Category Archives: General

Dazzler of the Day: Hayden Joseph

Barrier-breaking gay country singer Hayden Joseph is a bit of an anomaly in a genre of music stereotypically not exactly welcoming or open to LGBTQ+ participants, but he hopes that is changing (and here’s an example of how it may be). Being brave is sometimes just the result of being yourself, and Joseph earns this Dazzler of the Day for being living proof of that. Check out his website here for more:

A South Carolina native, Hayden Joseph is no stranger to the Country Music scene. His love for the genre started as soon as he could talk and has continued to blossom throughout his adult life. Hayden blends the sounds of Modern Country and Mainstream Pop music, drawing inspiration from the genre-bending melodies of Taylor Swift, Garth Brooks, and Shania Twain. His unique sound, heartfelt lyrics, and Southern Charm have captivated audiences across the country.

Hayden prides himself in the inclusive nature of his lyrics, as an openly gay male pursuing a country music career. “The songs I write are rooted in personal experiences, but I challenge myself to write lyrics that are applicable to many walks of life.” He hopes to continue breaking barriers and being a driving force in the changing country music tide.

His debut album, “Different” was released in Spring of 2021, logging more than 500k streams to date. Its follow-up singles this summer have seen even more rapid trajectories, while Hayden’s message of expanding country music’s perspectives has garnered him nearly 200K TikTok followers, led to features in “People” magazine, and landed notable Spotify editorial placements.

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The Madness of Making An Oboe Reed

When I was studying the oboe, I had a very good teacher. In our first lesson I don’t think I played a note – she had me feel and understand my breathing in a way that would inform my entire life. She taught me the importance of breathing into my stomach and making full use of my lungs, as well as how to relax into that breathing (it look most of that lesson because my entire body and mind were so decidedly and determinedly NOT relaxed). She also taught me all aspects of oboe-playing, including that infamous task that only the truest players dare to attempt: reed-making.

Unlike the clarinet or saxophone, the oboe is a double-reed instrument, meaning it uses two pieces of reed bound together through which the vibrations are made to produce the slightly nasal-like and unmistakable voice of the oboe. Making the oboe reed is an exercise in patience, determination, skill and a bit of luck. As a teenager, I didn’t come naturally by these traits, and so it was that reed-making became one very important lesson for me.

As I stood beside my teacher at the first few lessons, we worked on the basics, which were more or less getting me out of the infantile training I’d received in 5th grade band class at McNulty school. The plastic oboe and pre-manufactured reeds I’d been using there were a joke at every other place where remotely-decent music was being learned and played, and as I realized how unprepared for the rest of the world I was, she began guiding me and showing me how to improve. 

On the high-backed knob of one of her chairs, a mass of colorful strings was tied, and it caught my eye before anything else. I would come to understand that those were reed strings – each one a sign that a reed had been made, or attempted – each one a testament to time and trial and occasional triumph. Reed-making was an infuriating process that took much to merely approximate mastery of the craft, but I did my best. 

My teacher taught me how to soak and cut the raw cane pieces (ordered from France, where the best cane originated apparently), then how to coat the thread in beeswax before binding the cane together and attaching it to the cork-bottomed ‘staple’, and finally carving it into playable form with a carefully-sharpened knife. If it sounds like there is much room for error, there absolutely is, and for a once-perfectionist like myself, failing at over half of my attempts was soul-crushing at first. 

Eventually, I got the hang of it, and could pound out a few reeds in a single sitting. My collection of thread grew, so that soon I had my own mass of colorful strings tied to a chair, pointing to the lessons I was learning. Later, I would discover that perfectly decent and passable reeds could be purchased already-made, but by then I’d come to appreciate the work and time and effort that went into making your own. It was an appreciation of craft that my teacher instilled in me early on, and it’s something that has stayed with me. It formed a way of acknowledging and savoring those moments when so much work and so many details went into a work of art, such as an oboe concerto, and made me pause in gratitude. 

