Monthly Archives:

November 2012

The Black Squirrel

While in Boston this past weekend, I brought my brother to the Public Garden and showed him the spot where Andy and I got married. The Garden has different charms in the Fall – the colorfully changed leaves of the trees, the sun slanting deeper in the sky, and this special guest – the black squirrel. I had not seen any black squirrels in the Garden before now. They had been prolific in Washington, DC, where Andy and I watched them with the rapt interest of the novelty they were to us.

Hopefully this guy (or gal) will be here when Andy makes it back into town.

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The Longest Read of My Life

A friend had warned me that I would grow tired of it before it was over. I scoffed at the notion – at page 200 I was still enthralled with the Dickensian atmosphere of ‘An Instance of the Fingerpost’ by Iain Pears, and loving the historical world of Restoration England in the 1600’s. Yet he insisted that I would soon find the book unnecessarily long. I fought him for a bit, then let it go, content with the knowledge that if I was enjoying a book a few hundred pages in, I wouldn’t find it tough to finish in the least. Then I looked forward to composing a snotty little told-you-so message proving myself right for the cajillionth time.

As it turns out, by page 400 I was starting to wonder if I might be wrong. And by the time the FOURTH narrator began his take on the tale, I had to admit defeat. It was getting difficult to trudge through the last couple of hundred pages. But I did it, even if it took me three times longer than it normally does to finish a book. This post is dedicated to James, who was right when I was wrong ~ which happened at just about the 500 page mark as he had predicted. (And essential component of growing up is learning how to accept when you’re wrong. Perhaps there is hope for me after all.)

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Non-Nude Odds & Not-Nearly-Naked Ends

This Sunday concludes one of the busier weeks of my year, from a few days in New York seeing Madonna and Suzie, and checking out The Out hotel, to an evening at ‘Wicked‘, followed by the Beaujolais Nouveau Wine Festival, and capped by a weekend in Boston, seeing friends and family, old and new. As I sit here in the living room, it feels in many ways like the day after a party – satiated and exhaustedly happy, if slightly regretful that it’s over as fast as it started. The good part is that the holidays – and many more meetings with friends and family – is just beginning. There is enough wickedness in the world to warrant an open-embracing of all things warm and comfortable. No matter how pretty the messenger bag or how sweetly-scented the Tom Ford Private Blend cocktail, the only thing I ever wanted for Christmas was more time with those I love. (Okay, aside from the items on the Christmas list that I’ll post soon enough.)

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Lying Naked

I’m still in Boston, so the lazy parade of gratuitous black-and-white artfully-shot nude poses will continue for a little while longer. With all the skin, there seems little need for a Hunk of the Day post (and I refuse, in spite of all evident vanity, to put myself up as such). Fittingly, these were shot on location at The Out in NYC. The bed was heavenly, the sheets were like clouds, and the mirror was divine.

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Now Voyeur

Only the trained eye of the Voyeur could imagine the power the watched wield.

The focus fades. The light grows dim. The afternoon asks for more.

A gaze, off in the distance, indirect and uninviting. The bleak brittleness of solitude.

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Out at The Out

One might mistakenly assume that I would love a gay hotel, and in part that’s correct. There’s certainly a different comfort level staying at a predominantly gay establishment than some place that bans gay weddings and flies the Confederate flag. For me, though, it’s never been a priority. When The Out first opened, billing itself as the first gay, but straight-friendly hotel, I was intrigued, but also worried that it might be some over-the-top gay Disneyworld. It’s so easy to go overboard when one of our symbols is the rainbow (a definite design no-no). Happily, The Out manages to be both overtly gay, and understated and elegant at the same time.

I walked into the lobby and heard the distinctive voices of two drag queens doing a Madonna/Lady Gaga mash-up. Suddenly, I knew I was where I belonged. They waved and said hello as they passed by on their break. It was probably the best greeting to a hotel that I’ve ever received. Waiting to check in, I noticed that this was probably the most diverse collection of clientele that I’ve seen in a while: gay, straight, frumpy, refined, couples, friends, singles, young, old – and from every walk of life, speaking Spanish and French and English in a zillion assorted accents.

The hotel itself is a veritable oasis in the midst of the grubby insanity of Times Square – with several outdoor areas lending a lush tropical Miami-feel, combined with a modern and stylish sensibility. On the days I was there, it was nice enough to sit outside and make use of these spaces. When the weather does finally turn, however, there is an enclosed atrium with two jacuzzis, right next to the spa, which offers a steam room and sauna. While all these amenities are nice, they would mean nothing if the service didn’t rise to the occasion, and I’m happy to say that the staff may be the best part of The Out experience. Knowing how to make each guest feel as if they are the hotel’s number one priority is the trade trick of hospitality. That makes all the difference. When I visit New York, I usually don’t stay at the same hotel twice, but The Out may change that.

PS – Stick around for the shower shots… And the naked lounging shots.

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Garbanzo Lover

One of my favorite foods is the garbanzo bean (more commonly known as chick peas). When I was little I would load my plate with garbanzos and cottage cheese, and be perfectly content eating only that. (I was a strange child.) As I’ve grown, I’ve held onto my love for garbanzos, so when a friend came into work with a garbanzo dish, she let me try it and I instantly had a new favorite recipe. Recently, someone asked me to share the recipe, and it’s super easy but ridiculously tasty if you like chick peas.

I’d only ever had them cold and in a salad, but it turns out they are just as good, if not better, warmed up. I’m told this is an old-fashioned Italian dish, which makes sense. My love affair with the beans originated at Pepe’s Italian Restaurant in Amsterdam. I’ve modified the recipe slightly, due to personal preference, and, more importantly, forgetfulness.

