14
June
2011
Tags: Boston, Gay
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Before the Parade

They held hands as they hurried along Boylston Street. One was slightly taller than the other, and a little less fidgety. The sky was getting darker – it was about to rain – but they had a parade to attend. I watched them, following a bit behind and furtively catching a few photos. It’s not every day that I get to see two guys holding hands while walking down a public street. (I get looks for wearing plaid pants in downtown Albany – I can’t imagine the scene if I strolled down Pearl Street hand-in-hand with my husband. Well, I guess I can, and it’s not pretty.) Luckily, this was Boston – and this was Gay Pride – and no one even cared.

Their hands intertwined, then released, idly slapping one another’s knuckles, then rejoining their fingers again. They looked like two guys excited to see a parade, to take part in the day. Maybe it was the first flush of giddy love, when you’re not really sure where anything is headed but you can’t help hoping. Maybe they were just friends, joining hands in solidarity for the day. Or maybe they were married – in Massachusetts that’s legal. Whatever the case, it was good to see.

 

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14
June
2011
Tags: Gay, Gay Marriage
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The Boston Gay Pride Parade

It happens almost every year, whether it’s a Pride Parade in Albany, Boston, or Rochester: I get a little teary-eyed. If there weren’t a ton of people around me, I’d probably let out a torrent. Instead, I keep it mostly inside, and on a rainy year like this no one notices a few extra drops on my face.

I can’t fully explain it. Part of it is the simple act of marching ~ the collective energy and efforts of a group of people who have, at some point in our lives, been marginalized and hated ~ if not specifically or individually then as a whole ~ all together and in unison.

Part of it is the various groups ~ the Youth Group, the Gay Fathers, the Dykes on Bikes ~ each one of them is moving in their own right, each one has a tale to tell, of hurt and hope, of triumph and tragedy, of life and death.

And part of it is simply the sea of smiling faces ~ friends, families, and complete strangers, all coming together in celebration and commemoration. For all these reasons, I always feel overcome at various parts of the parade, and it never fails to elicit a few heartfelt tears from an otherwise-stone heart. Such was the case as I stood under a concrete eve near Shreve, Crump, & Low, watching the Boston Gay Pride Parade move slowly by in the rain. From the giddy drag queens to the dancing go-go-guys, from the Trolleys of gay octogenarians to the little rainbow-flag-waving child, everyone was joyful and happy, despite the non-stop rain and a chilly breeze. Even the leather-masked men were all smiles through their harnesses.

I still believe that if you think of someone at their happiest, when they’re smiling or laughing or finding joy in the world, you can never really be mad at them. You can’t hate someone’s happiness. (At least I can’t.) More importantly, you can’t hate someone’s love.

Whenever I try to understand the reasons for attacking gay marriage, I can’t get beyond the fact that it is, at its core, an attack on love. And how can anyone be hated for loving? That kind of hatred is something I cannot access, cannot fathom. That kind of hatred doesn’t make sense to my head or heart. And on that rainy day in Massachusetts, in the city where Andy and I were married ~ just a few blocks from where we were joined in the Boston Public Garden ~ there was nothing but love around me. In that safety, in that warmth, in that relief, I cried out of joy and hope for what the world could, and should, be.

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11
June
2011
Tags: General, Madonna, Music
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The Madonna Timeline: Song #44 ~ ‘Beat Goes On’ – Spring/Summer 2008

{Note: The Madonna Timeline is an ongoing feature, where I put the iPod on shuffle, and write a little anecdote on whatever was going on in my life when that Madonna song was released and/or came to prominence in my mind.}

When I first heard the demo for this, it was rough, raw, and so unpolished I honestly didn’t see how it could be salvaged. So awful was it that I actually doubted it was a proper Madonna demo at all. I was wrong. With the power and precision of a well-seasoned pro, Madonna turned it into a pop gem, all bright shiny surfaces and perfectly chiseled angles. I should have expected no less, and its performance on her ‘Sticky and Sweet Tour’ was a fun intro to a flawless show.