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Mindfulness Comes While Hovering Over the Toilet

Not all moments of meditation and mindfulness have to be lengthy or accompanied by Palo Santo incense or done while perched lotus-style on a silk cushion. Some can take place while you’re taking the first leak of the morning. I realized that for the first time as I was pissing on Easter morning. I’m one of those guys who starts the flush just as he’s finishing up the pissing business in an effort to save time. After 47 years of practice, I’m pretty good at judging the timing needed to complete my flow before the flush has completed its full cycle. 

As I stood there with a final flick of the dick, it dawned on me that I was rushing a moment that could, for all its supposed obscene glory, be one of ease and relaxation. I think I can safely say that urinating feels good for most of us (provided everything is working correctly). It offers a welcome release of all that has literally been bottled up inside, giving the body instant gratification and pleasure as we unburden our bladders of pressure and discomfort. This was a moment, however brief, that should be enjoyed and exalted, not quickened or hastened by my typical double-duty of flushing and finishing up at the same time. 

From this point forward, I’m going to mind the moment of urination, proof that there can be mindfulness in the most unlikely of places and actions. It’s also a reminder to seek out those unexpected times when mindfulness can be playful and fun

Bottom line: don’t rush the flush!

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The Easter Classic

Happy Easter!!

Everybody’s favorite photo of me (especially adored by Suzie) is traditionally brought out for this day, and what you see here is a very memorable visit with an Easter Bunny that can charitably be described as terrifying. It’s a testament to the power of taste that purple tulle hasn’t become as traumatizing as it clearly should have been in my life. Happily, I’ve long since tamed these Easter Bunny traumas in my own ways, most notably at this unexpected run-in with the creature at a brunch in Boston. We have made our peace, and the world has been righted for a day. 

Enjoy your Easter Sunday!

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The Interim of a Holy Saturday

There is a hushed solemnity to this sacred pocket of time between Good Friday and Easter Sunday, as if much of the world waits with bated breath for something miraculous to happen. Not to mix religious metaphors, but it’s a purgatorial sort of place, located somewhere between sorrow and hope –  a common and fertile space where humans reveal whether they’re on the side of cynicism or optimism. 

For someone who has traditionally reveled in the anticipation of everything, I never found much solace or joy in the Saturday before Easter. Maybe all the anxiety and stress of serving so many masses during Holy Week had my mind too wound up to lower its guard and relax, especially when the biggest Holy Day of the year was yet to come. Church was always fraught with that discomfort and strain. I tried to focus on God and what constituted the true lessons and meanings of all that scripture, all those stories, but in the end it was just me and my social anxiety trying to get through being part of that black-and-white-clad parade of altar boys and priests. 

A pause, then, in this spring of 2023 – a pause before Easter, a pause before resurrection, a pause before any miracle. A pause to determine whether we will stay in the dark or move toward the light. There is always that choice. I want to believe we would all try to be better, but I’ve seen the hurt and harm humans can do to one another. No amount of faith or believing can counter the utter lack of humanity with which some people have been left.  

It’s been a while since I’ve returned to the church in my memory bank. There are no great or horrid secrets lurking there – whatever tragic fate befell so many other altar boys never touched me. Whispers of it remained elusively on the periphery of my experience, and maybe the danger lurked closer than I knew, but no abusive horrors informed my altar boy years. Instead, it was the dogged and consistent strain of anxiety of facing a church filled with staring faces that wreaked its havoc. Every Sunday I would dread the mistake or mis-step that would lead to the ringing of the bells at the wrong time, or a missed cue to bring the priest the gospel, resulting in frantic snaps of his fingers beneath his flowing robes. I wanted to please the priest, I wanted to please my parents, I wanted to please every person in the pews, and I wanted to please God. That’s a lot of emotional pressure on a kid whose baseline nature was not naturally pleasant. 

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Cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs

Every once in a while I will talk in my sleep, and Andy will catch it, then wake me and relay whatever nonsense I’ve been mumbling. The other night I was apparently screaming, “I’m cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs!” and then opining, “Who gave us Cocoa Puffs?? What are we, nine?!”

It didn’t end there. I went on to say, “What am I gonna do with all these Cocoa Puffs?!?” which is where Andy woke me with this: “Put them behind your ears!”

