Monthly Archives:

March 2014

Carving a Niche in the South End

The little gift shops along Tremont Street have always charmed me, with their friendly owners, local focus, and unique selections. This is Niche – a captivating space that is the perfect antidote for these last stubborn days of winter. I’d been passing this for a while, always putting off stepping inside for one reason or another, but having been beat down by a chilly wind recently, I ducked into the shop and felt not only instantly warmer, but calmer as well.

Tiny plantings of baby’s tears and slow-growing succulents peeked out of fanciful ceramic planters. Riotously-colored bracts of bromeliads sprayed outward in radial formation, star-bursts of red and yellow surrounding the spot where the real, unassuming flower would appear. The beautifully-gnarled forms of tillandsia sat perched above beds of stones and water – the powerful collusion of elements allowing for life and loveliness.

In a city like Boston, where space is of the essence and apartments and condos can be on the small side, this is a clever way of managing to have a garden in the tiniest of rooms. Hanging in one of the whimsical ceramic tear-drops, or set upon a windowsill in a simple planter, there is likely room for some of these beauties in everyone’s place.

This would have been one of my favorite stores as a kid. The plants, the design, the child-like scale of it all – I would have been enthralled by every item. As it was, I remained fascinated, poring over the combinations of plants, examining the curves of the vases, studying the lime green hues of the mosses. A playground for plant-lovers and design-aficionados alike.

Gorgeousness filled every corner and crevice here, from the open-palmed variations of the prayer plant (which gets its name from the habit of folding up its leaves at night, as if in prayer) to the spiny architectural spikes of a variegated haworthia, waiting to send up a towering flower spike when conditions are right.

Hope is too often such a small thing, so easily looked over or forgotten. These little treasures remind me of that. They remind me to look. To pause. To remember. In the smallest of stuff, there may be found an infinite universe.

Niche is located at 619 Tremont Street in the South End of Boston. 

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New Jake Gyllenhaal Naked Pics

If it feels like we just featured Jake Gyllenhaal naked on this site, you are not losing your marbles. But when new photos of a nude Jake Gyllenhaal make the internet rounds, it’s my duty to feature his naked ass again. The hair is decidedly questionable – what’s with all the Jesus manes of late? – and the body is less-toned than some of us are accustomed, but I can’t fault him for that. (God knows my tummy has seen slimmer days.) Anyway, here’s nakey Jakey…

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Colder Than a Witch’s Tit? Not For Long…

Further signs of spring were to be seen in the Southwest Corridor Park this past weekend, where a stand of red witch hazel bloomed crimson against an azure sky. I’m accustomed to seeing the common yellow version, a cheery pre-cursor to the more vulgar and sprawling forsythia, so when I happened upon this red variation a year ago I made a mental note to find it again this season.

That used to be how I marked driving directions: take a right at the clump of blue lupines, bear left before the trio of dogwoods, if you see a swath of Echinacea you’ve gone too far. I still mark my way around the Boston Public Garden by the demarcation of plants – the entrance by the double-file viburnum, the bench beneath the metasequoia, or the corner covered in Scilla siberica. It’s much more fun than Google maps.

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It Will Come

This past weekend in Boston began the slow march to spring. It’s going to take some time – there is still so much snow – but as these photos attest, hope is in the air, and poking through the ground. There’s a familiar thrill when the first daffodils and tulips begin tentatively telescoping from the earth, scoping out whether it’s really safe to fully rise. These are dangerous times, and they sense that. There is still the likely possibility that a snowstorm with dump a foot of crushing ice crystals on top of them, leaving tattered tips, if not killing them outright.

Yet this year I can’t blame the tender shoots for being so ready to emerge. It’s been a difficult winter, and many of us are similarly anxious to let it go. Even with whispers of another impending storm on the horizon, I still wouldn’t draw back and hesitate now.

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Build Me Up, Buttery

It is, perhaps, the South End Buttery that I am missing most upon returning from Boston ~ particularly this banana-chocolate mini-loaf that I had for breakfast yesterday. Chocolate just makes everything a little bit better. (So I had to get the orange-chocolate scone as well.) Looking out over Clarendon (where we almost bought a home two decades ago) I spent an uncharacteristically-leisurely Sunday morning, holding off on departing until John Fluevog opened his doors. But more on that in a later post… for now I just want to re-inhabit the memory of this tasty treat.

Bananas in anything outside of a banana peel were an acquired taste for me. I remember one sleep-over at a friend’s where his Mom served banana pancakes for breakfast and I literally almost threw up. It seemed so wrong to my childish mind. Today I would kill for someone to make banana pancakes for me. The same is true of banana bread. As a kid I wouldn’t touch it. Now no loaf is safe if I’m within striking distance. If there’s chocolate in it, well, my jaw has unhinged for far less in the past.

