didn’t want the night to end. In the amber light of the parking lot lamps, he started the car and we sped away. I can still see it all so clearly. At the wheel was a young man – not much more than a boy, like me – who had taken me under his protective wing. I sensed something different about the way he treated me, but didn’t dare believe it was anything more than friendship. I didn’t want it to be anything more than friendship. What would I do with that? And how could I do anything? I couldn’t be gay.
On the ride home, the night wind tore in through the window, and it felt like we were flying. I allowed my hand to reach into the rushing air. He turned the radio up. ‘Vogue’ came on, and I admitted that I liked Madonna. It wasn’t a popular thing for a boy to admit. Not then. Maybe not ever. At least, not in front of the boys I used to hang out with. But he held no judgment. And then ‘Hold On’ – and I think he said he liked it. I did too. Again, not a popular thing to proclaim, but there, in that car speeding along in the spring night, it felt good to be so honest. It felt safe. If there’s one thing for which I have spent my lifetime searching, it was that sense of complete safety. It never came from hesitant, slow-to-accept parents, it never came from lovingly-misguided friends, and it had yet to come from any secret lover, but here was that sense of surety, of inclusion, of it not being a big deal how much I liked Madonna – and it made me want to weep.
The night was beautiful, but drawing to its close. It was a little after 11 o’clock. I’d never had a curfew – I’d never really gone out for one to be in place. My younger brother went out more than I did. As we neared the street where I lived, my heart ached that the night had to be over. He pulled up the right side of the street, then kept going, past my house, up to the top of the little hill that comprised the road. Around an island grown thick with manicured yews, he parked the car. My house was just a short walk away, but hidden from view. And I still didn’t know it was a date.
“What are we doing?” I asked, half quizzically, half accusingly, half rudely. It was the only defense I had. Or have.
“Nothing, I just wanted to ask you something,” he began, before turning silent.
We waited a few more minutes in silence. He had turned the car off.
“Well if you don’t tell me I’m going to get out and walk home,” I said, starting to feel weird about the whole thing.
“Okay.”
I still don’t know if I thought it was a date, I don’t know if he thought it was a date. But it was, looking back, very much a date. And a rather sweet first date at that. Neither of us was ready to put that into words then.
“I just wanted to know…” he paused, “if you had fun tonight.”
“Yeah,” I admitted, in one of the rare snark-free moments of my teenage years, “I did.”
And then, in one of the most tender ways anyone had treated me up until that moment, he asked, “Would you like to do something like this again?”
I think it was then that I knew it was a date. Whether he did or not, I knew, and part of me would always love part of him for that. I also knew I wasn’t in love with him, but in gratitude. No matter how rocky romance would prove to be in the future, this was a night of purity and innocence and tenderness that I would bury in a safe place which no one would ever reach. I will always be grateful for that.
“I would very much like to do something like this again,” I declared, before adding, “Are you going to bring me home now?”
He smiled, as I instantly regretted the last part, and started the car.
Snippets of song lyrics… wet & a mess… lying naked on the floor… they cannot see me naked, these things they go away, replaced by every day… it’s in your eyes… I want you to remind me…
Most of my restaurant reviews are put on Trip Advisor, so I don’t feel the need to post them here, but once in a while a really great steak will impel me to spread the word as far and as wide as possible – and since I can put uncensored stuff up on my own site, here is the racier version of our recent trip to Boston Chops:
While some would have you believe in the old adage, “It ain’t the meat, it’s the motionâ€, Boston Chops is proving that it’s actually just the meat that matters. (Apologies to some of the lesser-endowed gentlemen – you know who you are.) This steak-house struts confidently into the South End culinary scene, drops its big dick on the table, and lets the diners look, savor, and feast. Brought to you by the masterful folks behind Deuxave and dbar, Boston Chops puts the meat up front and center, but supports it with a cast of colorful sides, lesser known dishes, and a beefed-up bar scene that offers unique and classic cocktails, along with an ample wine and beer list.
The serious meat-lover will find things they’d be vexed to locate at the average steakhouse, including the items found on their “Rarely Celebrated†list: Brined, Braised & Grilled Tongue, Roasted Bone Marrow, Crispy Oxtail Croquettes, Grilled Herb marinated Heart, and Braised Tripe. There are some serious side dishes as well, including a Pork Belly Mac & Cheese, Duck Fat Fingerlings with Lardons, and more traditional fare like grilled asparagus and Brussels Sprouts au Canard – though it’s their “Poutine Style Twice Baked “Loaded†Potato†that is currently getting all the accolades (and at $12 it had better).
