Category Archives: General

The gray grid of winter streets attempts to put order to madness. Even with such structure, winter defies borders and containment. New York in January can be brutal, and because of that there are usually decent tickets available for Broadway shows. I remember a particularly frigid night when we saw ‘Grey Gardens’ – Andy and I hunkered down at Gallagher’s for a classic steak dinner before rushing along in scarves and coats to the theater. Thankfully our hotel was nearby as the walk back was horrendous.

Suzie and I also saw a show in the wilds of winter – the revival of ‘Follies’ with Bernadette Peters – and I was staying at what was then a Kimpton hotel on Columbus Circle. Another freezing night that ended when the show ended, and I indulged in a very hot shower with some L’Occitane Lemon Verbena bath products – a temporary but gratifying experience of heat and steam and pleasurable fragrance – before diving under the bed covers again. Winter is all about quick and furtive movements in service of comfort and survival, navigating how to get from a towel-clad state of post-shower bliss to the cool environs of a bed waiting to be warmed without losing all the heat in the process. 

Photos from a former winter, because I’m too lazy to take new ones from the current winter. The past and present bump up against each other, and it’s not altogether unpleasant. Still, echoes are by their nature less; the more there are, the less impressive they become.

Once my hair turned more gray than black, say in the last few years or so, I began to detect a discernible difference in how I was being perceived. There was a slight deference in basic one-on-one interactions with strangers, a little more respect and used of ‘sir’ from servers and waitstaff, and the slimmest shift in meetings with people who had previously dismissed or discounted me. It wasn’t anything huge or dramatic, just a gentle, sloping tilt in what I felt from other people. It’s possible this is all in my head – that’s always possible – but I’m usually pretty perceptive when it comes to reading a room and its reactions, and it felt like my gray hair was giving me some sort of ancient authority that wasn’t there when I speared much younger.

At the same time, it also relegated me to near invisibility in certain social scenes where youth and beauty still reigned supreme. A strange sort of trade-off, another confounding paradox. Respect and invisibility, deference and dismissal – and somewhere in the middle of it all a head of wavy wolf’s hair trying valiantly, desperately, to embrace the autumn of life. 

Today marks a full Blood Moon – the Worm Moon – along with a lunar eclipse and Mercury still in retrograde motion. Astrologically speaking, particularly for Virgos, this is said to be a combustible combination, and I am taking all necessary precautions, mostly just to keep my cool and not lose every last bit of shit that’s barely holding me together. Is it working? Somewhat.

I’m still hitting all the red lights, still tripping over all the computer and phone cords, still wrestling with malfunctioning lights and humidifiers, still dealing with infuriating texts from friends and family who are suddenly unable to read or remember anything – but taking it all in stride, and, more importantly, not lashing out or forcing my well-intentioned (and often-proven-correct) ideas for improvement upon all the people who never wanted them. Getting slightly better at that, better at letting people pick up their own messes, and allowing them to make their mess in the first place because they were never going to listen to me anyway. I was just about to remark about how annoying it was to see people ignore a Virgo’s advice, but that’s very Virgo of me, and at odds with the meaning of this post, and the grace I’m trying to achieve or at least work toward.

Instead, I will focus on clarity and clear communication, sans judgment and ridicule and condemnation. I will endeavor to let others make their own choices, to go along with their suggestions, to be amenable and genuinely peaceable to another way of doing things. This full moon is said to be an opportunity for growth and transformation, and letting go of things that no longer serve you. My critical mind, while helpful for myriad moments in my life, is of no help to others who need to learn their lessons in their own way. I’m also painfully aware there are myriad lessons for me still to learn, not in the quest of a perfection that doesn’t exist, but in the journey to improvement. Shedding control, letting the universe nudge me and heeding those nudges, are my methods for making it through this full Blood Moon moment. I am trying.

As a wise woman once sang, “Go with the flow!“

You know

you

can do it.

Two troublesome squirrels chased each other along our backyard fence, running parabolic routes in defiance of gravity and against the stifling winter snow – while the sun came up and decided to shine for the day – lucky blue sky at the end of a month that had been so much less than kind. Then, cutting through Andy’s classical music station, the repeated chirping of a cardinal from the top branches of the seven sons flower tree. 