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Another Naked Olympian

Louis Smith has already been featured as a naked Hunk of the Day, but here’s a bonus post for those who didn’t get enough that first time around. (As if there was such a thing as enough male nudity.) As you may know, naked Olympians are nothing new here, and there’s always room for new shots. As for Mr. Smith, I can’t imagine the dismount that followed that last photo…

 

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Marching Forward: A Recap

The first full week of March now complete, we still seem to be stuck in the lion stages. Wake me when the lamb arrives for slaughter because I have had it with this winter. Sick of the cold and the snow and wind. Sick of the salty dirty streets. Sick of it all. But if we can get through this intact, there’s no telling how high we’ll soar come the summer. So much for an almost-spring pep talk. There’s a reason I’m not a motivational speaker. Onto last week’s recap.

Reflections of Boston came in the front and the back.

And Then He Kissed Me. By The Crystals.

You flush it, I flaunt it.

I flaunted my underwear too, but only because it matched the flowers.

Then I took my underwear off.

The Hot Hunks of the Day were out in full-force despite the frigid temps, thanks to underwear guru Todd Sanfield, hot male model Mike Stalker,  a very hairy grown-up Harry Potter – Daniel Radcliffe, a super-pumped-up Henry Cavill, an Oscar-winning and shirtless Jared Leto, a ball-handling Robbie Rogers, and the almost-naked crooning of Enrique Iglesias.

Flower power.

Another showdown at Starbucks.

Last but most certainly not least, the hottest ass post this site may have ever seen. Back it up, back it in.

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A Boston Test

Making use of the free wifi at Copley Place, I’m testing out whether this blog can be done by satellite, so bear with me if the format is slightly screwy or the usual perfection is in short supply. At the time of this writing I’m still in Boston. It’s a sunny but brisk Sunday morning, and the sky is a very deep and brilliant blue. I’m patiently awaiting the noon opening of retail stores – particularly John Fluevog, which has a pair of wingtips that caught my eye in the ‘Improper Bostonian.’

While I’m not exactly in need of new shoes, I’ve been saving a bit of money, and it may be time for a little reward. I did splurge on a scarf earlier, and a silk pocket square, but I put back an Armani coat (even though it was half off!) and declined a leather Coach tote that screamed my name. More difficult was saying no to a new Tom Ford Private Blend – ‘Oud Fleur’ – and a long line of Byredo Parfums at Barneys. Yet somehow I did it. That’s will power.

This concludes my test of the blog’s satellite capability. I’ll attempt to put up a Boston pic to see how that works, or doesn’t work, but for the most part it seems to be possible. This is a very good sign.

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When the Light is Soft

Morning first creeps into the Boston condo through the front rooms. The sun manages to spill directly into the space, especially when the trees are bare, as they are now. But that’s not usually where I am when I first wake in the morning. For that, you must step further into the condo, past the small marble wet bar and mirror, and into the sanctuary of the bedroom.

The light here is different. It is diffused, softer, less focused. The sun won’t shine directly in until later in the afternoon. For now, it is merely the light of the sky – no unexceptional light to be sure, but quieter in its way, more subdued and less glaring.

It fills the space slowly, beginning as the faintest glow, in shades of gray and mauve and slate. It doesn’t march in like the sun in the front room, it insinuates itself more subtly, delicately, gently.

It doesn’t jar anyone awake, it doesn’t rile with the screech of a rooster. Its nudge is careful, more of a caress or a kiss. The slightest of touches to wake a slumbering beast.

There is no alarm clock here. There is no shrill ring-tone. There is only the slowly-growing glow of light.

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Showdown at Starbucks

The first thing I heard was a man yelling on his cel phone. In a raspy, gravelly voice that boomed through the lobby, he slurred words of love and anger to whomever was on the other end. The second thing I noticed was the rancid scent of stale beer, which I then saw originated in a garbage bag spilling forth beer cans and bottles, and a puddle of beer wherever he set it down. (This isn’t one of the cool Seattle Starbucks that serves beer, and being that it doubled as the lobby to a bank and a law firm, beer is not something that is usually on hand.) I sighed and went back to my book, trying vainly to block the obnoxious conversation out of my brief lunch break. [This wasn’t my first incident at the downtown Albany location, nor is it likely to be my last.]