As mentioned, it’s the meat that takes pride of place here, from a few 8 oz. cuts in the $25 range to the 22 oz., Prime Boston Chop, Bone in Rib Eye for $58. I settled somewhere between the two, with a Filet Mignon for $39. It was easily the best piece of meat I’ve had in a very long time – super succulent, tantalizingly tender, and perfectly rendered to a red, warm center. The plating is simple, almost sparse, as it arrives with only the steak and the seasonal greens. Servers with large bowls appear quickly to fill in the blanks with their “generous frites†(which they claim will be refilled, but on this busy night that never happens). No matter, the steak is more than substantial, and it is so good the rest doesn’t much matter. In addition, all the steak sauces one could wish for are on hand to accompany your meal:  Boston Chops House (an amped up, tangy barbecue sauce with a bit more bite), Bordelaise, Bearnaise, Peppercorn, BBQ, Creamy Horseradish, and a Chimichurri Butter.
Service was decent, particularly on a bustling Saturday night, and if the water we requested took a little longer than expected, it was ultimately brought with profuse apologies by the server. While we overheard another server telling the table next to us that the steaks were taking a longer than usual to prepare, given the crowd, we experienced no such delay for our entrees. The check took some time, but again, the restaurant seemed to be operating at full capacity. Along those lines, the bar scene was loud and lively, so if you’re looking for intimacy or simple conversation, don’t go during peak hours. For a Saturday night on the town, it fit the excitement level perfectly.
I don’t frequently return to the same restaurant so soon, but I will definitely be going back to Boston Chops in the very near future, as there were too many cocktails and interesting sides to try in just one sitting – and that kind of meat just can’t be beat.
The crocus gets all the glory at this early stage of the gardening year, but there are other little jewels that sparkle in their own way, including the Lenten Rose and the snowdrops seen below. Every spring I make a vow to plant more of these early harbingers of the season – so desperately appreciated are they at this time of the year – and every fall I see the bulbs from which they originate in the garden stores, and I pass them by with a lazy shrug. After a winter that doesn’t want to go away, they are even more appreciated, so this September/October I’ll see if I can make the effort. For now, I’ll enjoy the work of others, as seen from the streets of Boston.
On some nights, when the light is just right, when the sky has just switched from blue to black, when the clouds are rolling high across the firmament, the camera instills its shots with a painting-like quality or abstraction, softness and buffered light, a glow and a forgiving shadow, the subtle blending of colors out of focus and somehow renewed from it. It happens most magically at the fall of dusk, in that in-between moment that so gorgeously and simultaneously lights and dims the sky, the slow-closing curtain of night. The first chartreuse of the willow weeps then, the other-worldly orbs of street lamps light the way, and the mottled tapestry of the clouds in the night sky is shaded mauve from the remnants of the sun no longer to be seen.
We make our own light as the night deepens ~ with our cars, our restaurants, our homes. How much of our history – collectively and of a day – is spent in chasing the light? Too much, I think. We have forgotten to find our way in the dark, or, more accurately, not to find our way in the dark. Today the dark is no reason to stop or sleep, and it should be. We were not designed to go without pause.
It’s always best to go in the front door – and with entrances like these why would you want to go in the back way? I’ve never been through any of these entry-ways (though I’ve been into the next-door-neighbor’s of two of them). There is always such promise behind a well-lit door at night, such reassuring warmth and hope, even if it’s illusory, even if the door will always be locked to us. It is, sometimes, enough just to look.
Forget my full-frontal reveal, and check out Ben Cohen’s package below. If you want to talk about a major male nudity get, I think Mr. Cohen may come in second only to David Beckham. Second best or not, the battle of the bulge is hotter than ever. (Though I didn’t expect his balls to be so, well, dirty…)
Wait for it…
…
…
…
…
…
Two times in one day? I almost feel bad.
Almost.
And really – did you think it would happen? There are two things you will never see on this site: my cock and Ben Cohen’s cock. David Beckham’s dick is still up in the air…
We made it through another Holy Week, by the Grace of God (and a little help from Jesus, I’m sure). It was a week of new Easter traditions, as the seasons slowly inched toward a slightly warmer shift. Changes were afoot at work as well, portending a very different spring/summer at the office. But let’s not talk about work here – this is the place for fun and frivolity, so let’s get back to that grind.
Spring cleaning got underway at the Boston condo, and I got down on my hands and knees to polish things up right spiffy-like. Years of wear and tear were left on two rolls of paper towels, so hopefully those of us who stay there will be a little more careful with keeping things clean (sheets included).
You’ve asked for it for years. I’ve teased and toyed, hemmed and hawed, held it and hesitated. The longest bout of edging is drawing to its inevitable close, and today is the day. We have come to the Full-frontal male nudity final frontier of this site. Are you ready to rock out with your cock out? Hang on… and scroll down. Way down… because an event of this magnitude requires a little teasing before the pleasing…
The day you knew would arrive is here – you’ll survive…
