Category Archives: General

This is too much. 

Where was this nonsense in January when we needed/wanted it?

This helps nothing.

All it does is delay outside work, wreak havoc with outdoor bulbs just coming into bloom, and fuck up drives and travel. I am so sick of it, especially after our last ordeal with an ice/snowstorm. 

This is bullshit.

Sometimes it helps just saying that out loud, getting all the ickiness and frustration out in a common curse word.

And sometimes it doesn’t help at all, because it’s still bullshit and just saying it doesn’t change that fact in the least.

Still, we try.

And still, this is fucking bullshit.

Andy was set to start pumping out the winter pool water and setting the stage for an early pool reveal. We have guests coming in a couple of weeks and wanted to start spring with their visit. This may delay the outside glory, and that does indeed suck. Memories of summer pool days go only so far when we are so close.

Matthew Rettenmund has been featured here before, but it’s good to give people a reminder of those websites that continue to produce impeccable and substantial content, because I know how difficult that can be. Rettenmund has been sharing his witty take on the world since 2005, and continues to be an entertaining bright spot amid this online world of awfulness. Check out ‘Boy Culture’ here.

Boy Culture was born on November 6, 2005, out of a desire to say something mean about a pushy journalist its founder, editor and author Matthew Rettenmund, had encountered at a Blondie concert. Since then, Boy Culture has grown to become an influential blog covering celebrity, gay issues, music, film, theater, beautiful men, humor and politics.

Wary and suspect, I’m still unaccustomed to celebrating a full moon and attempting to harness its powers rather than cower from it and hide away until it’s passed. The most recent full moon – the Worm Moon, also known as the Lenten Moon – appeared last week, and came with its usual bit of tumult. Is there really an uptick in crazy-ass behavior during a full moon? In my experience, decidedly yes. But I can’t tell if the full moon came first, or whether in my mind I simply have it programmed that such events will occur when the moon is full, and therefore subconsciously manifest the madness into happening. 

Regardless of which it is, during a full moon I tend to be a little more careful, a little more mindful, and a little more accepting of the pratfalls that often accompany the lunar phenomenon. It’s an opportunity to practice one’s acceptance of imperfection, embracing the shit that a wayward day will throw in our way. 

Last week’s recap was all about being powerless, this week is all about pumping out at full power. It’s Full-Frontal Monday, as we recap the previous week in this April 1st post. While spring is officially here, it barely feels like it, and we’re set for more nasty weather in the next few days, so hunker down and revisit all that has come before…

It began with beautiful ice and danger.

Observation of the century: every poo-poo time is a pee-pee time, but not every pee-pee time is a poo-poo time.

When friends write a blog post.

Castles aren’t fun to live in.

Three days of powerless bliss.

In the harmonies of Wilson Phillips, “You won’t see me cry.”

A Good Friday in a baseball cap.

Sneezing while peeing.

Eliminating the fuzz and the buzz.

The Ilagan twins turn 14 years old.

Mindfulness matters.

Turning my traumatic Easter narrative on its head: he sits on my lap now.

The silly stuff of a child’s Easter.

The porcelain trappings of youth.

Dazzlers of the Day included Amelia Dimoldenberg, Theo James, Son Heung-Min, Scott Nevins, and Jared McCain.

Whenever I find myself thinking ill of someone, and it does happen as often as you may think, I imagine them at their most happy or joyous, and for some reason that resonant joy of being alive makes me feel more softly toward them, seeing them as a fellow human being and not an adversary. It usually works, even with the most heinous creatures who have done me wrong. This is a long-winded and overly-winding introduction to an old Easter decoration I loved as a child, which was one of those paper honeycomb creations that had a pale yellow Easter egg unfurl its three-dimensional tissue paper form surrounded by a playful bunny rabbit. That bunny’s expression was one of tenderness and joy, with slightly doleful eyes, and I fell instantly in love with the stupid thing, which soon became worn and ragged because I would bring it everywhere I went. 

One day around Easter I must have left it somewhere it wasn’t supposed to be as my Mom threw it out. I found it in the kitchen garbage in a frantic search after I discovered it missing. After fishing it out I ran to her with tears streaming down my face asking her why she would throw it out. Her reaction was befuddled confusion, she hadn’t known how much I loved the silly paper decoration, and I had never shared how much I adored it with anyone either. Somehow I understood then, and at such a young age, that love would prove difficult and problematic for someone who didn’t show it. 

An Easter memory that suddenly surfaced from the depths of what should likely be buried. ‘Tis the damn season!