The phone call completed, the man stood, a bit wobbly, and proceeded to go around asking people for money, saying he got his GED and was not going to do cocaine anymore or steal anything. He tapped every patron on the shoulder, leaned in to them with the warning, “Don’t be afraid,” and asked brazenly for change. Shifting my shoes before he dripped beer on them, I shook my head and said I didn’t have anything. He moved on to the next person.

A few seats down, the “security guard” for the bank sat at a table having a conversation with a parking meter attendant – or, as I like to call them, the two most useless people on the planet. As the beer man continued pestering people, I went up and asked if the guy dressed like a security guard, with the security emblem on his shoulder, was, in fact, some sort of, like, security. He said yes hesitantly, and I asked if he might be able to do something about this guy spilling beer everywhere and begging for money. After a meek attempt at asking the guy to leave people alone, he went and sat back down. Ten minutes and more harassment later, the security guy asked me if the other guy had left. Based on the yelling that was still going on I said no, he was still there. Mr. Security then loudly told his conversation partner that he only worked for the bank and Starbucks was responsible for their side. He also went on to say that if someone was robbing the bank, he wouldn’t try to stop that either. Mainly, in his words, he was there to sit and be a presence. A big, useless presence. (Attention would-be-robbers: have I got a job for you!)

Finally, after the beer guy approached a table of two young women and asked for money, one of the Starbucks baristas – a female (because the three hulking males working there proved as hapless as the security guard) told the drunk guy he couldn’t do that and asked him to leave. Instead of going on his merry way, he said the following, which I happened to get on video because I knew he would not go quietly or without a fight. It’s the final part of their exchange, word for upsetting word:

Beer Guy: I’m asking everybody. I ain’t stealing, I ain’t robbing nobody no more.

Barista Girl: Sorry sir, you can’t do that in here.

Beer Guy: I do what I want in here. Get your fat ass back there.

Barista Girl: All right, that’s nice. Get to stepping.

Beer Guy: Who the fuck is you? I only like white girls.

Barista Girl: Get out. Get out. Go ahead.

Beer Guy: Treat me like I’m white, bitch! Get on your knees!

Barista Girl: Go. Get out. I’m going to call the police.

At that point he left. And the rest of us sat there, quietly stunned. Near the end, the security guard shows up on the video, tentatively approaching the scene, watching but not doing a thing. As race played a rather ugly part at the end of the confrontation, I will disclose that both parties involved were African-American. (The useless security person was white.)

I can’t say I was much more than useless myself, too scared to confront the guy myself (and two feet shorter than him too.)

There’s no happy ending to this post, only the uncomfortable words hanging in the air, and the memory of it all lingering in a disturbingly stubborn way. Even when not directly involved in incidents like that, I’m left feeling icky. Disappointed in humans ~ haunted by all our demons.

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The Ass Menagerie

If you’ve been coming here for any length of time, you’ve have noticed that there is never any full-frontal male nudity on this site. Mainly because I don’t want this to turn into a porny free-for-all, and full-frontal shots can be found any other number of places. As compensation, however, I have offered ample ass shots – my own and others. For some reason rear nudity is not as frowned-upon as cock shots. It’s a fine line. Very fine. And we each have to draw it where we feel most comfortable. In my own life, I’m pretty free-for-all. For public consumption, however, I put the penis away.

To that end, we focus on the other end. The tight end. The perky end. The happy end. Notable butts featured here have included the following:

Christian Bale and his bounteous maximus on shower display in ‘American Psycho.’ If it takes turning into a psychotic to get a body like that, I don’t ever want to be sane.

Ryan Phillippe has come a long way from his ‘Studio 54’ days, and I’d say his butt has markedly improved.

Another Ryan – Ryan Reynolds – just edges out Mr. Phillippe in the hot ass department.

A whole slew of bottoms stripping in ‘Magic Mike’ – and this beautiful Battle of the Butts. (I’m still partial to Matt Bomer’s epic ass work in that Oscar-robbed film.)

The magnificent backside of Nick Youngquest in all its glory.

Rhymes with man-candy, male model David Gandy.

Royalty, okay? Prince Harry’s fine ass.

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The Power of the Flower

Every year at about this time (especially this year given the winter we’ve had) I seek out flower shows or other signs of spring to help me get through the finals days of this dismal season. Years ago, my Mom took my brother and me to the Philadelphia Flower Show, my first brush with this sublime experience. It was dazzling. It was beautiful. It was life-altering. It wasn’t usual for a ten-year-old boy to take such an active interest in flowers, but I’d been that way since I was even younger. I knew the scientific names of most houseplants and perennials, and the flower show was an almost-overwhelming opportunity to see things that I’d previously only been able to view in books. From the opening display of spring-blooming narcissus and azaleas, I was taken over by the whole experience, transported to another realm of beauty and all things sublime.