Brilliant, bright crimson against barren branches and bare sky – it brought comfort, even if it was happenstance, even if it knew not what hope it instilled. 

Much of life matters because of how we interpret and react to it, what we make of and imprint upon what random and haphazard acts unintentionally seem to intend. On this morning, the cardinal mostly likely was not singing for me, but I felt it was, and that feeling was enough to make it so. 

Who’s to say it wasn’t?

While this country’s convicted felon of a President is likely getting us into a war with Iran, our duly-elected Congress sits willfully helpless – the GOP fully enabling this Psycho-in-Chief to do whatever dangerous whims he wishes in a transparent attempt to distract from the Epstein files. It won’t work – no matter how many troops and people he gets killed, it won’t erase the fact that Trump is in those files, and there are allegations that he molested a thirteen-year-old girl that remain investigated. All in the day for an alleged and morally depraved pedophile – so on with the weekly recap because nothing seems to change or matter…

Let’s begin with a tranquil tea moment.

The latest FAFO Award went to Wayne DeMario who is upset that ICE is rounding up and deporting the people that Trump said they would deport. LOL.

How do you think I feel about this?

A country with an actual king is doing more for accountability than our so-called democracy.

Archived winter obscura.

Manifesting Mercurial madness whether we like it or not.

Like butter.

The mask of an idea.

“Don’t write a check with your mouth that your ass can’t cash!”

The media is failing us with its ‘both sides’ garbage.

Is this too much to ask?

A planetary parade in a bonus post.

A perilous monthly calendar turn.

Karma isn’t working fast enough.

Dazzlers of the Day included the US Women’s Olympic Hockey Team, Davey Wavey, Thoren Bradley, Matt Ortile, Darryl McGrath and Simon Edvinsson.

Today is the first day of March, which proverbially comes in like a lion, though at this point in meteorological history there is no way we can count on a lamb-like departure. Andy has been warning me that the current spell of Mercury in retrograde motion is going to be particularly bad for Virgos – as if there was something I could do with that other than panic and expect the worst – but I’ve seen some astrological feeds warning that with a Virgo’s typical carefulness and deliberate consideration, it’s the people around us who should be worried. Expecting and preparing for the worst is generally my baseline anyway, so where’s the bother? I don’t want any trouble, but trouble loves to find me like I’m some unwilling participant in a game of hide-and-seek. Trouble should know by now I’m rather adept at hiding. 
When I used to play hide-and-seek as a kid there were times the others never found me. And sometimes, even when they yelled about oxen and income for free (signaling the end of the game) I’d stay hidden until the light drained from the sky and the screams faded into the distance. 

Our last month of winter dovetails with the beginning of spring – March straddling both with an element of unease – and it’s usually one of the more emotionally-charged times of the year. Coinciding with the upcoming full moon and lunar eclipse in Virgo, this puts us on a dangerous trajectory indeed. All I can do is meditate, see my therapist, and try not to hurt or get hurt in the process. Being a little more careful is about the only extra effort I can muster – staying within prescribed speed limits, not losing my shit at work, holding my tongue when ex-in-laws drag my family name through their self-created mud – you know, the usual routine. The confines of decent human behavior – the sort of thing that never held much interest or allure for me, but that has proven to be the easier path for those of us smart enough to simply suck it up. 

And so I shall endeavor to be a good boy as I put on the mantle of March – saving my lilac fury for spring, when I shall eat the white chocolate lamb before it even gets to bleat.

A week of astrological warfare puts on a show as six planets align in the sky beside a moon on the verge of growing into its fullness. Jupiter, Saturn, Venus, Neptune, Uranus and Mercury parade their heavenly bodies as I step into the night air and stand beneath their magnificence. This night is said to be a portal of sorts for personal transformation.

A time of mysticism, never quite grounded in science, works its own kind of magic. Maybe it’s partly real, maybe it’s all a placebo effect – if the end result is rumination, analysis, manifestation and meditation, then let us have the planets align.

In the air, more than a hint of spring. Clouds moving swiftly beneath the sparkling sky. A mystical evening holding fortune or emptiness, likely something between the two.

March is on the wind.

Spring is on the march.

What if all the anti-ICE citizens started dressing up in cosplay nonsense like the actual ICE agents terrorizing our country – the masks and flags and sunglasses and shit? It seems like people who wear that wardrobe can get away with murder – quite literally – so imagine what people on the right side of history might accomplish in similar garb.

