May 2013
It’s been a while since I’ve dropped trou here (I challenge you to scroll back to find it – it will take a while), so here’s something to appease the two people who have been asking. Say what you will, gratuitous male nudity makes this site go around.
The best part of a rain spell is when it’s over. The sudden ceasing of the falling from the sky, the gradual straightening of plant stems, the re-opening of flower buds – it’s like morning all over again whenever it happens. The rain also dresses things up – cleaning off pollen and dirt and leaving behind transient diamonds of water on the plainest of leaves.
It affords more colorful garb for those of us trying to stay dry too. Every man should own one raincoat, whether it’s Burberry or bright yellow, and the latter is sometimes more fun. (Especially when paired with pink pants.)
In the end, though, nothing beats the wardrobe in which Mother Nature adorns herself. I could never compete.
Is it meta to be reading ‘To the Lighthouse’ by Virginia Woolf while en route to see a lighthouse on the coast of Maine? I don’t know – mainly because I don’t really know what ‘meta’ means. Whether it is or not, that was the glorious predicament in which I found myself three days into our Ogunquit vacation. The Nubble Lighthouse is an oft-photographed and much-visited tourist attraction just a short drive down the coast from Ogunquit. It’s on an island just off-shore, and cannot be reached by bridge.
On this day, when conditions forbid a walk on the beach or the Marginal Way, we take the scenic Shore Road route to the lighthouse. Upon arrival, the winds whip wickedly upon the shore, and the waves are crashing violently against the rocks. The rain finds ways of pelting both from above, and from the sides – a vertical and horizontal attack that manages to invade the most tightly-buttoned hood. Yet the scene is, despite all discomfort, breathtakingly beautiful – rife with the kind of beauty that doesn’t translate to photos. It’s a gray sort of gorgeousness, lost among the missing vibrancy of what’s supposed to be a bright blue sky, studded with white puffy clouds and a clear sun.
It’s the kind of beauty that resonates more deeply than the flashy pomp and circumstance that often populates these posts. It’s the antithesis of what almost everyone thinks of me, and as such it is the sort of beauty that’s always touched me the most ~ the sort that lasts.
It is, perhaps, the only place on earth where I don’t mind if it rains. Well, maybe I mind it a little, but for the most part it is enough just being here, because Maine is more than just a place, more than just its weather ~ Maine is a mind-set. And for me it’s always been one of ease. For the first few years we visited for Memorial Day weekend, it rained consistently, without fail. Back then I thought that’s just how it was. That’s one of the reasons we never used to make it to the beach. Some years we never even made it to the Marginal Way.
Luckily, there are compensations to be found, especially in the food. No amount of rain can keep me from my appointed task of eating, and this year proved no exception. Let’s begin at the end, with this final bit of lobster in a magnificent (and pricey) BLT from Stonewall Kitchen. We always stop here on our way out (because it’s always sunny the day we depart). They have a lovely little garden that boasts some amazing flowers (this time a wisteria dropped its fragrant racemes through the slats of an arbor) but we’d never eaten there until now. The wait, and the price tag, were worth it. I love a BLT, but a BLT with lobster and fresh herbs, well, that’s practically obscene. It was a very happy ending to our weekend.
But back to the beginning, and this breakfast of champions at Amore Breakfast. Too much of a good thing just means more to share, so Andy and I went halfsies on the Black or Blue specialty (opting for the ‘Blue’ variation that uses fresh Maine blueberries to complement the cream cheese French toast points). Coupled with Maine maple syrup and a necessary dollop of whipped cream, it’s a treat we cannot refuse.
For breakfast, however, I need something savory too, and Amore provided that in the lobster omelette special seen below. With asparagus, tomatoes and Asiago cheese, it was the perfect heart of the meal, and as the showers continued outside, the stomach found contentment within.
I didn’t get any decent shots of the plank roasted salmon I had at MC Perkins Cove, but trust me, it was good, as evidenced by the wine-induced smile on my face.
One of our favorite restaurants, Five-O, offered the colorful salad below, a bright magenta day-glo dish that melded two of Andy’s favorite items – beets and goat cheese – in this neatly-layered preamble to a wonderful meal.
Finally, after over a dozen years of visiting Ogunquit and hearing the locals claim that Bob’s Clam Hut was the only place to go for fried clams, we stopped in the midst of a shopping trip to Kittery and had an order of those legendary clams. The locals were right. When I returned to upstate New York, it was this basic dish that haunted my grumbling stomach in days to come. So often it’s the simple things that leave the most impact.