The greenery and blossoms stretched onward, and I excitedly named and examined each recognizable species. Back then, I wasn’t as interested in escaping winter, I was more concerned with seeing all the plants and flowers. As the years passed, however, I remembered that trip to the flower show, and when I found myself at Brandeis University, bemoaning an endless Boston winter, I sought out the New England Flower Show and boarded the commuter rail early on a Saturday morning in March.

I transferred to the Red Line and got off at the JFK stop, taking a bus to the large convention center than then housed it. I was struck first by the greenhouse scent. The same sense of wonder and awe filled me, and I was instantly brought back to that first Philadelphia experience. A glass-enclosed sitting room was set up in the center of it all, with arching Kentia palms and the floating blooms of Phalaenopsis orchids. A simple chaise lounge on dark mahogany legs like polished tree trunks stood slightly off-center, and it looked like the most paradisiacal place to read a book or spend a lazy afternoon. It formed the inspiration for the renovation of my parents’ attic that I was designing at the time, and offered hope for what that space might become. (It would eventually come to fruition, complete with a chaise lounge by the window, framed by two graceful palms, and softened by a curtain of fine netting.)

On that day, the flower show was the perfect antidote for all the stubborn dirty snow that adamantly refused to depart, a cure for the wailing wind and the continual threat of icy weather. It was almost as good as a vacation to some tropical climate where orchids bloomed from above and calla lilies rose from warm, wet beds. The smell of earth was in the air – that glorious fragrance of peat and moss and life – the wondrous stuff of primal existence, of the most basic of nature’s substance. It filled me with hope, and the outside pain of cold and concrete fell away, the winter receded, and the world blossomed again.

This year the New England Flower Show begins next week, so I may end up missing it, but in my living room there is a Norfolk Island pine, and several rabbit’s foot ferns to ease the chill of these remaining winter days. Mind over matter, beneath the fronds of a few ferns

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The Beantown Express

This weekend I hope to find myself back in Boston, where I’ll be meeting my friend Alissa and her daughter for a catch-up dinner. There is much to tell – we only see each other every few months, and these last few months have been action-packed to say the least. Along with this recent lifting of a haze, I feel a renewed desire to reconnect with those people who matter the most to me – the friends who have been in my life for a decade and a half, some even longer.

These are the ones who know me inside and out, and are able to see certain patterns and changes that sometimes not even I have been able to discern. They’re often better than a mirror or a counselor, and they offer honest insight and tough truths, because that’s what good friends do. They will also be there for me no matter what may come. We will be there for each other. That sense of comfort confounds any sense of loneliness.

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Flowers & Underwear

There are little moments of happy coincidence, bits of providence and luck that tickle this winding life, and that serve to remind me nothing is ever to be taken too seriously. Or isn’t it? Case in point was this accidental color pairing of Andrew Christian underwear and a stalk of freesia from the supermarket. It happened the last time I was in Boston, and I didn’t make the connection until I returned to upstate New York and downloaded these photos. These are the seemingly insignificant sign-posts that direct us on our way, that let us know we are where we’re supposed to be, or at least on the right path. Little is simple coincidence. It all means something.

As to what my underwear matching the spray of flowers in the local market might signify is anyone’s guess. I just know that it felt good, it felt right, and that night in the supermarket, as Kira and I were picking up food for breakfast the next morning in the Boston condo, I was right where I belonged. It wasn’t a big fancy sign – there wasn’t glitter or sparkle or fireworks – there was simply a feeling of calm and contentment.

The signs can be subtle, and easily missed, but as much as I play the ostrich with his head in the sand (feathers included), I’m rarely that bird. I’ve always been aware.

As for these comfy Andrew Christian trunks, I like the color as much as I like how they feel. They fit as finely as these Hanro briefs, but come with a brighter palette.

And since I’m not Miranda Priestley, I have no problem with the freesia either.

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The Frozen Winter

Yes, I am still obsessed by the song ‘Let It Go‘, finding in its message a way out, an escape, an empowerment that I thought I had given up years and years ago. It turns out I haven’t. I can recall a cold winter morning filled with snow almost a decade and a half ago, when I was supposed to go to Boston but didn’t. This weekend I’m going back, because sometimes you can go back, no matter what anyone says.

This instrumental mash-up of ‘Let It Go’ and Vivaldi’s ‘Winter’ movement is pretty inspiring. I’m keeping it in my head when I need a little jolt, when I start to doubt myself. These days, that’s happening less and less. On the verge of spring…

Let it go, let it go… Can’t hold it back anymore…

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