3 cans garbanzo beans (chick peas) – with liquid reserved from one
1 medium onion (diced)
2 cloves garlic (minced)
Dash of olive oil
Salt and pepper
2 Tbsp. fennel seed
 

Heat oil on medium and saute onion and garlic until soft. Add fennel seed and salt and pepper and cook for a few more minutes. Drain all but one of the cans of beans and add to pot. Stir and cook for another 20 minutes or so.

That’s it! Super easy, and super adjustable, so if you don’t want to cook for that long, or if you’d prefer to amend with extra spices it can’t be injured. It’s the perfect side dish for a Fall meal, and you can make as big or small batch as needed.

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Holiday Magic

A week from today is Black Friday (the day when everyone in the world except for me goes shopping – or, as I like to think of it, amateur hour). When I was in New York I made the big mistake of going into Macy’s – just to get a feel for the holiday start. Of course I only ended up finding a new coat, new socks, new underwear, and three pairs of pants for myself, but you celebrate your way and I’ll celebrate mine. No matter how Scrooge-like I may seem, I still get a child-like thrill when the holidays get underway. It was no different this year.

Despite my embracing of the holiday season, there are limits. Like this Cutest Dog in the World display of a pooch named ‘Boo’. Gag me. Poo on Boo.

The neatest thing, in my more-dorky-than-you-would-think head, was this life-size rendering of a Christmas Yoda, looking pixelated because it was made entirely out of Legos.

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Over the River & Through the Woods

Over the river and through the woods
To grandmother’s house we go
The horse knows the way to carry the sleigh
Through the white and drifting snow
Over the river and through the woods
Oh how the wind does blow
It stings the nose and bites the toes
As over the ground we go…
 

On those lucky days when we picked up my Grandma from Hoosick Falls for Thanksgiving week, this is one of the songs we would sing on the long ride there. Though we were riding in a big-ass station wagon instead of a horse-drawn sleigh, the sentiment and the goal were the same. Most times, though, we were in school when Mom made the trip to Hoosick Falls, so on the last day before Thanksgiving vacation, we’d get home and run into the kitchen to find Gram, where she was usually at work cleaning or cooking. We’d rush into her arms, give her a big hug, and suddenly everything was right with the world. As much as I cherished my solitude, it was always a thrill to have a larger family in the house over the holidays, and Gram occupied a special place in my heart.

Sometimes she was the only one who seemed to understand me – who “got” me more than my parents or brother ever could. It was a lifeline for a child who never quite fit in. My brother and I would listen to her stories before we had to go bed, hoping our parents would give us just a few extra minutes with the stories she told us – from the tales of Peter Rabbit to the glory days of Greta Garbo. In a lot of ways, and this is something I’ve only recently realized, Gram was my first connection to the gay world – to the touchstone cultural points of Hollywood glamour or the way she favored the most sparkling jewelry (even her rosary was made of crystals in a delicate shade of Tiffany blue). I felt an early affinity with those things that I didn’t feel with football or cars, but I didn’t know enough to explore them more. My fascination lived only in the few days that Gram was over during a year.

I think she sensed a kindred shyness in me too, one that she never mistook for arrogance or aloofness. When others would call me mean, she would defend me as being different. Through it all, her love for me never waned or wavered. There would come many points in my life when I felt unloved, and at the darkest moments I would always think, “No matter what I’ve done, and no matter what has happened, my grandmother will still love me.” Even the most flawed among us should be so lucky to have such a grandmother. Everyone deserves that. It’s been a few years since she passed away, but every year around this time when the family gathers for Thanksgiving, I walk into my parents’ home, I remember that moment, and I still walk into the kitchen expecting – hoping, wishing – for her to be there.

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The Beaujolais Outfit 2012

And now, without further ado, I present this year’s outfit for the Beaujolais Nouveau Wine Festival, to benefit the AIDS Council of Upstate New York. Believe it or not, and those who know me should believe it, this is actually a rather simple ensemble. I think it’s the bold color combination, and the simple fact of a cape, that garnered such notice. (And according to Andy, there was ample notice.) Personally, I didn’t put much effort into it. In previous years I’d spend weeks working on my outfit for this special evening, sewing tulle into coats, gluing sequins and mirrors onto suits, crafting a thousand chiffon rosettes – but this time around I winged it and put it together at the last moment. A necklace of pearls was a birthday gift from Andy many years ago, the shoes were a nod to Pee Wee Herman, the cape was an homage to Little Red Riding Hood, and the juxtaposition of the fuchsia pants against the red was a Pucci-inspired combination that has always thrilled me.

 

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A Few Words on Attending ‘Wicked’

First of all, don’t talk back to the performers just because you’re drunk or high.

Second, don’t get so drunk or high that you have to get up before the third song even begins.

Third, don’t bring a hunter’s knife with you so everyone is afraid to ask you to shut the hell up.

Fourth, don’t sit in the first five rows if you’re allergic to smoke effects. The girl melts. What did you expect?

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Back in the Pool

Well, a different kind of pool – this one in the cellar. Neither my nephew, nor I, know the specific rules of the game, but we both like the way the balls sound when they’re clicking each other on the pool table. Of course, I prefer that he keep the balls actually on the table, and that he rolls them rather than throwing them, but he got the hang of it soon enough. One day he’ll teach me the real way to play, because right now I can’t be bothered. Besides, his way is far more fun.

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