Category Archives: General

There’s something very evocative of the smell of rain’s first fall on hot asphalt during a hot summer day. Whether you grew up in the suburbs or the city, it is, I would imagine, a universal touchstone of mixed emotions. The momentary happy relief from the heat coupled with the realization of, well, rain on a summer day. For some reason, I’ve always loved the scent. If the fragrance brand Replica needs an idea, they should try bottling that for a summer spritz of happy memories. I think it’s a little too urban and specific for Jo Malone. (And Tom Ford likely wants nothing to do with asphalt.) 

This year the rain has been in short supply, probably because our pool remains unopened and empty, so you are so very welcome for the long stretch of sun we’ve had. As soon as the new liner is in, the rain will begin. If not the snow. Mark my words. It’s 2020. That’s the way the year has gone. And so we have a fun little photo shoot made possible only by the machinations of an empty pool. 

We take the fleeting joys of summer when and where we can get them, whether that’s in the intoxicating fragrance of a summer rain or the vast expanse of a pool that has yet to be filled. There may be fun in both if you know how to embrace the moment at hand. Summer was made for fun. Indulge. 

It doesn’t look like we’re going anywhere this summer, because we have half a clue and see the rest of the country getting sick by traveling and acting like we’re not in the middle of a pandemic. I’ve lost count of all the events and trips and shows we’ve missed out on, so I understand what it’s like to want to get back out there, to hope and try to find some sense of normalness in all this madness. Yet I’m not stupid enough to risk things by going to a big gathering at a beach or something. Oh, and our pool is still not open, so it’s not like we have a paradise in the backyard just yet. Again, I’m just not dumb enough to take any risks.

And so we travel in music and books and beauty, touring the gardens and remembering various related events that come with the blooming of each flower. Daisies bring back times with Suzie and JoAnn, and a simple summer day riding my back down Romeyn Avenue and coming upon a patch of these in full bloom. I stopped and stared at them, studying their happy faces turned upward at the midday sun. I couldn’t have been more than eleven years old, but I still remember that moment. Daisies do that.

Music can do that too. This is a new song for me, and it’s an instant summer mood. Tinged with melancholy, and shot through with rays of sunlight, it’s like a summer morning when you’re packing the car for a road trip, and there’s hope and trepidation and excitement, all rolled together in the best kind of butterflies the stomach can flutter.

TIME HAS COME TO GO
PACK YOUR BAGS, HIT THE OPEN ROAD
OUR HEARTS JUST WON’T DIE
IT’S THE TRIP KEEPS US ALIVE

Daisies and vacations and summer days… what happiness these words conjure. What glorious connotations attached to each, with threads of silk and wonder leading to other memories. Amassing such threads has been a habit of mine. Maybe one day I’ll craft a cocoon in the hopes of some miraculous metamorphosis. Maybe a butterfly will result. And maybe the butterfly is already here, in the fluttering movement of the mind, piling into the car and hitting the road in giddy anticipation of another adventure to come.

THEY’RE FOLLOWING SOME DANCE OF LIGHT
TEARING INTO THE NIGHT
WATCHING YOU FALL ASLEEP
THE SWEETEST DOVE IN THE DREAM

We travel through the day, we travel through the night. Somewhere along the way, a storm comes and wets the world. Morning arrives, the petals of flowers still holding on to the kisses of rain. Water from the sky drips into the land, taken in by the plants, released again as oxygen, then back into the air, traveling in a cloud, moving over the land, toward the seas and the oceans, then trickling back down into more water, rejoining itself and lapping upon the shore, knocking on the sand, rising in the mist, carried and spun back into the air, funneled into a storm, tumbled through the atmosphere, falling through the night sky, and nestling onto the radial whorl of a daisy. 

Power to the people.

And remember, it’s not enough to simply not be racist.

We must be anti-racist. Actively anti-racist. 

That’s the America we need to be great again. 

On with the recap of our patriotic week…

It began with a sunny mango salsa.

A definite contender for song of this summer.

Sweet & savory, fruit & meat.

The wonder of woodland spirit. 

Losing out on lindens.

Magenta was the mood.