We may very well be far past the point of vigilante justice, and I am certainly not proposing any dangerous ideas that might turn their strategies against them, especially in the minds of anyone feeling frustrated and angry at a world with seemingly no accountability for evil actions. How awful that would be! To incite something so violent that it might one day merit a Presidential pardon is practically unthinkable, right?

There is sometimes no greater threat to oppression than an idea, and as long as the mind is free, the ideas will follow.

Mercury returns to wretched retrograde motion today, where it will wreak its undeniable havoc all the way through March 20 – the ultimate uphill battle until we reach the spring (as if the final stretch of winter wasn’t and enough on its own).

There’s also a treacherous full moon appearing March 3 – one said to be especially challenging for Virgos, so if I seem a bit more psychotic than usual, the best thing to do will be to not fuck with me. Forewarned is fair-warned, and I’m not in the mood – because a double-whammy of full moon madness and Mercury in retrograde can make for a diabolical, combustible bit of destruction – a burn-it-all-down possibility on a good week, an absolute monstrosity at such an astrological crux. The intersection of Mercurial influence and lunacy was never going to be pretty. In the words of ‘Mommie Dearest’, “Don’t fuck with me fellas!”

Godspeed, good luck, and don’t forget me when I’m gone.

Somewhere on this website, if you dig down deeply enough, you may find the rest of this photoshoot which reveals more of what certain eyes want to feast upon. For now, it’s a hazy reminder of past and present colliding, and instead of clarity or certainty, there is only more obscurity – a telltale sign of this Winter Obscura – ever-elusive, ever-cloudy, ever-out-of-focus. For all these Evers, never resolution, never completion, never conclusion. Only more Evers… ever after, ever unknown, ever unending…

Chaos contained – a theme that once saved my ass in a literature class where we had to write a paper on Kant, and I could only understand the idea of a canvass containing both the limits of its space, and the limitless idea of anything being painted on it. Two opposing ideas existing at once, forcing the brain to reconcile itself to paradox. Accepting the impossible – at least the impossibility to understand – is a major component of finding peace in one’s head.

Sometimes, I can’t see the canvass through the chaos, cannot find the organization or sense in the madness. And sometimes we have to be ok with existing in that chaos.

Winter was when this picture was taken. Winter – when the world tries to tell us to slow down, to stop, to listen, but we don’t want to listen. We don’t want to stop. We don’t even want to slow down.

That is madness.

This year’s Winter Olympics were a badly-needed breath of fresh, inspirational air – a reminder of the best in humanity when basic human decency on a world scale seems precariously in danger of extinction. I’m taking that, along with a visit from friends this past weekend, as a reprieve from the terrible state of the world. On with the weekly recap, Monday-quarterback-style.

Melting the obscure.

Olympic spotlight on Ellie Kam and Danny O’Shea.

Madonna will be edging us for a little/lot longer.

Three-bean-salad of shame.

Anybody else already over it?

Winter orchestral obscura.

Olympic spotlight on Jordan Stolz.

A bowl of miso soup.

Olympic spotlight on Alysa Liu.

Grocery grandeur.

Some like it hot in frigid Boston.

A Boston matinee recalls a Broadway night.

Not everything comes out in the wash.

Sky of Opalite.

Ben Cohen’s bulge.

Winter Olympics end-cap.

Dazzlers of the Day included Minerva Fabienne Hase and Nikita Volodin, Riku Miura and Ryuichi Kihara, Kaori Sakamoto, Elana Meyers Taylor, and Johannes Hoesflot Klaebo.

Missy was one of the first friends-of-a-friend that I met through Suzie – and as such one of the friends whom I’ve known the longest after Suzie. I still remember traipsing through the attic in the Ko’s grand Victorian home as Missy was over for one holiday or birthday that found us there. By 1989, we’d survived all of Suzie’s birthday parties together and were in most of the same classes. The three of us, along with Suzie’s mom, my Mom, and my brother – were taking a trip to New York to see a Broadway show.