Don’t sit there like some silly girl
If you wait too long it’ll be too late.
I’m not telling you something new,
There ain’t no time to lose,
It’s time for you to celebrate.

As is her habit, she crafted a fun, catchy pop song. Mindless in some ways, but mindful in others – a warning, perhaps to herself most of all, on the fleeting nature of time. Like much of the ‘Hard Candy’ album, time is the main concern – the way it goes by too fast and too relentlessly.

You don’t have the luxury of time,
You have got to say what’s on your mind.
Your head lost in the stars
You’ll never go far
It’s time for you to read the signs.
The time is right now,
You’ve got to decide
Stand in the back or be the star…

I won’t say much on the Kanye West rap interlude that somewhat mars the song. It’s interesting that the collaboration happened just prior to his going ballistic on live television and stealing Taylor Swift’s moment (she’s more than made up for it in successive successes, while he, though musically still a powerhouse, has owned up to his douche-bag image and held onto it defiantly). In these swift-to-forgive-if-not-forget times, Madonna got absolutely no negative publicity for her tenuous ties to Mr. West – though if this played out in the 80’s or 90’s far more damage may have been wrought upon both. Yet another reflection on the changing times – and the mirror ball of pop spins on.

I can’t keep waiting for you,
Anticipating for you
No time to lose…
Get down, beep beep, gotta get up out of your seat!
Get down, beep beep, gotta get up out of your seat!
Song #44: ‘Beat Goes On’ – Spring/Summer 2008
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11
June
2011
Tags: Gay, Gay Blog, Homophobia
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The Pride Post

It’s not easy being gay. It’s easy for me to think it is, because when you surround yourself with good, open-minded, accepting people it’s easy to think that’s the way the world is, but periodically – on the news, on the street, or in the office – I’m reminded that we are still different. We are still ‘other’.

Much like any minority, being openly gay opens you up for feeling different. For anyone who’s ever felt different, for anyone who’s ever been pointed at or whispered about, for anyone who’s had a dream about being in public and suddenly realizing you have no clothes on, imagine that feeling ALL THE TIME. If you’ve ever felt uncomfortable in a gay bar, imagine that feeling EVERYWHERE.

This world is a straight world. Every restaurant is a straight restaurant. Every office is a straight office. Every bus, train, or plane is a straight bus, train, or plane. Heterosexuality is the default setting ~ wide-ranging, far-reaching, accepted and commonplace. Homosexuality is the exception to the rule.

Every so often I feel it – the weight of it – the burden of being different. It’s a cumulative thing, built up year after year, little by little, whispered word by whispered word ~ and the effects are mostly deleterious. A fatigue, a vague mistrust, a twinge of paranoia that eventually, and always, turns out badly. You have to be careful with what you do with it. Too easily does it turn against the very people who are there to help you, too easily does it turn you against yourself.

Over the years, as I’ve grown into myself and become more genuinely confident in who I am, this battle fatigue has become more manageable, and I’ve been less affected by it. But it has taken years, and the war rages on in lands beyond my backyard.

If I seem too sensitive at times, if I come off as prickly, stop and think where I’m coming from, and where I’ve been. If you spend your life in a world largely foreign to you, where 97 percent of where you are and what you do is the opposite of your nature, what would you feel? How well would you cope if you had to wake up every day in a gay world? How would you feel if those seven awkward minutes in which you shared a quick drink with me in a gay bar turned into seventy years?

That’s what it’s like when I wake up every morning, go into work, walk around downtown for lunch, go out to dinner, the movies, a show (well, maybe not a show…) and all the other things we do on a daily basis. As accepting as most of my friends are, it’s still there. There’s still the burden. There’s still the difference. And until you’ve been there, you can never know. You can sympathize, you can relate, you can support and you can love, but you can never fully know.