Apologies for interrupting this string of Ogunquit posts, but after a tornado warning and a magnificent rainbow, I was inspired to post this song, a favorite from my childhood. It’s from a time before the rainbow had any other connotation than a covenant with God, a sign of peace, a thing of beauty and wonder. As a gay man, I like what it’s come to represent too. But for me, it will always mean something much simpler, recalling to mind a time of innocence, and childhood.
The childhood bedroom of a boy ~ a boy who loved unicorns and rainbows and books and flowers and Miss Piggy and Tinkerbell and everything that a little boy isn’t supposed to love. A record player that had long-ago worn out the soundtrack to ‘The Magic Garden’ and ‘The Rainbow Connection’, that played the music to which he danced and sang for the only unabashed years of his life. A feather caught on the wind. A windowsill holding a flowering Haworthia. A honeycomb Easter bunny decoration he could not quite bring himself to throw away. These were the things he loved. These were the things that would not hurt him.
This is where laughter was born. This is where tears were shed. This is where pain was first felt. There was innocence and there was shame, there was life and there was death, there was the child and there was the man to come. But on this day, on the comfort of a fluffy cream-colored carpet, ‘The Rainbow Connection’ played on the record player, the black disc spinning round and round, the scratches unnoticed because he was still unbothered. He loved to hear Kermit sing. He wanted to be Miss Piggy, but his heart ached for Kermit – for the outcast, the different, the one who understood why it wasn’t easy being green, and how that shaded everything, and everyone, else around him. He knew the loneliness of being strange, of liking books better than baseball, plants better than playing, the beautiful better than the bodacious, and he knew he would never belong.
Whenever he hears this song, it makes him cry. It brings him back to that room, where he is a boy again. It brings him back to being loved, but still being alone. It brings him back to where he pretends not to be, not to have ever been, and not to ever be again. Mostly, though, it makes him think of the perfect beauty of the rainbow, and the way that beauty never lasts. That’s what he will cry for tonight.
It begins, as it usually does, softly ~ with a slow, deliberate entry. Once we cross the bridge from New Hampshire into Maine, the guard comes down, the shoulders descend, the gradual letting-go begins. After a rainy drive through New York, Massachusetts, and New Hampshire, the clouds appear to be parting for a moment, and a brief bit of sun peeks through.
It appears Maine is just a few weeks behind us as far as blooms go, and it’s a perfect bit of timing: the lilacs are resplendent and at their prime. Even a few Poet’s narcissus are in their small-cupped glory. Andy mentions that this is our third flush of spring – first Boston, then Albany, and now Ogunquit. It is an elegantly auspicious beginning to another Memorial Day weekend – the unofficial start of summer.
Like the shoreline itself and sometimes unseen by those who don’t notice such things, Ogunquit varies from year to year – and especially from spring to spring. Winters in Maine can be, and usually are, rather brutal. Bridges get washed out, paths lose their way, and signs get torn down. The way things were left in the fall is rarely the way things remain in the spring.
This year the town seems to be slow to awaken – or at the very least stunted by a tough winter. Construction and renovations are in progress at many sites. We arrive early for the holiday weekend (to avoid the cumbersome traffic), and find a place in flux. But it’s good to see. It means the return of spring. The coming of summer. The signs of hope.
Before rolling out a few Ogunquit posts (especially considering the fact that they have not yet been written), here is a whiff of the springtime beauty found in that Beautiful Place by the Sea. These blossoms provided a cheerful welcome and bright beginning for the Memorial Day weekend.
One of the tragically unreported events in our country’s history was a 1973 arson fire in a gay bar in New Orleans that killed 32 people. It is, to date, the largest single attack this country has seen against the LGBT community, snuffing out 32 lives that could have been any one of us. This year marks the 40th anniversary of that tragic event, and Wayne Self has written a musical theater piece, ‘Upstairs‘, named after the bar that was so murderously burned down, in an effort to remind us what came before, what life might have been, and what hope, love and loss sound like. In addition to being an important piece of LGBT history, it’s also a compelling perspective on the human condition. Tickets for the show are on sale now, so if you’re going to be in the New Orleans area from June 20-24, or just want to support this excellent work, please visit this link for the latest on the show, and how it came to be.
The charm of sweet woodruff has been documented in these pages prior to now, but it’s in full bloom both here and in Maine, so here’s a pair of photographs that I particularly enjoyed. With such small, airy blooms, the effect of these plants is largely lost in photos, but these come close to conveying that ephemeral magic, at least as best as can be conjured with a little green Canon Elph.
