Monthly Archives:

September 2013

Beckham’s Best Side: Bulge or Butt?

It’s been far too long (almost a week!) since the last gratuitous David Beckham post, so let’s work to rectify that right now. The question of the day is whether you prefer David’s front or back ~ bulge or backside? I think I’m slightly partial to the latter. Butt boy all the way.

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Calling on London

Before we make our much-delayed honeymoon trip to London in 2015, Tom Ford is releasing a new Private Blend created just for the launch of his London store. Entitled, simply and appropriately, ‘London’, it is said to contain the spicy chords of coriander, cardamom, and Madagascan saffron, along with Egyptian geranium, jasmine, citrus, oud, musk, and cedar. On paper, it’s questionable – and this is definitely one of those Private Blends that would need to be sniffed before purchased. But seeing as how I will not be making it to London prior to 2015, I’m reaching out to any London acquaintances who might be able to procure a sample in the coming months. (Recall I did the same for the first six months that ‘Lavender Palm’ was only available at his Beverly Hills store.)

 

How important is this? Well, very, and time is of the essence, only because eventually this scent will be released internationally, and I’ll be able to get it myself. But where’s the fun in that? I like a challenge, especially one with a shot-in-the-dark likeliness of success. Besides, if I don’t like it that will be one less honeymoon gift that Andy will have to worry about (I’ve got to get him behind this project somehow). So, I’m calling on all Londoners to help this Tom Ford-obsessed crazy person out, and help me to get a whiff of ‘London’.

Thanks to things like FaceBook and Twitter, this actually might be less far-fetched than it seems. Of course, I’ll also probably end up going directly to the source and begging a sample off of them (which is how I got to try out the new Atelier d’Orient line – though those were all in the continental United States), but if one of my fashionable friends in London can stop by Sloane Street, this might be within the realm of possibility.

(Added incentive: my gratitude is famously excessive.)

{The ‘London’ Private Blend will be available this month at the Tom Ford boutique at 201-202 Sloane Street, London, SW1.}

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The Missing July

Having spent the bulk of this past weekend updating the Archives here (at least back through 2010 – scroll down and pick a month – any month!), I can now give a recap of both July 2011 and August 2011, which up until today had gone missing. They’re back now, after much tedious and tiresome copying and pasting (hello Day of Labor), and you can see all the ridiculous posts that I probably shouldn’t have even bothered with restoring. I kid. Most of the posts prior to 2012 have been edited and weeded out to only the strong and salacious, so have a go knowing that most of the filler has been excised. (There are just so many shirtless male celebrities I can bother with these days.)

Here are some highlights, including a naked Harry Potter (a.k.a. Daniel Radcliffe) as seen in the featured pics:

  • The movie may have gotten a PG-13 rating, but my Adventures in Babysitting post might have gotten an R for all the shit talk.
  • And since it’s summer, there’s always skinny dipping and stripping.
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Summers (And Skin Shots) Past

This is in no way serving to throw the rest of this summer away so soon – we have until at least October for some sunny hot weather – but it’s clear that fall is quickly approaching. It’s in the Sweet Autumn Clematis and goldenrod gone to bloom, and the grasses gone to seed. It’s in the morning chill, and the faster fall of dusk. Mostly, it’s in the sky, and the sun, and the way they are both so different at the end of summer as opposed to the beginning.

I don’t like looking back, but if I have to do it, I’d rather look back a few years than a few months. To that end, I’m not going to do a summer recap of 2013 just yet, but rather a list of summer memories that go further into the past. Here are some favorite memories of sunny seasons gone by:

June of 2010 brought this post about me catching creatures in the creek. Yes, I was a boy once – snails and puppy dog tails et. al. I also loved Reading Rainbow, but not hot subways in Boston.

July of 2010 brought about my first meeting with a childhood hero, as well as hints of my wedding coat, and the big reveal itself. A heatwave in Chicago was less exciting, and a one-night-stand in Provincetown proved more sad than salacious.

In August of 2010, memories of the delicious pull of Ogunquit Beach were strong, and by September 2010 I was ready to tell the tale of the first time I kissed a man, and to get naked (not at all the same thing – oh wait…) Of course, I offered my own kind of repentance for all of it.