I guess this is my roundabout way of saying that there’s still a need for Gay Pride. As comfortable and as proud as I am to be a gay man, there’s still a glimmer of doubt, still a shred of uncertainty I feel whenever someone attacks marriage equality, calls someone a faggot, or kills a gay person. That doubt and uncertainty is what they want me to feel. That’s how you stifle a group of people, that’s how you silence those who are different. And though I’ve learned to embrace being different, there will always be a cost to it. All the rainbows in the world can’t fix that, no matter how pretty.

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31
May
2011
Tags: Ogunquit
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Holding Hands: The Ogunquit Chronicles 2011

We arrive to lilacs in full bloom, filling our room and the yard with their Spring perfume. Some years we’re off – arriving just before or soon after their show is complete. This time we hit it just right.

Throughout the long weekend they would accompany us with their cheerful lavender blooms, sprinkling the air with that quintessential New England fragrance.

It’s good to arrive on Thursday – a trick we learned after waiting in long lines of Friday traffic on 495 for our first few years. Today the town is slowly awakening after a long, torturous Winter, and a rather rainy early Spring. None of that is in evidence now – window boxes are brimming with pansies and all the other pots have been planted with flowering annuals.

A row of mandevilla, and their accompanying trellises, lines the street in front of me, which I watch from a tree-shaded patio, sipping coffee and writing this out. It is a customary soft-entry into Ogunquit – a sweet decompression period that gently erases all cares or concerns of work and life in upstate New York.

I can feel my shoulders relaxing as the town walks by, and the dappled sunlight and ocean breeze work their healing magic, lulling me into a familiar comfort, an ease of life reserved for this beautiful place by the sea. In some strange way, I feel more at home here than I do in my own backyard. Another Memorial Day weekend in Ogunquit has begun.

It sends its scent forward first, and before it even comes into view the ocean has heralded its presence. It sends its sounds next – the vaguely thunderous pattern of waves, the cries of seagulls, the rolling wind. Only after this introductory preamble does it come into view, revealing itself with its sparkling crests glinting in the sun, the white-capped waves lapping at the beach, the vast immensity of the Atlantic occupying all that lies ahead. It is the deep blue horizon, and when you face it – really face it, head on, and take it all in – everything behind you suddenly ceases to matter.

This is our world at its simplest – at the crux of land, water, and air – and what else is there? We are small creatures to stand before such a colossal expanse, and it always gives me pause to question the humility and, alternately, the hubris it takes to face that vastness.

Most of us aren’t here for that kind of rumination, and, sometimes – well, most of the time – it is enough just to smell the salty air, to be lulled by the queasy undertow, to watch the kids splashing in the frigid surf. With the sun beating down and the warmth of the sand beneath bare feet there is no reason to think of anything else.

The title of this post is all there is to say really: a pair of men hold hands as they walk along the Marginal Way, and nobody pauses to stare, nobody raises an eyebrow, nobody even whispers after they pass. It seems like such a simple thing, such a common occurrence that most married or dating couples take for granted. But when you’re a man married to another man, there’s not much you can take for granted – not even holding hands. Men and women have been attacked and killed for less.

This is the only place in the world where Andy and I have ever held hands in public.

What does that do to a couple? What does that do to a marriage? What does that do to the human spirit?

 

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30
May
2011
Tags: General, Madonna, Music
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The Madonna Timeline: Song #43: ‘Hung Up’ – Fall 2005

{Note: The Madonna Timeline is an ongoing feature, where I put the iPod on shuffle, and write a little anecdote on whatever was going on in my life when that Madonna song was released and/or came to prominence in my mind.}

Time goes by so slowly,
Time goes by so slowly,
Time goes by so slowly…

Madonna has never made her impatience a secret, yet considering that by 2005 she was two decades into her career, I’m not sure how she figures time goes by so slowly. That Fall she released the lead-off single ‘Hung Up’ for the non-stop dance-a-thon Confessions On A Dancefloor. After the floppy failure of the under-rated albeit dour American Life in 2003, she went back to the well that has always produced gold – the dance floor – and it resulted in her biggest international smash of the decade, propelling her to another #1 album.

