Monthly Archives:

December 2012

The Cock & Bull

It turns out that the term ‘Cock & Bull’ could very well be referring to chicken and beef, as my brother so matter-of-factly pointed out to me when I asked where this establishment had gotten its name. It’s one of those very late-in-life realizations that changes everything and makes you wonder what else you have missed by not paying attention. He was slightly incredulous that I never made the connection. I just always assumed it was a saucy, cheeky name for a place.

After our ride through the fog-laden roads of Galway, the way the Cock & Bull seemed to rise out of the clouds was almost magical. The cold chill of a December afternoon stopped abruptly at the door, kept at bay by the welcome warmth of several fireplaces roaring with amber-hued flames. A crowd – bigger than I ever expected to find in Galway this early in the afternoon – mulled around the restaurant. Later we’d discover that the people – and the delicious cookies that we were partaking of at the bar – were for a Christmas party that was being held there. Even after our admission that we were not part of the party, the owner still offered us the cookies.

Sitting fireside, our backs to the heat, we chatted with the owner who was helping out behind the bar. Since I wasn’t driving I had a Jack & ginger, as warm and welcoming as the cozy surroundings. This was the perfect Christmas cocktail spot, the kind of place I searched for in dreams, and in the fog-induced haze it almost felt unreal.

It was also the perfect Christmas moment with my brother, the kind that works best when completely unplanned, as our spur-of-the-moment trip here was. Sometimes you simply have to trust the universe to guide you through the fog to the fire.

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Found in the Fog

After the Festival of Trees, I stopped by my brother’s and we headed out into Galway to have a drink with his boss. I’d never been to the Cock & Bull before, but the name sounded promising, and he said it was the perfect cozy Christmas spot, with a few roaring fireplaces and decent food. The ride out was along the winding way of Route 67, reminding me of the trips we took to see Gram in Hoosick Falls. We would not be going that far today, instead taking a left at the corner of the church and a Stewart’s shop. The day had turned foggy – very foggy – and the world slipped away, a bank of clouds on all sides of us, transporting us to another realm. Visibility decreased and seeing fifty feet ahead proved difficult.

Fog has always been a comfort to me. Walking to McNulty School as a kid, we would sometimes cut through the fields that separated our neighborhood from the school. In late Fall the fog would surround us, so thick and heavy that I’m amazed we didn’t lose our bearings more often than we did. As it was, we would often come out of the fields at a great distance from the school, having miscalculated our location and swerving slightly off course with nothing to guide us. On those mornings, the fog was a danger and a respite. It filled the in-between time, buffering home and school, and I was grateful for getting lost in it. At those moments, no one in the world could see us, no one knew where we were, and there was great freedom in that.

On this day, as my brother drove us through the back-roads of Galway, I felt the same thrill of being unseen and unknown. The fog closed behind us as we turned into a driveway I would have normally passed right by. A plume of smoke rose from a cozy-looking place, melting seamlessly into the sky and promising the warmth of a fire.

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Lunch with the Twins (And Two of the Funniest Photos I’ve Taken in a While)

After the Festival of the Trees, we got lunch from McDonald’s as an extra treat for the twins. (It appears that kids are what keep McDonald’s in business.) Emi was more interested in giving her fries “a bath” in the McNugget sauce than eating them. Noah was more interested in spilling his fries on the carpet and stomping them into the fibers. Out of 50 French fries, I’d say a total of three were consumed.

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A Children’s Festival

My alternate title for this post, in honor of all those who so deeply despise profanity, was “What in the fuck am I doing here?” We’ll go with ‘A Children’s Festival’ though to appease the seasonal do-gooders. This past weekend I accompanied my parents as they took Noah and Emi to the Festival of Trees at the Century Club in Amsterdam. Saturday was their children’s day, so I found myself surrounded by kids, crafts, and an underweight Santa Claus.

I will say that they certainly decked the place out nicely, and the kids enjoyed every moment (perhaps a bit too much – there was slightly more galloping and running away than I would have liked… Fun Uncle has his limits).

Luckily everyone had their kids too, so if there were any dirty stares and glares, they were probably coming from me.

That said, my niece and nephew are still the best, and when given a crayon or some glue, they know what to do.