Naked before the mirror of the past.

Salvation by salvia.

The mood shifts to lavender.

Wearing the freedom Speedo, and a whole lot less.

Back to shirtless, hunky basics.

A self-care Sunday.

Hunks of the Day included Dato Foland, Ben Aldridge, Jake Bain, Dolvett Quince, Chris & Ian, and Brian J. White.

PS – If there’s ever a choice, choose love. 

Happy Birthday America. 

And get well soon.

You haven’t been great in a few years, but the good people of the world still have faith. We still believe in the greatness upon which you were founded. True freedom. Authentic equality. Liberty for all. 

A land that has no place for hate. 

A land that welcomes everyone who wants to make a better life for themselves. 

A land where this pansy-ass half-Filipino faggot was denied marrying the man he loved for the first ten years of their relationship – but where we eventually made it happen. That doesn’t negate all the years it took to get here.

And so I continue to push the freedoms we have, for those who still don’t have them. Whether it’s their family predicament, or the bigotry, racism, or homophobia around them, we will always seek something better. That’s the real essence of the American dream. 

And so we keep trying. We keep working on it. We keep on keeping on.

Like our hollowed out pool, rusted and lined with sand, awaiting its new incarnation, we just need a little tune-up. 

Like my forty-four-year-old half-naked body, ravaged by the relentless march of time, by restless nights, harsh mornings, and needless worry – on incessant display because that’s the American way. Fake it until you make it.  

We will rise. Like stars, shimmering in a dark firmament, following the moon, following the sun, following the centuries and the civilizations…

Only true fans of ‘The Golden Girls’ will get that reference, but those who get it, get it good.

The mood of the week, and the summer thus far, is magenta. 

I happen to like magenta, but I’m suspending that preference for the purpose of this post.

The featured photo is of one of the many rainstorms we’ve had this week. Such a tumultuous stretch of variable weather, all the while Mercury remains in retrograde, wreaking all sorts of havoc. I’m in the office two days this week, which makes laying low difficult, but I’ll do my best. It’s vital not to cause a commotion  when this time of planetary trickery is upon us, and it’s set to last until mid-July. 

Moods in my house, like the weather, are variable as well. Best not to ruffle those feathers right now, best to lay low there too. And I’m speaking as much for me as for anyone. Susceptibility to the whims of magenta is high. Mercury rides backward from outward appearances. Summer revels in her mystery. 

The storms swirl around the sand that lies exposed in the bottom of our empty pool. 

Steps are being made. Steps are being taken. 

Summer steps, that may one day catch the lapping of crystalline water, sparkling in the summer sun, rippling beneath the chlorinated clarity of the past and future, each as hazy and lovely as the present.

A present that is presently magenta. 

When you get to be my age, you find yourself wishing time would slow down. Or simply feel like it was slowing down. Working from home has only served to hasten its pace. Previous markers of time were made on a weekday basis: Monday through Friday we would drive past the same homes and gardens, and I could examine the slow creep of their growth and change. When passing them once a week, things seem to move much faster. That’s not good when you’re tottering on the dangerous precipice of middle age. No one wants to start the downhill slide to death with any unnecessary pushes.

I thought of that as I was walking in downtown Albany the other day. The linden trees had come into bloom and were almost done. Their fragrant perfume had already been largely spilled. Usually it linger sin the air for several days, but I could only smell these when I got up close. For many years I never knew what the delicious perfume was at this time of the year. It always made me smile – I attributed it to some magical gay pride fairy that wanted all the world to feel happy and, well, gay. It took quite a while to figure out the scent was coming from these humble trees.

This year I missed that.

I’m missing a lot right now.

We all are.

The first week of summer came and went in typical 2020 form – a rollercoaster of weather, a still-broken-down pool, and some glimmers of hope and happiness amid the occasional gloom and doom. Mercury remains in retrograde, so hang onto your hats and harnesses because all we can do is hope for the best. On with the recap as we begin another week of madness…

A centerpiece for the day. 

My brother’s childhood friend released this amazing album and I can’t stop listening to it.

Only the hydrangeas are exceptionally happy this year.