Time goes by so slowly for those who wait,
No time to hesitate.
Those who run seem to have all the fun.
I’m caught up, I don’t know what to do.

Making the most of its pricey Abba sample, ‘Hung Up’ is a disco diva’s dream, and fittingly became a dance anthem and immediate staple in Madonna’s repertoire. Lyrically it’s a bit weak – and I’ll go so far as to say disappointingly lazy. (The opening is a word-for-word rip-off of her own ‘Love Song’ from the ‘Like A Prayer’ album, though the similarities end there.)

Every little thing that you say or do,
I’m hung up – I’m hung up on you.
Waiting for your call, baby, night and day,
I’m fed up, I’m tired of waiting on you.
Ring ring ring goes the telephone,
The lights are on but there’s no one home,
Tick tick tock, it’s a quarter to two, I’m done, I’m hanging up on you.

It’s fun the first few times you hear it, then you begin to wonder whether her youngest child had a hand in writing some of the lines. No matter, it’s the music and the driving beat that really move this song. Nobody does a pop-dance song better than Madonna, and with her ‘Saturday Night Fever’ homage in the video for the song, nobody does pop culture references like her either.

With a few clever flips of her sausage curl hair, she channels Farrah Fawcett and John Travolta in one fell swoop, bringing the disco back to the clubs, and the glitzy glamour of Studio 54 back to the world. Her look was fun, bouncy, jubilant – and the sound was a celebration of the simple joys of dance music. If it was nothing too profound, it still felt good, and after the darkness of American Life, it was exactly what her fans needed.

I can’t keep on waiting for you.
I know that you’re still hesitating.
Don’t cry for me, cause I’ll find my way.
You’ll wake up one day, but it’ll be too late.

Shakespeare it’s not, I’ll grant you that. In fact, lyrically and musically that may be one of her weakest bridges – and though she’s got some big-time bridges, that’s no excuse. Also, at this point it’s overplayed its welcome on my ears – for a year or two this was her go-to-performance for promo and award shows – but for the time it was epic. I mean, it’s Madonna and Abba. And who didn’t roll their fists along with that choreography?

Every little thing that you say or do,
I’m hung up – I’m hung up on you.
Waiting for your call, baby, night and day,
I’m fed up, I’m tired of waiting on you.

It came out as the party season was just getting into swing. It was just before the holidays, and a new Madonna album meant a rollicking good time, aurally at least, and Confessions did not let anyone down. To this day, it’s the perfect record to put on when you’re about to go out for a night on the town, in those moments when you’re choosing your outfit, getting dressed up and determining your glamour quotient. The anticipatory excitement that is so good all you want to do is dance…

Time goes by so slowly…
Song #43: ‘Hung Up’ – Fall 2005

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29
May
2011
Tags: General
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Toothpick Sailing in the Rain

The rain doesn’t matter when you’re sailing toothpicks on the little make-shift stream of water running down the street in front of your house. Past mini-dams of fallen maple tree blossoms, the toothpicks rush, forging their way through branches and tiny beaches of sand and pebbles. The best ones travel all the way down the street, ultimately finding a mysterious end through the grates of a sewer.

When you’re a kid, you don’t mind standing in the rain so much, especially when there’s something like that to watch. It’s like the whole world closes in around you, and all you see or care about is whether that tiny toothpick will find its way past all the obstacles in its path. At some point it’s no longer a toothpick – it’s the massive hull of an island-sized battleship, or the orbiting body of a space rocket, or the simple wisp of a lifelong dream. All in the smallest of wooden vessels.

There are so many things to stop it, to snare or tangle it in the roots of a tree or the veins of a stripped leaf, and the odds are always stacked against it, but somehow there’s one that makes it. Sometimes it takes a little nudge. Sometimes the small hand of a boy acts as God, freeing it from a whirlpool or picking it up when it gets stuck. And sometimes the boat just can’t be righted, so you send it on to make its own way.

Once upon a time I was a boy who watched those toothpicks traveling down the street stream, seeing how far they could go, helping out some, leaving the rest on their own. It passed a rainy day, and proved that even beneath a dreary sky there could be the light of imagination – waiting to be kindled, and burning brightly through the rain.