The big moment, of course, was the arrival of Santa. Noah was brave enough to sit on his lap again this year, but Emi was not quite ready. Maybe next year…

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XXXmas Porny Santas (Uncensored)

It’s just a matter of time before Andrew Christian just does a hard-core porn film in support of his underwear line. And I can’t wait. Here’s his holiday promo:

Hunky Santas: The Holiday Card (Uncensored) from Andrew Christian on Vimeo.

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Excessive Ego & Naked Insecurity

This brief collection of psychedelic pics goes out to the person who said I either had a huge ego or massive insecurity – to which I asked, “Can’t I have it both ways?”

 

 

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An Orange-Clove Votive

As described by the Beekman Boys here. Sometimes a Sunday morning in December needs to be a little quieter, without all the words.

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I Don’t Hug Strangers, But He Does

A few people posted this on FaceBook this morning, and I had to share it here because it’s one of those rare things that inexplicably brings tears to my eyes in a way that the sadness and pain of everyday life never could. It’s just some guy lip-syncing to Bon Jovi at a Celtics game, caught on the crowd camera (I’m sure there’s a sports-oriented term that I don’t know which would work better here, but until I get into basketball – and I never will – deal with it). He’s simply singing the song, going from person to person – hugging some of them, even kissing a woman on her forehead – and it’s that kind of unabashed celebration and emotion that always thaws my heart out a little, especially at this time of the year. I’m not big on hugging people – only if I’ve met you a few times (or am crazy drunk) do I get all physically emotive like that, so when I see someone else doing it, I’m a bit more moved than most people might be. In some ways, I wish I could be more like him, dancing my way down the stairs of some sports arena, risking all sorts of ridicule and rejection, and being so giddily vulnerable and embracing of everyone around him.

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A Plague on Both Your Houses

The warning comes at the very beginning – at once a challenge and a disclaimer: “This book is not about living your dream. It will not inspire you. You will not be emboldened to attempt anything more than making a fresh pot of coffee.” This is the world of ‘The Bucolic Plague: How Two Manhattanites Became Gentlemen Farmers’ by Josh Kilmer-Purcell. It’s a defiant and unlikely way to start, as well as a nifty (and effective) bit of reverse psychology. Yet that’s not what draws me in – I’m instantly a fan of the self-deprecating (and at times self-lancing) style of Kilmer-Purcell’s prose. With an explosive opening salvo soaked in goat shit, the book begins with the kind of hilarious drama only a former drag queen could so gorgeously conjure, but quickly quiets down into the strange yet satisfying journey from New York City to the tiny town of Sharon Springs, NY. Along the way, a cast of colorful characters, and the steady guiding hand of his practically-perfect partner Dr. Brent Ridge, come together to illuminate the path they took on their way to becoming the Beekman Boys.

On the weekend before Halloween, I find myself sitting on the porch of the American Hotel and delving into ‘The Bucolic Plague’ while on our first trip to Sharon Springs, NY. A few doors down was the Beekman 1802 Mercantile, an impossibly charming store where all sorts of soaps and goat milk deliciousness were on display, tickling the eye and nose and belly with their rich goodness. A woman named Megan had been at the register, welcoming Andy and I to the store and to the town, and we perused the sweetly-scented surroundings before settling on some soap. The next day I returned to browse again (it turns out there really isn’t that much to do in Sharon Springs) at which point I pick up the signed copy of the book, which now rests in my hands as I rock the remainder of the day away. Another lovely lady, Maria, had been watching over the shop that day, her friendly smile and exuberant description and invitation to the then-upcoming Victorian Stroll was infectious – it seems in Sharon Springs everyone is instantly a friend, and I wonder why it can’t be like that everywhere.

Back on the porch, I am already fifty pages into the book when I realize it is dinner time. Such is the spell cast by an intoxicating writer. I will finish the book quickly in a few sittings, enthralled by the journey of thee two gentlemen. It is a nifty keepsake from our weekend in Sharon Springs, but far more than that it is an inspiration. Just as Oprah Winfrey and Martha Stewart wield their power over a nation of people striving for their ‘Best Life’, so too do the Beekman Boys hold sway over those of us misfits just looking for little ways to make our lives better. Oddly enough, the book succeeds most in doing exactly what Kilmer-Purcell purports it won’t do, in the form of motivating and inspiring. Their story, beneath the surface, may not be the slice of super-successful perfection that we demand from our public figures, but because of that it’s more relatable, and the home-grown jewels they’ve produced are more precious.