You don’t need to tell me to stick my ass out once. 

We returned to our favorite Albany restaurant for dinner out. 

The smallest blooms can pack the biggest punches. 

Purple and prolific of bloom, the classic clematis comes through to save the day.

Let’s have a lazy summer moment. 

This pink petunia broke through the concrete to display its prettiness.

Summer break, in the blink of an eye.

The battle against perfectionism is still being waged. 

Happy Pride Month, now more than ever. 

When feeling blue is beautiful. 

Revisiting the delusional grandeur of this project from the past.

Leaning into the blues.

Sunday night looks Up.

Hunks of the Day included Josh Gordon, Paul Dennison, and Bobby Berk.

“That’s the whole point. We know the outcome, but we don’t know when, or where, or who will be there when it finally happens. It’s a suicide tour. I’m old, I’m sad – that’s on a good day. I want out of this mess. But I don’t want to fade away. I want to flame away – I want my death to be an attraction, a spectacle, a mystery. A work of art. Suicide is a weapon; that we all know. But what about an art?” – Jennifer Egan

Four years pass between ‘Bardo‘ and the next project, an indication that my artistic output was largely subsumed by what you’re seeing right here: this blog. Producing three posts per day for 364 days of the year (which was my schedule back then) was practically a full-time job, and as my day-job responsibilities took precedence during the day, my creative energy was finding its outlet here the rest of the time, making additional creative projects difficult to keep cranking out once a year. But 2015 marked a number of neat anniversaries that merited noting in a project – and it was time for my very last tour. 

It also marked the first time I was touring while blogging, which meant that the actual tour book itself would be augmented by a series of posts that delved deeper into the themes at hand. (Those can be find in their entirety here. Bookmark it, because it’s a doozy.)

2015 was the year I turned 40, and the year I crafted my last tour because it was time to stop pretending. “Touring” had been a delusional dream of mine since Madonna became my muse in the 90’s. It had gone through a number of iterations, but retained the essence of travel and seeing old friends (all it ever really was). And so I embarked upon ‘The Delusional Grandeur Tour: Last Stand of a Rock Star‘ – my final tour, and my first new project in four years.

“For if there is a sin against life, it consists perhaps not so much in despairing of life as in hoping for another life and in eluding the implacable grandeur of this life.” – Albert Camus

It touched on some classic themes from my forty years of living: exhibitionism, artifice, Norma Desmond, glamour, fashion, fairy tales, flowers, self-destruction, image, Tom Ford and the Easter bunny. It also represented the complete and total separation between artist and work. The annihilation of the link between artist and subject could have gone in more disturbing directions; hints of Zen Buddhism and a flower/nature finale lay the groundwork for where my life was headed, though it would take several more years to make such strides.

“Even now… after we’ve learned about how bad it really and truly gets, there is the glamour of self-destruction, imperishable, gem-hard, like some cursed talisman that cannot be destroyed by any known means. Still, still, the ones who go down can seem as if they’re more complicatedly, more dangerously, attuned to sadness and yes, the impossible grandeur. They’re romantic, goddamn them; we just can’t get it up in quite the same way for the sober and sensible, the dogged achievers, for all the good they do. We don’t adore them with the exquisite disdain we can bring to the addicts and miscreants.” – Michael Cunningham

‘The Delusional Grandeur Tour‘ was compiled from photos that I had accumulated for about three years, with shoots spanning across the country – Albany, Boston, Las Vegas, Minneapolis, Dallas, Ogunquit, Provincetown and Washington – as well as my hometown of Amsterdam. The latter’s forest shoot – taken on a path my brother and I used to walk as kids – would provide the cover art for the project (a twist on Little Red Riding Hood). It became the centerpiece of the whole journey, which is kind of fitting, because it harkened to my first tour when Amsterdam was sort of the home-base for my travels.