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20
May
2011
Tags: Madonna
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The Ultimate Dare is to Tell the Truth

It was a bit like taking a bullet (or so I would imagine) when I realized that this month marks the 20th anniversary of Madonna’s ‘Truth or Dare’. The year was 1991 – probably one of the darker years in my life – and I was just coming around to Madonna again after being frightened away by her Catholic offenses. As with a lot of things, I was coming around in a major way, and ‘Truth or Dare’ is what started and sealed the deal on my super-fandom.

I still remember that night vividly. It was just before summer really started – my brother and his friend Eric came with me (I promised them there would be boobies), and we went to the old Cinema 4 at the Amsterdam Mall, where the parking lot sparkled with glittered cement (no, really). There were about three other people in the theater, but I didn’t care – in fact, all the better.

No matter what is said about the Madonna the actress, the documentary was pretty damn good – and it left me feeling inspired and ready to take on the world (the mark of a good movie in my twisted book). It also offered a humorous, if completely calculated, look at the woman behind the myth, and I willingly and happily bought every conceit.

 

Unafraid to be daring or offensive, refusing to be cowed by men in uniform (whether that was policemen or the Pope himself), yet somewhat vulnerable and lonely, Madonna portrayed herself as a fully realized human being – a complex and hidden one too, no matter how all-access she claimed it to be.

At the time, I didn’t know who I was – and the person I feared I might just be (a gay man) was not even in the realm of possibility. Yet here was Madonna, watching as two men kissed, and daring to put it on big screens across the country, and a world I didn’t know existed (there was no internet as we know it in 1991) opened up before my eyes – a world beyond Amsterdam, NY – and beyond a wife and kids and a white picket fence. It was but a glimpse, but it was enough – and I’ve held onto the truth, and Madonna, ever since.

 

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18
May
2011
Tags: General, Madonna, Music
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The Madonna Timeline: Song #42 ~ ‘Voices’ – Spring 2008

{Note: The Madonna Timeline is an ongoing feature, where I put the iPod on shuffle, and write a little anecdote on whatever was going on in my life when that Madonna song was released and/or came to prominence in my mind.}

Who is the master? Who is the slave?

Ambivalence, apprehension, unfinished business – they’re all a part of ‘Voices’, the final track of Madonna’s 2008 ‘Hard Candy’ album. (Yes it’s been three years since her last original studio effort… [clears throat, dramatic pause, “I’m waiting. Why can Donna and Niki not hear themselves? Sound by JimCo…”]

The song itself is a complex note on which to end her final studio album for Warner Brothers, finishing with a flourish of dramatic bass-drum pounding, and closing with the lone ring of a church bell or, in this case, the death knell of a relationship.

Treat me like a curse, Then tell me I’m your savior,
I’m living with a stranger I used to know so well.
Waiting for your answer is a kind of torture,
Could I grow accustomed to this kind of hell?
Are you walking the dog, cause that dog isn’t new?
Are you out of control, is that dog walking you?
Haven’t you had enough, now your time is up?
Baby show me your hand…

The lyrics are laden with tension, as Madonna contemplates a relationship gone sour (her own marriage to Guy Ritchie ended soon thereafter) and the push and pull of what constitutes doubt amid love and trust. It’s interesting to note the maturation and thoughtfulness present here, and when you compare this to something from the earnest, if broad, innocence of the tracks on Like A Virgin or True Blue, it reveals a remarkable measurement of growth. Madonna doesn’t completely exonerate herself from the blame either, but it’s clear she is the wiser observer in this scenario, even if she’s not capable of saving the situation.

Voices start to ring in my head, tell me what do they say?
Distant echoes from another time start to creep in your brain.
So you’re playing round this like it’s convenient,
You do it so often that you start to believe it.
You have demons so nobody can blame you
But who is the master and who is the slave?