Perhaps the only person living, dead, or resurrected who might come close to understanding my Easter time trauma is the Sweet Lord Jesus Himself. The rest of you simply take great pleasure and joy in revisiting the terrifying Easter Bunny photo shoot of me just about wetting my pants in fear of that woefully-underestimated sadist. I’ll include that favored photo below, but we open with a bit of comeuppance – a karmic twist that finds the bunny sitting on my lap now, and I’ve got no time for tulle. 

This reckoning has been a long time coming. Largely worked-out with this unexpected run-in with the furry guy himself in Boston over ten years ago, I did a few more exercises in exorcism in the ensuing decade. There was the time the twins acted as my bunny-buffer during a visit at Faddegon’s. This pair of Burberry briefs and a string of pearls went another step toward turning the bunny narrative on its cottontail. 

The most startling battle with the bunny of my mind began with this trip down the rabbit hole. It was during that Delusional Grandeur Tour when the remaining animal demons in my head wreaked their final havoc. Today, the same bunny from that shoot gets a softer go-round on my lap. After all, it’s Easter. 

Happy Easter to one and all – especially that mischievous bunny in each of us. 

Only when the power goes out does one truly hear and feel the difference modern technology has imprinted upon our senses. First and foremost, obviously, there is the question of light. Without electricity we are at the mercy of natural daylight, and when that goes, wow does it go. In the absence of the moon in the sky, the darkness is deep and impenetrable. Second, and perhaps more powerfully in this day and age of non-stop sensory overload, is the absence of noise. All television and music is instantly silenced – the difference of that alone is startling. More shocking is the absence of all the background fuzz and static – the running of the refrigerator or dishwasher or heating system – things that normally fade into the periphery, suddenly given new prominence in their noticeable absence. Even the barely-there humming of a problematic light or the never-before-noticed whirring of a humidifier make their disappearance felt. It is a profound and reverent silence, and one which I appreciated despite the annoyance of the recent power outage. 

Almost every room or space in which we find ourselves is rarely without all sources of sound. The absence of power illuminates a meditative opportunity, as the only noise eventually becomes your own breathing, or the creaking and crackling of your body, the brush of clothing or the footfalls as you walk from one silent room into another. It was a moment that begged for mindfulness, that practically demanded one stop and take notice of our suspended state. For that, I was grateful, and almost wished we could have half an hour every day of being without the usual distractions and noise. 

I’m strange that way. Most people get immediately and unbearably bothered by such silence and stillness. We are so accustomed to the noise and the stimulation. Embracing this quiet, I seek it out now that it has receded. In the reflection of a window during the recent storm, a group of candle flames looks as if it is emanating from the pine bough. You only hear the sound of a burning candle when it’s extra quiet, and it’s enchanting. 

It’s ok if the garlic dies.

It might be hardy enough.

I have to let the lilacs go.

If they grow back, great, if they don’t…

You know what’s going to survive?

Me.

You.

And the holly.

That’s going to live.

Those roots are intense. 

Like other intriguing double-sworded events, an ice storm can be as beautiful as it is dangerous (and fucking annoying). I captured these photos at about the same time that our interior house temperature fell to what was outside (just kidding, it only felt that way). As the power is not yet on as of the time of this writing, if you don’t hear from me I’m either unable to post or I’ve expired from the cold. Fingers-crossed. 

This post is brought to you by the WiFi and electricity of Suzie and Pat, in whose home I currently write this recap, which will go live as we begin day three without electricity. The less said about that the better, so on with the weekly recap…

Whipping the cream.

The first day of spring arrived – oh the irony!

A spring song for your listening pleasure. 

Reviving a Broadway tradition with mother. 

A blue bird for spring.

‘Da fuck outta here.

Madonna’s ‘Like A Prayer’ album turns 35.

How patchouli takes me back in time.

The BOLD and SEXY style of Luke Evans.

Some other spring.

The backless gown reveals the ass.

When a peek at Justin Timberlake’s abs still isn’t enough.

This week kicked my ass, and I felt it.

A meditation upon ice in spring.

Unwieldy lettuce has been the bane of the salad.

Dazzlers of the Day included Lena Waithe, Noah Williams, Gaby Vincent and Basil Seggos.

Does the week begin on Sunday or Monday? It’s always infuriatingly debatable, and our world has had enough of debates and both sides and binary bullshit. I’m taking this Saturday night as the end of the week, because it was a week that kicked my ass and it needs to be over. We were scheduled to be in New Jersey for my late Uncle’s celebration of life service, but storms and bad weather caused Mom to wisely cancel the trip. It’s a shame we can’t see and be with family, especially all that’s happened in the past year, but we will make it up later in the season when there is no more threat of snow and ice. Those days are coming, I have faith. 