A number of years ago, this is the song I listened to after a boyfriend broke up with me. It was for the best, and somewhere deep inside I knew it was the right thing to do, but at the time I couldn’t see beyond the pain of the moment, couldn’t see the courage to do it myself. There’s the pain that comes as a result of being let go, and the pain that comes from letting someone go. They are similar, but they are not the same. Hurt comes in all variations, measured in gradations too subtle and fine to measure or quantify. The only way to get over it is to let the pain wash over you, to let the oceans roll, and to weep all your salty tears.
It’s been a rather uneventful week on the website – most of my attention has been elsewhere (outside in the garden, and up here in Ogunquit, Maine) so I haven’t had the usual focus and clarity that the elegance and sophistication of this site normally inspires. Hey, it’s the unofficial start of summer, so don’t expect that fancy shit until September. If past history is any indication, all you’ll be getting is pool shots and party promos for the next few months. But I can still put on a show, and here are a few of the highlights from the past week:
If you want to get a sniff of sexy Renaissance man, go-go dancer, model, designer, and now fragrance guru Matthew Camp, as well as own the claim to having 8.5, here’s your chance.
Proof that most of the action happened outside this week, a pair of posts clearly shows that I can still climb a tree and scrape my knee, while simultaneously causing mischief in the pool.
Artist Paul Richmond released his updated work ‘Noah’s Gay Wedding Cruise‘ and planned to board a bus full of love, headed straight for the steps of the Supreme Court.
Absent from Albany, Andy and I made our usual trip to Ogunquit, Maine for an extra-long Memorial Day weekend.
Upon seeing ‘Star Trek: Into the Darkness’ (my first brush with Star Trek ever), I became a Cumberbitch thanks to Benedict Cumberbatch. There was also some hunky competition for my bitchdom, with the shirtless likes of male model and actor Derek Theler.
The Madonna Timeline got all personal and up in my childhood business thanks to ‘Papa Don’t Preach.’
And finally, in the night, spring gave some hints of the summer to come.
{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.}
1986 ~ When Mom told me and my brother that our paternal grandmother had died, Dad was already at work. Yes, the day after he found out his mother was dead, he had to go to work, because when you’re a doctor you can’t always call in sick or bereft, especially when another life hangs in the balance. All through the day I pondered if he was all right. Having never seen my father cry, I wondered if he would. When he returned from work, I watched him walk into the family room like usual. There was none of the excitement that occasionally accompanied him home, just a slightly downtrodden look to him. I wanted to go up to him and hug him, but he’d never been that kind of man, and in the strict Catholic upbringing we had, I wasn’t that kind of boy. Instead, I think I did my best and uttered a heartfelt ‘I’m sorry’ when I finally got over my shyness.
The next day, we took him to the airport to make the long journey back to Philippines to bury his mother. I remember he wanted gum for the plane rides, so his ears wouldn’t pop. I had never met his mother. In fact, the only grandparent I ever knew was my Mom’s mother. Because of that, I held her a little closer to my heart. Grandparents were a luxury to me, and I listened with envy to tales of other kids seeing their grandma or grandpa every weekend or, fantasy of fantasies, having them live in the same house. As much as I cherished solitude, I longed for a large family on the periphery.
We hugged him good-bye, drove back home, and began the long wait for him to return.
On an afternoon a few days later, the sun came in through my brother’s bedroom window spotlighting the tiny particles of dust in the air. My brother was outside somewhere, and I was alone. I shuffled idly through his cassettes, moving them out of the direct sunlight. Madonna’s ‘True Blue’ was still in its case. (Amazing fact: my brother is the one who bought the ‘True Blue’ album first.) I popped it into the tape player and the opening strings sounded. I’d heard it on the radio, and started to sing along, still not putting together what all the words meant.
I didn’t quite know what the song was about. I was only ten, and ten-year-olds in 1986 were far less advanced and worldly than ten-year-olds today. But I did sense the note of rebellion, the cries against a father’s advice, and for some reason I couldn’t listen anymore. I quickly stopped the tape. For the first time ever I silenced Madonna.
My thoughts returned to Dad, who was somewhere in the Philippines now, at the funeral of his mother, and hearing Madonna tell a fictitious father not to preach seemed disrespectful. The fierce but veiled protectiveness I have always felt towards my family reared its overcompensating (and often nonsensical) head. (I once took great offense at a girl who mentioned that the milk I brought in for lunch – the milk that was packed by my Mom – was made at her Dad’s plant, as if she was somehow attacking my Mom and taking away from something she had done for me.)