The winter of our 8th grade year found us all of thirteen years old, and as we sat down to a performance of ‘Jerome Robbins’ Broadway’ starring some actor named Jason Alexander, I felt like one of the coolest kids in the world, in the way that only a couple of really good friends who truly appreciate your company can make you feel. On the cusp of young adulthood, we were still kids at heart, and at one point of participatory audience clapping, I remember losing myself in uncontrollable laughter – the joyous mirth of life that would be a happy hallmark of my friendship with Missy. 

Now, all these years later, I remembered that NY weekend. As we sat down in the Citizen Opera house to see ‘Some Like It Hot’ with her two sons, the youngest of whom was just about the same age as we were when we saw that Broadway show some 37 years ago, and the lights went down, I recalled and marveled with gratitude that our friendship had survived, that we were still in each others’ lives, that some things could last in this ever-uncertain world.

Most of my classmates hated our third grade English class. The teacher was a fright in her polyester pant suits and unruly bun (you could tell how harried she was by how many strands of hair were escaping from it at any given time) – and the material was dry for our young age. Most of the writing assignments were unrelatable as well, but they still appealed to me more than anything else. Part of me thrilled when we were given a topic and asked to write a paragraph on it; I didn’t realize then how much writing would enrich my world, but I felt the rich reward of working out words and sentences and seeing what worked best. 

The lessons I gleaned were less about writing style and more about life – particularly in how to fit in and when to slip into the safety of unnoticeable shadow. Back then, fitting in was a matter of life and death. Having already been shamed for saddle shoes, I couldn’t afford another instance of being too different or other. When the teacher announced that day’s writing topic as ‘Three-Bean Salad’ I froze. I had no idea what three-bean salad was. Never had it, never heard of it, never even knew of its existence until that very moment. The rest of the class groaned, as much for the topic as for the assignment of writing itself, and the teacher herself was acting as if most people found the salad gross. I took that as my cue and proceeded to write the most over-the-top condemnation of three-bean salad I could make up. Such was my passion and detestation for it that the teacher gave me an ‘A’ and remarked how much I must hate it.

Instead of asking what it was, or writing of my honest ignorance (as a more clever classmate so bravely did) I wrote what I needed to write to fit in, to fly under the radar, to go unnoticed and unridiculed. It would be a trick I’d master as the years advanced, as a young gay man in the 90’s was safest when he blended in. 

Even in the third grade, I could play any role. At what detriment, I’m still discovering…

PS – A three-bean salad sounds absolutely divine to me right now.

Winters have lately been times of reflection, leaving opportunities for moments of hygge, and as I’m fully entrenched in the autumn of my life trajectory (God willing) I find more comfort in winter now than I ever did in my younger years. Some of my contemporaries are fighting it more, and I wonder how much of it is fighting our own aging and the relative passing of time rather than winter itself.

The past week has brought about a warming trend, as we’ve finally moved above the freezing point for the first time in forever. Andy and I finally felt warmth on our faces from the sun – a sensation we haven’t had since last year. I’ve also detected the sounds of melting in dripping icicles, falling ice, and shifting snow. Not anywhere near a total thaw, but enough to give slightly more hope than that stupid groundhog.

A couple of pesky facts, the kind that are true, on this particular President’s Day:

• Donald Trump is mentioned in the Epstein files over one million times (and that’s just the files that the Department of, ahem, Justice has released at this point).

• Mar-a-Lago is mentioned in the Epstein files more times than Epstein Island.

But Republicans would have MAGA believe there’s nothing wrong with this – and MAGA seems so stupid that they will listen to any lie as long as it supports their cult leader. If you’re still supporting this President, you either need a pardon or are a special kind of stupid.

On with the weekly recap amid all this madness…

Simple charms amid snowy splendor.

If you don’t like my peaches, don’t shake my tree.

The next FAFO Award went to Jill Zarin.

Shirtless Zac Efron portraying a frat bro for this post.

A leprechaun’s rim job.

Phoning in nostalgia.

Indecisive wafflers suck.

Under lock, under key.

Garters for Valentine’s Day.

To all the girls I’ve loved before.

A lesson found in the French Pigwich.

Some Valentine vet advice.

A hint of Lent.

The Olympic Spotlight shone on Shun Sato and Marco Odermatt.

Dazzlers of the Day included Kevin Aymoz, Breezy Johnson, Surya Bonaly, Mikhail Shaidorov, and Willie Nelson.