As you can imagine, our bedroom is wild in the wee small hours of the morning.

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A Barbie Moment

The upcoming ‘Barbie‘ movie with Margot Robbie and Ryan Gosling is either going to be magnificently awful, or awfully magnificent, and I can’t quite tell from the trailer. See it below and judge for yourself, then go find the Barbie selfie generator and go to town like I did. 

Beach me off, indeed. 

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A Quote That Says it All

My friend Thomasa posted this the other day, and the words of Helena Bonham Carter rang beautifully true. I’ve long since believed everyone produced their own works of art, simply in going through life, and most of that beauty goes unacknowledged and unappreciated. We don’t give ourselves enough credit, and anything can be done with a certain element of artistic flavor. The perception is the key, and the intentional mindfulness of making every moment into a possible moment of art is always a noble effort. 

“I think everything in life is art. What you do. How you dress. The way you love someone, and how you talk. Your smile and your personality. What you believe in, and all your dreams. The way you drink your tea. How you decorate your home. Or party. Your grocery list. The food you make. How your writing looks. And the way you feel. Life is art.” ? Helena Bonham Carter

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The Egg Recap

A life-changing eggsperience happened Friday night, and I’m still reeling from the revelation. Typically, I love to surprise people, and I love to surprise myself. (The surprise party is a different animal entirely, but that’s another story for another post.) This weekend, I was completely floored, so scroll down and let’s recap the week as we move into April. 

Jung Kook X Calvin Klein

The return of spring, the return friends. 

Power of the pussy.

A patch of snow on the ground.

The saddest song for a rough week.

My niece and nephew turned into teenagers last week.

A letter to Noah on the occasion of his 13th birthday.

A letter to Emi on the occasion of her 13th birthday.

Retreat of a lamb.

The magic of Muscari.

Another visit from the Jehovah’s witnesses, caught on camera.

After 20 years, the full-frontal money shot. 

A stark start to April.

My mind was blown by an egg, as was 47 years of blissful eggnorance.

A gratuitous post with a naked Chris Meloni. 

Dazzlers of the Day included Jessica Kirson and Alice Oseman.

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The Stark Start

The April showers didn’t wait to arrive, as they took this first morning of April by full-frontal assault. These photos were taken a day or two ago, back when we remembered what the sun looked like. Today it is but a memory. Cue Betty Buckley

I’m in a frisky, funny, cheeky, any mood today – woe to those looking for something earnest or heartfelt. This place is for the ferocious and cockfelt. Search the archives and ye shall find. Let’s race toothpicks to the sewer drain. Don’t let the clown get you. 

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After 20 Years, The Full-Frontal Money Shot

Celebrating the 20th anniversary of this website, this seems as fitting a time as any to reveal the long-rumored full-frontal money shot at last. Certain visitors have been patiently awaiting this day with eager anticipation, at least they were several years ago ~ age and click-bait have tempered that fevered pitch, but there are still some who wouldn’t mind a peek at the twig and berries. 

So stay with us, scroll down a bit, and revisit some fun links that follow – this will be the sort of day that becomes its own holiday of sorts…

This day has long been a fun one here, and there are always a few newcomers that get snagged and reluctantly admit their full-frontal folly

Despite the click-bait of it all, there are still sights to be seen, and even a full-frontal tease (oh hi, Chris Evans) usually provide more eye-candy than typically gets posted here. Such as in this Zac Efron full-frontal piece

Further teasing by David Beckham, Ben Cohen, and Nick Jonas. And more than a bit of Tom Daley too

My very own sex scandal took place on this date in 2015.

A twist on the full-frontal shot, courtesy of ‘Sex’. There’s a certain satisfaction in a little bit of pain

Happy April Fool’s Day everybody! You know I love ya. 

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Another Visit From the Jehovah’s Witnesses of Albany

Standing there in my beaver pajama pants (a gift from Suzie) and a ratty, hole-filled long-sleeved t-shirt with a faded palm tree on it, I greeted the two ladies as though I was expecting them. I’d seen the car drop them off across the street, but figured that after this interaction the Jehovah’s Witnesses had gotten the message that my household was supremely uninterested in joining their cult. Alas, that was not the case, as they made a beeline to our door. 