The summer of 2011, starting in June, began with the gay pride parade in Boston, and this pride post. July 2011 hasn’t been fully updated in the archives, but there’s a Madonna Timeline for one of her summer hits, ‘This Used to Be My Playground‘ that might be worth a look (fun for its recollection of a psycho-roommate and trips to Russia and Finland). The entries for August of 2011 are slightly fuller, starting with a CYO Camp Crush, and another memory of the first man in my life, continuing with this magical book-seller, and ending up at an old bank, following a trail of sidewalk talk, but ultimately winding up empty.

The summer of 2011 closed out in September, with a wedding trip to Washington, DC, where I discovered the wonders of the Spa at the Mandarin Oriental, as well as the upsetting (at least to a full bladder) news that there’s no public restroom at the White House. Still, it was worth it for a family reunion of sorts.

Last summer began with the first time-out I ever gave my nephew (and also, incidentally, the last one – thus far, Noah Thomas). It also featured the king of summer programming, Bravo’s Andy Cohen, who had just written his first book, and memories of my first night dancing at Chaps.

July of 2012 was all about the start of the Summer Olympics, mostly Tom Daley, but there were some other sunny nuggets in the form of a new Madonna song, and my first piece of that icon. Still, it was dominated by the aftermath of Jury Duty

More relief came in the birthday-honoring form of travel and distraction in Boston and Provincetown, particularly the serenity afforded by this whale watch, a Provincetown dinnerProvincetown daysProvincetown nights, and even later Provincetown nights. A song like this, by one of my favorite bands, is made more resonant when it is heard in the summer.

September of 2012 – just one year ago – lent its own end of summer magic, starting with a naked Adam Levine, an underwear-clad Ben Cohen, a Speedo-bound Tom Daley, and a naked Prince Harry. When I take my clothes off, it’s different, even if it’s still all “masturbatory-ish“. Speaking of masturbation, and what’s considered masturbation, Madonna was on tour again. On more serious notes, the ultimate frisson occurs when words and music come together, particularly when Colin Harrison is involved. A Filipino feast honored the September birthday of my Dad. One last skinny-dip, for nothing gold can stay, and finally, a recap within a recap.

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I Hear The Ticking of the Clock

Admittedly, some serious music folks will likely disagree with 1987 being a great year for music, but I don’t care. I’m a pop fanatic through and through, and when you’re twelve years old, a pop song can make a big impression. Looking back over some of my previous Music posts, a number came from 1987 – like ‘Open Your Heart‘, ‘Nothing’s Gonna Stop Us Now‘, ‘Livin’ On A Prayer‘, and ‘Who’s That Girl‘ (which started the Madonna Timeline).

To the musical canon of 1987, I’d now like to add ‘Alone’ by Heart. It went to #1 in July of that year, a few weeks after Whitney Houston’s ‘I Wanna Dance with Somebody’ reached the top (which I remember waking to on the first day of summer vacation, and dancing out of sheer excitement for a new Whitney Houston song – see, I wasn’t lying about the pop fanatic bit). But while that was a song for the start of the day, ‘Alone’ was solely for the night.

I hear the ticking of the clock, I’m lying here, the room’s pitch dark
I wonder where you are tonight, no answer on the telephone
And the night goes by so very slow, and I hope that it won’t end all alone.

When the day was done, and the night cooled the atmosphere, I would open my window and breathe in the outside air. An old thorny hawthorne tree reached its barbed talons close to the house, nearest my room, but rather than feel threatened, I always felt protected by its multitude of sharpies. In the spring, its white flowers would rain down like snow – we’d sweep them up with shovels before they dried up and turned brown. Now, at the start of summer, the spring blossoms had already fallen, and tiny green fruits were forming – their red mushy form in fall would cause more distress to our driveway, but that wasn’t for a few months – for now they held tight to their branches.