While the procurement and running of the Beekman Farm and Mansion provide the narrative drive of ‘The Bucolic Plague’, it’s the relationship between Josh and Brent that forms the underlying foundation to the proceedings. Never heavy-handed or over-wrought with anything other than brutal honesty, it is tinged with a keen sensitivity to the trials and tribulations of any long-term couple. The book shifts on the dynamics between the two men – tense here, hopeful there – evolving and revolving around what it takes to stay in love, what it takes to pursue your dreams, and what it takes to try for both.

The best part may be that there is no definitive happy ending – and so their journey continues, luckily enough to be documented on The Fabulous Beekman Boys (on the Cooking Channel) as well as their (as of this writing) ongoing success on The Amazing Race (a show only the Beekman Boys could get me to sit through, and one that turns out to be highly addictive – a good-enough reason why I don’t usually watch TV.) More than that though, and no matter how things go at the Beekman Mansion, this book is a badly-needed reminder of what it means to inhabit this world, how we must help each other, how the things we once thought mattered change and become something else. It is a gorgeously rendered literary bouquet, as transitory and fleeting in its beauty as it is resonant and lasting in its spirit.

Near the end comes the beginning ~ of understanding, and of all the things that brought them to purchase the Beekman mansion: “Because we’re vain, kindhearted, ambitious, shallow, deep, humble, trendy, old-fashioned, rich, poor, proud, and vulnerable. Those are merely the beginnings of the reasons we bought the Beekman.”

We want so much for things to be perfect, for our lives to be exactly as those idealized on the covers of magazines and the eponymous talk-shows of lifestyle gurus, but that’s not the way most of us can live. The best we can hope for – and the greatest we can achieve – is happiness. The love of another person. The joy of another Spring. The bloom of another flower. Nothing is ever perfect ~ and why would we want it to be?

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Do You See What I See?

Said the night wind to the little lamb
Do you see what I see?
Way up in the sky little lamb
Do you see what I see?
A star, a star
Dancing in the night
With a tail as big as a kite…

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The Small Screen

The bed has a way of pulling you into it. Pulling you deep beneath covers, under pillows and blankets and sheets, drowning in an ocean of thread counts and fibers and the entrance to sleep. It lifts and carries, calls and cajoles, lilts and lulls ~ the combined effect of which serves to deliciously disorient on the order of the lotus-eaters.

Rippling water like waves of desert sand in Egyptian cotton.

The folds of the body of the earth.

Hazy, ambient noise of gauze and womb, soft and warmly inviting yet cold and hard as glass. A throw, a reflection, a question of indeterminate origin, lingering in the grainy atmosphere.

The erudite world collapses. The edges dissipate and disappear. The straight lines bend and sway and drop off completely. The corners curve and bounce back.

It is sucking you in, and there is no way out.

And then you are gone.

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Busting My eBay Cherry

For years I have avoided eBay. Even when I needed something that could only be found there, I had to have Andy purchase it since I had neither PayPal nor an eBay account. Yet like cel phones and texting, I have finally given in to the masses, and last night I did my first eBay listing for this beautiful good-as-new Tumi mini messenger bag. It was purchased at the Copley Place Tumi store in Boston, MA, on a weekend where I needed something to hold my wallet and phone and keys because they were ruining the line of my summer pants.

As my first posting, I wasn’t sure what to write, so my brother had to help with how to set it all up, in exchange for a beef burgundy dinner (and rice and chicken broth for my niece, who also got to watch Charlie Brown’s Christmas Special with Andy). At any rate, if you’re interested in bidding, check the bag out HERE. Hopefully this will be the start of unloading A LOT of things I no longer need. (And yes, that means the sparkly things… stay tuned.)

 

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Car Hearts

Every now and then I am quietly reminded of how humans are, for the most part, good – and it is in our nature to be kind to each other, or at least to live and let live. And sometimes, when it snows just before Christmas – in these few weeks when the snow is welcome and new – we simply burst with love and can’t help but try to share it, even in the middle of night when no one else is around.