“Hope you don’t mind, I’m going to take your picture!” I said a tad too cheerily, opening the door as they eyed me with bit of suspicion. 

“Why?” the woman in back asked somewhat accusingly.

“Because you’re on my own property, and in plain public view.” 

They laughed nervously and then produced the pamphlet I’d seen just a few days ago. 

“Can I give you this and invite you…”

“You’re from the Jehovah’s Witnesses,” I interrupted. “Two other people came here last week saying the same thing and having out the same brochure. I asked them what the Jehovah’s Witnesses said about gay marriage and they said you were against it.”

“Can I read you what the Bible says about that?” she asked, her smile not breaking. 

“No thanks, I’d like you to put into your own words what your organization thinks.”

“Well the Bible says marriage is one man and one woman, and they should come together as one. Can I read you the passage?” she asked as she began to reach into her folder. 

“No, I’m asking what you think about it, what your personal beliefs are about my marriage.”

I believe what the Bible says…”

“So you don’t think my marriage is valid. I’ve been with my husband for over twenty years and you don’t think it’s valid?” Somehow I managed not to sound accusatory or antagonistic, though inside I was getting more irate as I stood there letting heat out of our home, and two people worked to silently condemn my life without saying any of it out loud. 

“It’s not a judgment against you, I can’t decide that for you, I believe what it is in the Bible, which says that a man should be married to a woman,” she said, unwilling to go off script even when asked about her own take on it. 

“The Bible doesn’t believe a man should marry a man,” the woman in back chimed in. “But we don’t judge anyone.”

“Have you read any of the Bible?” the first woman asked.

“Yes, when I was a child I read it,” I said. 

“Did any of those teachings mean anything to you?’ 

“Absolutely. The notions that Jesus never judged anyone, and loved everyone as they were have stayed with me, and I still believe in that. What I don’t believe in is a literal reading of the Bible. It seems close-minded and, quite frankly, stupid, to think that a text remains literally relevant and that nothing has changed or evolved in 100, 200, 1000 years. I also don’t believe that was the intent of Jesus and his teachings.”

The woman in front persisted, “Can we ask if you would like to attend our event next week?”

“No,” I answered, my false smile entirely gone, but still wanting to be as humane and polite as possible. “Your beliefs go directly against mine, and your literal interpretation of the Bible will ultimately make it obsolete. If you want people today to continue believing in the Bible, then you should focus on how Jesus lived out his own life, and it wasn’t condemning or judging others.”

They thanked me and I told them to check out my website as I’d be writing about this encounter. Hey, they wanted me to visit their website. Do unto others…

PS – This is me in my birthday suit. In addition to wildly celebrating birthdays, I’m way beyond saving, so stop coming to the house.

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A Letter to Noah on the Occasion of His 13th Birthday

Dear Noah ~ 

You came into the world first, so you get the first post. Was it that you couldn’t wait, or did you simply have to beat Emi out of the womb? Perhaps a little of both. Over the years, I’ve watched you grapple with and ultimately begin harnessing that energy and power, and using it with grace and good judgment. I also detect a certain sadness in your gaze from time to time, a little indication that you too feel the weight of the world, even if you never let on, even if you champion through it. You should know it’s ok to share that weight, and it’s ok to feel that sadness. 

You rebound and rally well, and life is more about accepting and acknowledging loss than winning every time. I know that’s not what it feels like, and that’s not what anyone will teach you, but I’m hopeful you will master the art of defeat when it has to happen. It makes for a much happier and richer experience. It makes you a stronger and better person. 

Noah, I wish I could write something that would make it all easier for you, that would unlock the secret answers I always sought as a teenager, but if there were words or secrets or solutions, they’d have been written and shared by now. Sometimes you are wiser and more profound than your Uncle Al, and then I feel as though you are teaching me. That’s the way it should be too, and I promise to listen more and hear you out. 