As her musical and life journeys have played out over the years, her artistic output, as seen in songs such as this, has at times turned darker, and deeper than the bright pop hits that get noticed and released. A challenging gem like ‘Voices’ tends to get lost in the shuffle.

First you say you love me then you wanna leave me
Then you say you’re sorry, you play the game so well
I bought your illusion, you’re the greatest salesman
How could I refuse you when you sold it to yourself?

In some ways (and I do realize it’s unfair to compare the two), this is the second-marriage version of ‘Til Death Do Us Part’, though Madonna would likely never come clean about its genesis or who it may really be about. That’s part of her own game, as much for self-preservation and privacy as it is out of respect.

Are you walking the dog, cause that dog isn’t new?
Are you out of control, is that dog walking you?
Haven’t you had enough, now your time is up?
Baby show me your hand
Voices start to ring in my head, tell me what do they say?
Distant echoes from another time start to creep in your brain.
So you’re playing round this like it’s convenient,
You do it so often that you start to believe it…

No one knows what really goes on in anyone else’s marriage. So much of it is secret, so much of it is hidden. Madonna only hints at deeper breaks and fissures, which makes the impact of this that much stronger. Someone once said that a marriage makes secrets a necessity – sometimes the secrets help, and sometimes they hurt. Reading into the relationship of a stranger, albeit a very public performer who revels in revealing art, feels wrong and invasive. Yet it’s also a comfort to know that even someone as perfect as Madonna doesn’t have it all figured out yet.

You have demons so nobody can blame you
But who is the master and who is the slave?
Song #42: ‘Voices’ – Spring 2008
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14
May
2011
Tags: Music
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Hanging on a Moment of Truth

There ain’t no reason you and me should be alone tonight,
Yeah baby, Tonight, yeah baby…
I’ve got a reason that you’re who should take me home tonight (tonight)
I need a man that makes it right when it’s so wrong,
Tonight, yeah baby ~ Tonight, yeah baby
Right on the limits where we know we both belong tonight…

A song for Spring should have the innocent, hopeful longing of love in it – and the same fluttering excitement of pedaling as fast as you can on your bike and whooshing down a hill on the cusp of night.

Or sitting in the passenger seat as your new boyfriend guns it to 90 and the sunroof is wide open, blowing wind and stars and fairy dust around as you reach a timid, fearless hand out the window to feel the world go by.

It’s hard to feel the rush,
To brush the dangerous
I’m gonna run right to, to the edge with you
Where we can both fall over in love…
I’m on The Edge of Glory,
and I’m hanging on a moment of truth,
Out on The Edge of Glory,
and I’m hanging on a moment with you…

A midnight in Spring, the middle of Copley Square deserted, and you rollerblading with your headphones on, black coat billowing out behind you, and picking up speed until it feels like you’re flying, and Trinity Church rises and falls before you as the Hancock Tower mirrors your ascent into the night.

Another shot, before we kiss the other side tonight,
Yeah baby, Tonight, yeah baby,
I’m on the edge of something final we call life tonight
Alright, alright…
Put on your shades ’cause I’ll be dancing in the flames
Tonight, yeah baby ~ Tonight, yeah baby…

Certain songs propel you along your way, jump-starting a new way of life, opening up another door. They drive you to your next destination, even if you didn’t think you had one, and they create the memories that mark your life. It’s
that moment when your hero reaches out his or her hand and pulls you along for the ride. They beckon with a reassuring smile, and for that one minute you feel like you can conquer the world.

It’s hard to feel the rush,
To brush the dangerous
I’m gonna run right to, to the edge with you
Where we can both fall over in love…
I’m on The Edge of Glory,
and I’m hanging on a moment of truth,
Out on The Edge of Glory,
and I’m hanging on a moment with you…
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12
May
2011
Tags: Fashion
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How to Pull off the Man Clutch

At first I was resistant to the idea. Like most extreme trends, the idea of a man clutch is initially silly. What’s the point? With all the messenger bags and body bags and portfolios available, do we really need another accessory? Absolutely. To paraphrase a line from Steel Magnolias (because that’s exactly how gay this blog is), the ability to accessorize is the only thing that separates us from the animals.