Childhood also formed a subliminal thread that ran through the tour book, sowing the first seeds of an awareness that would take a few more years to find a full realization and fruition. Back then, however, there was just an inkling of how one’s past informed their present, and how our demons stayed with us as much as we tried to shed them. I couldn’t see how those demons still held sway and dominion over everything I did, even if the journey of this project was ultimately intended to be a hopeful one. There is a tension that carries through the entire work, something I didn’t realize until looking back on it, yet there is also a sense of completion and finality. I knew I would never travel again like I had in the past, and I celebrated and mourned that in equal measure. All in all, the trajectory of ‘The Delusional Grandeur Tour’ was an act of destruction followed by a rebirth of sorts, with a lingering sense of a slightly unfinished quest. That hunger, and the search for something more, would provide inspiration for this blog, which would carry me through any driving need for creative expression. This last stand of a rock star was the end of a certain way of living. No longer would I thrash out a dramatic lifestyle for the machinations of a show – not even if that show was only in my head. Delusions are not only by their nature grand, they are dangerous as well.

“When I am on my deathbed, I don’t think I will be thinking about a nice pair of shoes I had or my beautiful house. I am going to be thinking about an evening I spent with somebody when I was twenty where I felt that I was just absolutely connected to them.” – Tom Ford

{See ‘The Delusional Grandeur Tour: Last Stand of a Rock Star’ in its tour book form here. A full listing of its accompanying blog entries can be seen here. Also see ‘StoneLight‘, ‘The Circus Project‘, ‘A Night at the Hotel Chelsea‘ and ‘A 21^stCentury Renaissance: The Resurrection Tour‘ and ‘Bardo ~ The Dream Surreal‘.}

I’m going to guess that if you’re straight and white and reading this, you don’t really know what it’s like for someone to want you dead. Maybe I’m wrong, and I have such a marvelously-varied coterie of friends that perhaps more than a few of you have. I’m not talking about an ex or a sworn enemy. I’m not talking about the person who cut you off for the second time in a week or the one who keeps getting your Starbucks order wrong. I’m talking about some stranger who simply wants you to cease to exist because they hate what they think you are – whether because of race or skin color or religion or gender or sexuality.

This isn’t about the general idea of being disliked or discriminated against. It’s not about the relative with whom you share a mutual and constant dislike – maybe even hate. In all those instances, I doubt those people ever genuinely wanted you to die.

There’s something different about that. And there’s something different about having such sentiments directed unequivocally at you. It’s one thing to read about it, or to try to put yourself in the shoes of some character of some historical scene, it’s quite another to actually be on the receiving end of a death wish.

I’ve gotten a disturbing cache of Twitter and Facebook messages that literally wish death upon me just for being gay. “Die faggot” is about as clear and direct as it gets. If you’ve never had that kind of language directed at you, if you’ve never had to really think about and ponder whether strangers want your life to end, then you can never know. That’s why we have a month of Pride. That’s why there’s a Black History month. That’s why you don’t say “All Lives Matter” or ask why there’s no straight pride month.

As this year’s Pride Month comes to a close, it feels like we need it now more than ever.

The time has come to say a quick goodbye, and we can do it in the Irish fashion if that makes you feel better, or we can do it with a big virtual hug and accompanying fanfare. However you wish to bid adieu, be my guest. For a couple of years, I took the entire summer off from blogging and it was, no offense, absolute bliss. Heavenly divinity. Fucking awesome. Like a summer vacation I haven’t had since I graduated from college way back in the 90’s. That probably says more about my piss-poor attitude than it does about your reading preferences. Regardless, it was a lovely break of rejuvenation that recalled the responsibility-free summers of my childhood.

The freedom.

The expanse.

The relaxation. 

Not bound by deadlines or postings or any self-inflicted schedule. 

Not restricted by story arcs or overarching themes.

Not tied or tethered to one port when a world of different seas beckoned to everyone else.

This year I kind of want that again, especially in the heat of the moment. Let’s face it, this heated state of the world is not a place for subtlety, nuance, intelligence or grace. I like to think that at my best I’m a little bit of all of those things. I like to think that at its best this blog is a place for such things. A place for play, for exploration, for salaciousness, for silliness, for beauty, for stillness, for fun. In order to have all these things, however, I have to work and create and write and edit and take photos and make an ass of myself. You might well imagine that being me comes with its own set of challenges, and you would still have little to no idea what it fully encompasses. This is not a complaint, merely a statement of truth. That too seems to have no place in the world anymore.