On this occasion of your 13th birthday, when the soul supposedly solidifies into its adult form, you are more put-together than you probably think. If you’re anything like me, this is the point in life where you will begin to form your most-lasting memories. That’s a lot to realize, and I won’t say too much more about it because part of the magic is in not knowing that. And while I don’t have very many of the answers you will soon be searching for, I will always be here for you. That’s what your Uncle Al is for. There will be times when you can’t tell your parents certain things, predicaments that you never meant to fall into, mistakes that you ever intended to make – and throughout it all your Uncle Al will be there to help in whatever way I can. I’ll make mistakes too, and we will have to forgive each other because we will get hurt sometimes, but I will always love you and want the best for you. 

Happy birthday to my first nephew – to the young man named after the person who once gave hope to the world – and the person who gives me hope now – Happy Birthday Noah.

Love,

Uncle Al

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The Saddest Song (I’ve Got)

It was only Monday, and the week had already kicked us all down. One friend was just getting out of the hospital, for the second time in a week. Another was locked down in the hospital he works at, thanks to some guy with a gun. And then our neighbor had a medical emergency, to which Andy rushed out to offer assistance. I thought about not checking my phone for fear of what news might arrive next. 

Alone, I stood in the middle of the house, listening to the rain on a late-March evening, when the world should have been full of hope. Instead, it was a day of tragic news too – another school shooting left three children and three adults dead. Tornadoes in the south left almost thirty people dead. Standing there, I reached out for a wall, and then brought my hands to my face because suddenly I was crying. 

Darling are you feelingThe same thing that I’m seeing?The troubles of the day,Took my breath awayTook my breath away

I didn’t know whether they were tears of relief or release, tears of sadness or anger, tears of exhaustion or powerlessness, or a little bit of all of it. It was over quickly, because I took one step forward, and then another, and I kept walking, aimlessly through the hall, through the kitchen, into the den, and back. One step after another, because it was all I could do, and all I could think to do. In the bedroom, I pulled open the curtain and looked out to Andy’s car in the neighbor’s driveway. The rain mottled its sleek surface, running onto the pavement and down the street. It shone on the bare branches of the plants still blissfully asleep. The world was weeping with me.
Now you’re no longer talkingAnd I’m no longing hearingThere’s nothing left to saySaid it anywaySaid it anyway
And I want you notI need you notI’m dying ’cause this is the saddest song I’ve got
The saddest song I’ve got

I worry. I worry for my parents. I worry for my husband. I worry for my family. I worry for my friends. I worry for my neighbors. I worry for the world. And I worry a little for myself, because I haven’t felt this fear in a very long time. I worry that this is it – the long, or maybe not-so-long trudge into old age, into obsolete madness, into days that only know loss and sadness and the memory of what once made us all so happy, the memory of what made the world so bearable. I wonder what to make of the days when that memory fades for good. 

Darling are you healingFrom all those scars appearing?And don’t it hurt a lot?Don’t know how to stopDon’t know how it stops
Now there’s no sense in seeingThe colors of the morning.Can’t hold the clouds at bayChase them all awayChase them all away

I went into the attic and started writing this post while listening to this song. Probably not the wisest thing to hear in such a mood, but sometimes you have to dive into it and feel it, however awful it might be. The only way out is usually through. 

Andy texted that another neighbor was dropping off a blueberry coffee cake so we would have breakfast in the morning. That made me cry more. The heart aches at all the hurt in the world; the heart breaks when another human tries to make it better. I thought of one friend’s answer when I once asked how she managed to not get overwhelmed and consumed by all the awfulness of the news: she said she thinks of her kids and how they are making this place better.

A 47-year-old man weeps in front of his laptop and feels absolutely ridiculous doing so, but gives into it anyway because some nights the world is just that awful. Some nights a good cry is the only thing that forces us to keep going, to put one foot in front of the other and keep going, to wipe the tears away and keep going… keep going, even when it hurts… just keep going… for all the people who can’t. 

And I’m frozen stillUnspoken stillHearts brokenRemembering something I forgotSomething I forgot

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