While in Boston, I decided to forge the trend, but first I needed to find a suitable clutch. Being that the idea is relatively new (and decidedly not-yet-popular) there weren’t very many man clutches available. There were smaller messenger bags, but they all had straps or handles. There were dop kits and toiletry bags, but they were too bulky. The only clutches out right now are the female clutches, so yes, the man clutch, for now, is simply a woman’s clutch carried by a man. I’m cool with that, and confident enough to pull it off, which is one of the secrets on how to utilize the accessory without looking completely ludicrous.

If you’re going to carry a man clutch, there are a few suggestions I would make so you come off as eclectic and quirky rather than straight-up drag queen – but if you’re thinking of doing it, you don’t really have much wiggle-room for differentiation on that front – I mean, you’re carrying a clutch for God’s sake.

First rule, nothing frilly. No bows, or ruffles or even pleats. No ruching or puckering or fringe. No excessive buckles or buttons or ornamentation. The goal is for streamlined and elegant. Simple lines, clean surfaces. Keep the material on the rugged side as well – leather or canvas – and keep colors muted, or at least coordinated with your outfit. Above all, no sequins or feathers. Again, you’re carrying a clutch. It’s enough.

In the photos seen here I chose a lemon-hued version in leather, to match the scarf seen in the background. While at first I thought it would be an exercise in whimsy, it turns out the idea is surprisingly utilitarian. This is not solely a matter of superficial fun over function – a man clutch can be quite useful in freeing up pocket space that might otherwise be over-bulked with wallets, cel-phones and keys, while not weighing one down with an unnecessarily-full-size messenger bag that has no place at a crowded restaurant table or theater seat. Far from an “extra” accessory, the man clutch can take away the bulky pocket syndrome, replacing it with something svelte and sleek. It also makes things a bit more convenient when everything is in one place, so you don’t have to play pocket-pool or ass-fish while searching for stuff.

Pulling off the man clutch takes a bit of confidence and panache, and a pair of balls as polished as brass. It’s not a move for the weak of heart, or those simply following a trend for trend’s sake. But when done correctly it can leave an unforgettable impression, and that’s my goal in life.

[Now we just need to find a suitable moniker for the object – “man clutch” is a bit too pedantic. “Murse” was snottily suggested by a FaceBook “friend”, but I’m more partial to “mutch” (which seems more suitable since a man clutch is, let’s own it, a bit much). I remain open to suggestions.]

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10
May
2011
Tags: Shirtless Male Celebrities
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Aaron Schock Shirtless – The First (And Last?) Hot Republican

While I’m decompressing from a fantastic anniversary weekend in Boston, here’s a bit more eye-candy. This is currently our youngest congressman, Aaron Schock. He’s a Republican, and that’s all I’m going to say. There have been whispers about Congressman Schock’s sexuality, mostly because this is not the first time he has posed shirtless, but I won’t believe it.

Being on the cover of Men’s Health does not automatically make one gay. (But it certainly doesn’t hurt…) It’s the belt, shirt and white pants combo that Congressman Schock wore at a summer party (as seen below) that is, well, slightly more incriminating. Don’t get me wrong – I love it and would totally wear it in a heartbeat… so you see what I’m saying.

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08
May
2011
Tags: Flowers, Gardening
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A Love of Lilacs

Lilacs were one of my favorite flowers growing up, and remain so to this day. The aroma alone is enough to conjure memories of fresh Spring days, the promise of summer, and romantic entanglements worthy of Gatsby himself. Almost everyone has a lilac memory, a time when a row or hedge of the pastel flowers crossed our Spring paths, seducing all in their fragrant embrace. Like peonies, they are pungent and long-lived, instilling themselves in our past, emblazoning the moment with their perfume.