Yet as I write this, I realize that the act of creating, of writing, or making something, adds to the inspiration. It’s sort of the opposite of what happens when you get too accustomed to staying home and doing nothing. It zaps your energy, draining you of the impetus to keep going. For most of my life I swore if I could afford an existence of leisure where I didn’t have to do anything but lounge around and daintily feed myself bon-bons that I’d be happy. I realize now, perhaps just in time, that it’s not true.

And so, this goodbye is for today only. I’ll be back tomorrow. And back for most days of the summer. I haven’t quite decided to give up on everything just yet. I’ll keep on keeping on because in the face of all that’s wrong in the world, telling the truth – even if it’s the most insignificant little truth of my insignificant little life – still has value to some, and it still holds immeasurable value for me. Meet me back here tomorrow… and for the rest of the summer.  

As a plant lover, I tend to attribute human emotions and traits to the plants in our garden. They become like people to me, with the same human flaws and triumphs and feelings that we all have. As such, I’m especially touched when one of them goes above and beyond what is normally expected of them, surviving in difficult conditions or thriving when given the opportunity. Can win point is this tiny little pink petunia, which seeded itself unbeknownst to me, in a crack of cement between the patio and the pool. Generally that space is informally reserved by a thin line of weeds which, depending on how ambitious I’m feeling or how strong my back is on any given day, has been known to get occasionally out of hand. It happens sooner than you’d think, and by the time I get to the end of weeding the space, the place where I began is usually already well on its way to needing it again.

This year I hadn’t quite gotten to it when I noticed this little bright spot of pink – courtesy of a seed that must have remained from a container planting last year (this year’s pink petunias have not yet gone to seed). It touched me – even for weeds, surviving in the thin sliver of a crack between concrete slabs is a feat. For cultivated plants, the odds are even less. Fortunately for us, petunias don’t need to be coddled or pampered to put on a happy show, and this little guy was willing to do so in an unexpected moment when I needed it most. 

It reminded me of a tomato I once found growing on a sidewalk in Boston. There is something hopeful in the notion of that kind of survival. 

Let’s pause for a moment.

It’s hot outside.

Our pool remains out of commission (though things are in motion to change that…)

You don’t live in our home, so you don’t get to pass bouquets like this multiple times in a week. Even if you visited the first blog post I did about it, it was soon buried by other posts, and you likely didn’t bother searching it out again because, well, why would you? 

So this look-back is for you.

When there’s been a string of hot days, as welcome and appreciated as the sun may be, we all need a respite as the sun reaches its zenith. At those times, I sit down on the couch that is beside the table on which this bouquet once stood. It is cool there, out of direct sunlight, though the room remains bright. It is quiet there too, when the music is off, and quiet is important when trying to keep cool. 

When I first started meditating, it was something I did near the end of the day. At the onslaught of winter, it felt better to trudge through the long, dark days and save it as something to savor before bed, preparing the mind for a restful and calm entry into slumber. As the light lingered, and my working schedule shifted to a work-from-home situation, I moved the meditation sessions up to the moment I shut down the computer for the day, around 4 PM, as a way of establishing a line of demarcation for the work day, and allowing me to decompress from whatever stresses the job had created. As such, it became the midpoint of the day, where it remains more or less to this point.

For weekends or days off, I’ve been moving it up even earlier – around 2 PM – and it is the centerpiece of a good day. My meditation sessions last about twenty minutes now, and are the centering force that have kept me calm in the face of all sorts of insanity, especially now that Mercury is in retrograde until mid-July. In twenty minutes, I can go from agitated and bothered to calm and resigned, and even more than that, this consistent pattern of meditation has resulted in a greater level of calm in the grander ocean of my existence. Studies have shown that regular meditation changes how our brain operates on a daily basis, allowing it to be more focused and calm even when not actively engaged in meditation or deep breathing. I’ve noticed it firsthand.