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Boy Meets Vogue Boy

He is known now as the “Vogue Boy“, but back in the summer of 1991 Robert Jeffrey was just a kid on a family vacation. Decked out in an ensemble fitting for Hampton Beach, New Hampshire – shorts, a T-shirt, and sneakers with socks – the young Robert looked like any other boy on vacation with his family, but when offered the chance to lip-sync his favorite song, he became someone else. The little gay boy in each of us came out at that moment, as he channeled Madonna’s ‘Vogue’ in front of a blue-screen at the Hampton Beach Casino.

“VOGUE BOY”: ME AT NINE, PERFORMING TO MADONNA IN SUMMER ’91! from Robert Jeffrey / Angelo de Vries on Vimeo.

Two decades later, Mr. Jeffrey posted the video online in commemoration of the twentieth anniversary of ‘Truth or Dare‘ and the response was overwhelming. When watching it for the first time, my eyes welled up with tears. It resonated so strongly with me – and countless other gay men – that it was like looking at a piece of my own past had it gone the way it should have – had I been so brave and not cared what anyone else thought. Here was something I had done in my bedroom, secretly, on my own, yet he was doing it not only in front of people, but on video, forever committing this moment to history. And not just doing it, but doing it with such joyful abandon and glee that it was impossible not to be swept up into the magnificence and beauty of it. This was a boy on the cusp of finding shame, but not quite there yet. For most of us, the happiest moments of childhood come right before we learn embarrassment, before society teaches us such shame. Here was that moment, captured exuberantly on film for all time, then put away for twenty years.

Reading further into how he came to be performing a Madonna song so publicly, I also envied how supportive and loving his parents had to have been (I would subsequently discover that his Mom bought Madonna’s ‘Sex’ book and gave it to him for his birthday when he was old enough to have it – now THAT is one cool mother). I suppose a few of my tears fell for the longing of that, and the happiness I felt for someone to have been so lucky and so embraced, so early in his life.

After watching the video again recently, and delving into the writings on his website, I was struck by how parallel our lives had been at key moments. The stories were pieced together by various pop-culture mile-post moments, and many were eerily similar to what I had been going through around the year 1996, when we were both in the Boston area. Our time there matched up in uncanny ways confirmed by our tendency to link events in our lives with the career trajectory of Madonna. Back then we were both infatuated with gentlemen who did not return our affections, at the same time that we were picking up the ‘Evita’ soundtrack (painstakingly, and painfully, recalled in the Madonna Timelines for ‘You Must Love Me‘ and ‘Don’t Cry for Me Argentina‘) – and in Mr. Jeffrey’s pieces on the night he saw ‘Evita’ at the Cheri Theater (where I took my Mom to see it as well, the very night I officially came out to her) and his never-to-be-love-affair with another boy.

At those seminal moments in our lives, what a difference it would have made to have known that someone else was going through something similar, at the same exact time. Would we have been friends had we met then? Who can tell? It’s one of those wistful sighs of the universe that we simply must trust was meant to have been, and if we weren’t supposed to have known each other until now, there must be a reason for it.

What made those angst-ridden years so difficult was not just being lonely in terms of love, but also somewhat lost without any close gay friends. For a lot of gay guys who feel shunned by the world, especially those courageous enough to be completely who they are, the only people they feel close to are other gay men. Such is the way in which lifelong friendships are established, with the trust and understanding that only someone in similar circumstances could fathom. I never had that. To this day, aside from my husband, my closest friends are straight. For that reason, and in so many other ways, I do wish we had met back then, to have been friends in the lonely years in which we searched for love, in which we grew up, in which we became the men we are today. But we can’t go back. We can only remember, and move forward.

A few years, and several love affairs later, we both saw our idol for the first time in Boston, when she was on her Drowned World Tour. It was 2001, and we must have been screaming for her at the same time – another moment where our lives geographically and emotionally connected in ways of which we were completely unaware. Can some of the loneliness of the past be replaced by a friend who should have, or at the very least could have been there all along? Of course not, but while we may not be able to erase the loneliness that once was, we might be able to heal and come to terms with it in ways that previously proved impossible.

I’m not sure what to make of all these nearly-shared experiences, the moments and timetables that so strangely dove-tailed but in which we never quite met. This is my little tribute to the boy who showed off when I showed shyness, who dared when I was diminished, and who danced when I dreamed. Hopefully, it’s also an introduction to a new friend who feels like he was there all along.

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