The slightest bit of talk-back-to-your-parents defiance seemed ill-timed then, and I shut off ‘Papa Don’t Preach’ for the rest of the week that Dad was away. It felt like I’d be jinxing his safe return if I played something like that. I can’t explain it. At least, I can’t explain it well. Who knows, maybe such childlike rules made a difference. More likely they were just a waste of worry and concern for a ten-year-old. Whatever the case, Dad returned from the Philippines intact. He brought us back the miniature amenities from the plane – the neatest gifts to us kids. I studied him from a slight distance, wondering how something like this would change him, but couldn’t discern any distinctive differences. He had always been hard to read, at least for me.
When Mom was going to school at night, Dad would be the one to tuck us in. On one evening, when I was missing her, I had dabbed some of her perfume on my neck, and as he tucked me in he said I smelled nice. Out of everything I had done to try to get his attention over the years – and out of all the convoluted ways in which I would attempt to gain his love in the future – it was my mother’s perfume that elicited one of the moments of affection I remember most fondly.
My father never talked to me about girls (and certainly not about boys). In fact he never talked to me about much. He taught his greatest lessons through example. A hard worker. A loyal husband. A good provider. Love wasn’t expressed or talked about, and rarely shown. He was not raised that way. As a child, that’s sometimes tough to understand or take. As an adult, I can understand a little better.
In some ways, it’s rather befitting that this song from 1986’s ‘True Blue’ album should so remind me of my father. It was, according to some, a metaphor of Madonna’s own ambivalent relationship with her father, masked in a fictional narrative about a girl getting pregnant and seeking her father’s love and approval over scolding and punishment. She would more directly address the theme in 1989’s ‘Oh Father’, but back then ‘Papa Don’t Preach’ was a more-than-compelling study of parent-child relationships, and let’s face it ~ like it or not ~ they form the basis of the people we will one day become.
My rebellion wouldn’t begin for a few years. For now I was still under the authority and ambivalent auspices of my father. Defiance was too far ahead for me to realize its worth.
That year ~ 1986 ~ I loved my father as I always would ~ unconditionally, helplessly, trepidatiously, hesitantly, earnestly, wistfully, willfully, reservedly, all-encompassingly ~ and it was unthinkable, as much as I might sometimes disagree with him, to ever tell him not to preach. My life-long dance with Madonna, which had just begun, found us – for the moment – at opposite ends of the ballroom.
Yet I was drawn to the song. It haunted me, calling from the future ~ from a time when I finally realized that parents weren’t perfect, a time when parents let their children down, a time when a father could be ashamed of his son. But that time hadn’t quite arrived, and I unknowingly – blissfully – basked in the final vestiges of the love that childhood protected. At the very least, I would always have that. I wasn’t quite ready to let that go, because when you lose the love of a parent, there’s nothing that ever makes up for it.
Forget the shirtless – let’s just take off all their clothes. Here is a brief (or brief-less) collection of some of the guys who have deigned to remove their sartorial armor and get all buck naked (and in most of these cases buff naked). There’s no ailment a little gratuitous male nudity can’t instantly fix, or at least soothe. So without further ado or pesky clothes, here are some of those naked men.
It begins, fittingly, with the royal tush of Prince Harry, baring his bottom whilst gaming it up in Las Vegas.
Though he is technically naked here, you may not be happy with the hands of Adam Levine’s girlfriend, covering up his junk in annoying jungle red.
Things get a little Biblical with a man named Jesus (Luz), who once dated the real Dude’s mother’s namesake, Madonna.
Feel free to play ball with Patriot Rob Gronkowski and don’t bother wearing a cup because he didn’t.
Though he was already featured earlier today, he wasn’t naked. But Nick Youngquest is naked now.
Since I’ll be on vacation when this goes up, I’m pre-populating today’s posts with shirtless, gratuitous, lascivious, scrumptious, delicious, and anything-but-tedious men. They’re all in the archives (which, if you scroll down to the bottom of this page, you can access by month when you click on the drop-down menu located appropriately beneath the ‘Archives’ label.)
Kicking up the smutty quotient were bad boys like Eddie Cibrian, good guys like Nick Youngquest, and former-strippers-turned-fake-strippers like Channing Tatum.
There were quirkier choices like Andy Samberg, Simon Cowell, and Benedict Cumberbatch.
And then there were the evergreen classics ~ Ryan Gosling, Harry Judd, Anderson Cooper, Daniel Craig,