Things still annoy and bother me, and I throw little hissy fits, mostly in my head, but they are over sooner and quicker than they were before. There is no bitterness or anger that fuels lingering feelings of upset or tumult. As the days pass, I’m working on reducing these reactions and bouts of disappointment even further, until they will hopefully be no more than blips or tiny crests in a sea of gentle waves.

Still, I wouldn’t recommend fucking with me just yet. Mercury is in retrograde and I will not be held accountable for hurting people if they come for me, even in jest. Namaste, mofos, namaste.

Of course we get the best pool weather we’ve had in years in the weeks where our pool is out of commission. I’m chalking it up to the disaster that is 2020 and the current loveliness that is Mercury in retrograde. 

These chocolate crush cookies famously made at the Levain Bakery find a homemade approximation that is doused in deliciousness. 

These #TinyThreads made for some light summer reading. 

Giving the sideyard some loving. 

The BLT: the only summer sandwich. 

A midweek respite, like an oasis.

Typically of 2020, another disappointing moment. 

Hang on my little tomatoes!

This year’s BroSox Adventures are on hiatus given the state of the world… so Skip and I went back in time for this placeholder. 

The first day of a summer that would not hesitate. 

Turning cocktails into mocktails with an equally sunny disposition. 

Happy Father’s Day to Dads near and far.

A song for the second day of summer.

The Hunks of the Day returned with Pablo Alborán and Christian Cooper.

The first day of summer rings slightly hollow this year, as so much has turned to shit since 2020 kicked the door in and trashed the place. Some summers feel destined to be haunted, and must be prepared for and set up as if we were battening down the hatches for a winter storm. It’s far better to go in over-prepared and expecting the worst than to go in bright and full of bonhomie only to have the wickedness of the world shut it all down. That’s the mood right now. That’s the summer set-up. On guard. Under attack. Wrecked and ravaged. 

Personified by the sorry state of our pool – still unopened, a veritable swamp filled with stinging insects and squirming larvae, and inviting all sorts of nasty critters that feed upon them – the summer begins in less-than-fine fashion, in the very worst ugliness that summer can sometimes embody. I fear that tension and restlessness will portend the way the season goes, and I’m not sorry to start in such a dim world. From humble beginnings there is room to grow, room to get better, room to bloom and blossom into something prettier and more beautiful. 

Starry, starry night
Paint your palette blue and grey
Look out on a summer’s day
With eyes that know the darkness in my soul
Shadows on the hills
Sketch the trees and the daffodils
Catch the breeze and the winter chills
In colors on the snowy linen land

Now I understand
What you tried to say to me
And how you suffered for your sanity
And how you tried to set them free
They would not listen, they did not know how
Perhaps they’ll listen now

And so we begin in a quieter place, a more somber place, perhaps a more mature place, and rather than maturity leading to something more tame, my heart and passions feel more excitable and unpredictable than ever. Maybe it’s just my perspective that has shifted, and maybe that’s the best thing that could have happened. 

We are also going into summer with a song already chosen – entering from what is traditionally the ending: I tend to let the summer play out before determining which song will best represent the season that year. Here, I give you ‘Vincent (Starry, Starry Night)’ by Don McLean, named after and inspired by Van Gogh himself. Whatever may come for the next three months, this song will run through its days and nights – rather fitting for the stars that occupy the night, as well as the bracts of the Chinese dogwood that drip and dangle their starry expanse against the sky. 

One of the lasting effects of being an English major is the tendency to pick apart and dissect every word of a song, then expounding upon them in expansive, extrapolated form, analyzing even the most unintended placement of words or innocent punctuation and drawing personal conclusions that we try to mold into a different form of art. I was about to do that here, so full of possible meanings are the lyrics, so beautifully dark and deliciously disturbing are the images. An artist embodied by a painting embodied by a song embodied by a passage of writing… and I simply will not attempt it. I will not even begin to try to come close to what has already been created. I will simply listen, and invite you to do the same. 

Starry, starry night
Flaming flowers that brightly blaze
Swirling clouds in violet haze
Reflect in Vincent’s eyes of china blue
Colors changing hue
Morning fields of amber grain
Weathered faces lined in pain
Are soothed beneath the artist’s loving hand