I would do what most kids did in the freedom of their summer days – ride my bike, walk the woods, swim in the pool with our neighborhood friends, collect baseball cards (yes, I did), and simply putter around the house if it rained. I did more unconventional things that most other boys didn’t too – like watching the NBC soap operas while sipping Crystal Light iced tea and sucking on raspberry hard candies, or working on a perennial garden in the backyard flanked by coral bells, anchored by iris, and extended by a row of daylilies. But for the most part, my days were unexceptional, the stuff of carefree childhood. At night – that’s when things changed, and what was safe and harmless in the light of day could take on ominous tones, dangerous dimensions, terrifying meaning. It was at night when I started to grow up. At night, I felt alone. And I listened to this song.

Til now I always got by on my own, I never really cared until I met you
And now it chills me to the bone. How do I get you alone?
How do I get you alone?

I remember standing in that bedroom close to midnight, the warm light of a child’s room glowing and throwing its assumed safety into every dim corner. Looking out my window into the black night, I wondered: did someone wait out there for me? Would this person be able to find me? Would we find each other? It was such an immense world – more immense than I could even imagine at that early stage of life. Yet even then I yearned for someone. And that someone was a him. I don’t know how I knew, couldn’t put it into words, but the people I felt most connected to, emotionally and physically, were guys. But then it was for friendship, companionship, someone with whom I could share an adventure. I could not access the romantic loneliness of this song yet, but I could sense the pain. I knew the yearning, and I was just beginning to feel the want and desire.

You don’t know how long I have wanted to touch your lips and hold you tight
You don’t know how long I have waited, and I was gonna tell you tonight
But the secret is still my own, and my love for you is still unknown… alone.

I would come to know the romantic heartache here a few years later. The heartache that came from loving someone who did not know, and who did not love me back. This song would return then, haunting me and daring me to play it, to open up to that sort of pain, and I would. I would always be that way, always open for more, hoping that the one out there in the dark of night would arrive. For all my sense, for all my sanity, for all my cold, hard, calculation, I would be a romantic until the end. Underneath it all. I thought that they could tell. Why couldn’t they tell?

Time has a way of closing the most accepting and open of hearts. Time and experience and a careless world that I explored with ceaseless abandon. Tormented, I would thrash about in bed late at night, entangling my limbs in sweaty sheets, always alone, because who would want to stay?

Til now I always got by on my own, I never really cared until I met you
And now it chills me to the bone. How do I get you alone?
How do I get you alone?

Will that sort of hurt ever be alleviated by anything, or anyone? Is there a single other person who can do that for us? Is it something we must do ourselves? I was too young to explore such existential questions back in 1987. I would think back to that year, one of the last before I left my childhood for dead, and remember this song, playing in my bedroom, and me, watching out the window, and wondering.

The night breeze blowing over the foot of the bed was cool. In an oversize t-shirt that my Dad got for me at the track, I pulled a single sheet up to my neck and turned on my side. The leaves of the hawthorne tree rustled in the wind. I was just a boy still, too young to be so troubled. Too young to feel so alone.

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{To close, a live acoustic version, taken at a show in Seattle in 2003. In some ways, slowed and quieted like this, it’s even more powerful.}

If anyone ever asks you if you are alone, there is but one answer:

Always.

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Swimming to September

Beneath a starry sky, amid a cacophony of crickets and the clicking of katydids, I swim to the end of August and the start of September. The branches of the seven sons’ flower tree are filled with their late-season blooms – small and unassuming, but packing a potently perfumed punch. On these muggy nights, the pool water has remained warm, a quasi-amniotic fluid in which I float, looking up at the light blanket of clouds, re-born at the end of summer, and trying valiantly to hang on, to hold tight to a season that must soon end. The last full month of summer has gone. September is not coming soon – it’s already here. And so, a poem, for knowing when to let go:

In Blackwater Woods
By Mary Oliver

Look, the trees

are turning

their own bodies

into pillars

 

of light,

are giving off the rich

fragrance of cinnamon

and fulfillment,

 

the long tapers

of cattails

are bursting and floating away over

the blue shoulders

 

of the ponds,

and every pond,

no matter what its

name is, is

 

nameless now.

Every year

everything

I have ever learned

 

in my lifetime

leads back to this: the fires

and the black river of loss

whose other side

 

is salvation,

whose meaning

none of us will ever know.

To live in this world

 

you must be able

to do three things:

to love what is mortal;

to hold it

 

against your bones knowing

your own life depends on it;

and, when the time comes to let it go,

to let it go.

 

 

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