As for these last few days, they have been… days. Maybe the expectations that spring always brings proved to be too great. Maybe the state of the world and how toxic it feels that everything has gotten are finally getting to me. Maybe I’m just feeling beat-down by a week of therapy, doctor’s appointments, prescription pick-ups, and the meat-free Fridays of Lent I’ve been guilted into practicing. (Thank you to Catholicism and my former life as an altar boy!) 

Rather than fight the malaise or change the narrative by some false buoying of spirits, I’ve been facing the sadness and downtrodden days. It hasn’t even been close to a year since Dad died, and this winter, while relatively benevolent, seems to be sticking around (judging by the snow and ice that’s suddenly back). In my daily meditations, I’ve been refocusing on what I’ve felt during the day, acknowledging those moments of doubt and worry, allowing the space to be a little less of what I’d like to be, and going a little easier on myself when my picky, persnickety perfectionist tendencies drag me down. 

At both my doctor’s appointment and therapy sessions, when mention of my Dad arose, I said I was doing ok, and as soon as I said it I knew the next day or two would bring moments where I suddenly wasn’t ok, because that’s what seems to be happening. And then I hear from friends who understand, who have been through it, and who say that’s the way it usually goes. There isn’t a finite end date for grief, and for someone whose Virgo-nature likes a schedule and a plan, that’s difficult to accept. My head knows this, and understands this, and works to embrace this; my heart is in a messier state, and I’m learning to accept the mess. 

Coated in ice, our Japanese umbrella pine and a stand of hydrangeas bow beneath the weight. It is the weight of a storm, and the weight of a bad week. And in all things that weep, there is beauty here. 

When all else fails on a new album promotion plan, it’s often wise to go shameless, and shirtless. Justin Timberlake has employed such a shirtless move in the past, and it’s worked. Now that his new album isn’t quite the blockbuster success previous efforts have been, we get just a hint of former naked glory in the featured shot here. Isn’t it as revealing or provocative as previous poses and pics? Not even close. But maybe a tease is better than a blatant delivery? Meh… not in these parts. 

When they make you put on something this atrocious with your ass just hanging out, how does one’s blood pressure do anything BUT go up? Ridiculous. Anyway, I have reached the age of scheduled colonoscopies and shit (hopefully not in close proximity to each other) and here I am modeling the latest in Physician Examining Room apparel (put that on your roster of ballroom looks). If anybody knows anyone who can get me in for the ass-probing in the near future around the Albany area, please DM me. It’s all but impossible to get anyone to look at my ass these days, and scheduling a colonoscopy is proving just as difficult. Oh what a changed world…

Thirty-five years ago, the bedrooms of many burgeoning gay boys were filled with the incense-like fragrance of patchouli, the hold-over hippie scent from the 60’s, thanks to Madonna including it as part of the packaging for the ‘Like A Prayer’ album. For perhaps the first time, a musical artist was pushing the notion of the artistic listening experience into one that went beyond sound and sight and included an actual scent. It was a powerful moment for me – not only being my first brush with patchouli (contrary to popular belief, I was not alive in the 60’s) but also my first experience with how an artistic project could be so powerfully immersive for the consumer and viewer. It was also a lesson in how scent can be one of the most power memory triggers, bringing us back to a time and place more effectively than any other sensory stimulus.

Since that time, patchouli has held a special place in my heart, though these days it’s in a more refined form, such as this delicious fragrance from the House of Guerlain Paris – ‘Patchouli Ardent’. Here, the patchouli runs through the fragrance arc, its golden threads shimmering at each stage of development, while a magnificently rich rose note works a velvety floral into the mix. At the start, some pink and black pepper brings a spicy accent to an almost-fruity and figgy voluptuousness, while a woody smokiness lends echoes of Tom Ford’s ‘Oud Fleur’ and Frederic Malle’s ‘Portrait of a Lady’ (both of which I adore). Meanwhile, layers of leather reveal themselves as it settles down, taking it blessedly further from the edge of sticky sweetness (the danger zone of many a rose and patchouli duet). 

Taken together, this is a powerful perfume, perfect for these blustery days that feel more like winter than spring, when you need a little richness in the arid and barren landscape. The patchouli is prettily present throughout the story, bringing its years of memories into my mind, taking me back decades to a world that feels enchanted, as much by the rose-tinted-glass frame of time as by the sweet innocence I held onto as a thirteen-year-old boy.