There is an essence both of innocence and romance in a lilac, and in their short-lived season of bloom, a wistful sense of fleeting wonder. I’ve read of new varieties that promise a decent re-bloom, but I’m partial to the old-fashioned stand-bys, where the true fragrance consistently remains. We’ve got a double version given to us by Andy’s Mom, which I’ve grown to love. The doubles also seem to hide the browning edges better than the single version. It is also powerfully fragrant, which will always be the most important part of a lilac.

I’ve also planted a couple specimens of the Korean lilac – a smaller, bushier version with a slightly later, and longer, bloom time. Though the blossoms are decidedly smaller, and erring on shades of pink rather than lavender, there are quite a few more of them, and their scent carries closer to the ground.

A hint on using lilacs as a cut flower: pick them in the middle of the night, or the very earliest of morning, then smash their stems to allow them to pull up as much water as possible. They may droop a little, but should come back if given a few hours to recover. The fragrance can fill a room with memories.

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05
May
2011
Tags: Cologne, Fashion
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Sunkissed and Scent-sational

Orange. It’s not everyone’s cup of tea. Andy’s not a fan, but he’ll have to deal, as I’ve decreed orange to be the accent color for my Spring/Summer season. It starts with a Jack Spade bag and a complementary card holder, and goes down to a hot pair of argyle socks. I’m looking at orange shoes next. Yes, I have one pair already, but they’re an old Polo set from long ago. So that’s the revolutionary costume plan for the season. Orange. (And lavender.)

Now if I can only decide upon an anniversary fragrance. It’s been narrowed down to a couple of Tom Ford Private Blend scents (Champaca Absolute, Neroli Portofino, or Oud Wood), an Hermes, something by Frederic Malle, or a Creed (Silver Mountain or Imperial Millisime). Last year I wore Creed’s Green Irish Tweed for the wedding weekend, but I think I may want to save that for the super special occasions. Either way, it’s an exciting time for citrus.

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04
May
2011
Tags: Gardening
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A Failure of Narcissism

For someone who prides himself on having a green thumb, I have proven surprisingly pathetic at growing daffodils. I am blaming it on the soil, and possibly the critters in the backyard, because it can’t be anything I’ve done or neglected to do.

When we moved into our home, that first Fall I planted a group of Poet’s narcissus among the pachysandra that filled every available spot in our backyard. I amended the soil with a generous heaping of bone meal (since pines were in the area, I wanted to temper any acidity in the ground, as well as fortify any blooming power in the bulb). Set about six inches deep, they slept through the winter, as I dreamt of drifts of Wordsworthian daffodil blooms come the Spring. I had set out a decent number of Narcissus poeticus ‘Actaea’ – the Pheasant’s Eye Narcissus, as they had a nice late bloom season, but when they finally came up, it was a bit of a disappointment. Maybe my memory was exaggerating the thickness of the leaves, and the height of the blooms, but these were much less than anticipated, and the next year only a few measly leaves surfaced, minus any blooms.

Thinking it may have been the tangle of pachysandra roots that proved too much for the bulbs, I tried again the following Fall, giving them their own little space near the house. The soil was a little sandy, but I figured that would be better for drainage. I prepared the spot in the same way – amending with bone meal, six inch depth – and had grand hopes of swaths of yellow flowers colonizing and taking over the small space. I also put in some grape hyacinths beside them, to test whether this otherwise-unkillable bulb would suffer a similar fate. The next Spring the daffodils and grape hyacinths came up, but weakly. The following year there were just slender, and short, leaves. There was nothing after that.

 

 

Last Fall, I again succumbed to the promise of Spring, and bought a few packages of pink cupped daffodils, and a few large red-cupped ‘Fortuna’ bulbs – big, hearty, substantial things that looked and felt like they could charge through any number of winters. I also tried a small grouping of golden-hued miniatures. So far, they are performing adequately enough, but there’s still a bit of the same delicate first year hesitation – a bit late, and not as robust as more established clumps I jealously see in the neighbors’ yards. I do not have much faith in them, but such is the lot of any gardener. Failure is a part of the game. We’ll see if these come back strong next year, or if my yard just wasn’t made to have daffodils.

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