April 2014
This winter was not kind to the Japanese Umbrella Pine I relocated to the front of the house, dealing some harsh burns to a number of its lower branches, which were largely surrounded by snow and ice for much of the season. The majority of the plant has remained intact and green, however, so I’m hopeful it will spring back in the coming months. Mother Nature can be a dangerous mistress.
Posts for the next few days will be light on content, heavy on links, and hopefully give us a chance to catch our collective breaths. I’ll be out of town for a bit (but would-be-thieves should take note that my retired-police-officer of a husband will be watching the house like a hawk) so I’m pre-programming some nostalgic looks-back at what you might have missed. Newcomers stop by occasionally, and this is for them.
First up is The Writing. That’s where this began. All of it, in fact.
It started way back in McNulty School, where I wrote my first story – a tale of a snake called PG (named after the only kind of movies I could watch at the time) and his family. The slight narrative consisted of a day’s journey in which one of the snakes falls into a hole, and the rest of them have to link together to rescue him. That pretty much sums up the entire plot (and that sort of driving narrative is something with which I still struggle – I’m better at description.)
Much of my written work deals with those topics that inspire me – and no one inspires me more than Madonna. From her Drowned World Tour (the first time I ever saw her live and in person – and it was a doozy) to her latest MDNA Tour, she remains a stimulating force in spiking my creative drive. From her albums (‘American Life‘, ‘Confessions on a Dance Floor‘, ‘MDNA‘) to her tours (Confessions, Sticky & Sweet), Madonna will always be like a muse to me.
As frivolous as some stories may be, there are glimmers of serious prose here, particularly when this tour of jury duty was done, this one night stand was over, the first man I ever kissed wanted nothing to do with me, and a secret that I kept for two decades was revealed.
There are other inspirational topics as well, and no one inspires me more than amazing artists like Paul Richmond and Michael Breyette.
Attitude Magazine has a way of getting the hottest guys to take off all their clothing, particularly if a cover shot on their 20th Anniversary Issue is involved. This is Harry Judd, who we’ve been celebrating in a few naked posts of late, but none quite as buck-ass butt-naked as this one, in which the writing is off his butt for an unobstructed rear-entry view. You’re welcome, Harry-lovers.
I’m not saying this is how he would fuck a cake, but that seems to be the gist of the GIF here…
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Oh, and there’s video…
It’s usually the people who do what I could never do that impress me the most, particularly when it comes to artists. Painters and sculptors especially – those gifted folks who can conjure a thing of beauty or fascination with their minds and hands and raw materials – they never fail to fill me with awe and admiration. Taking a blank canvas and creating a world where none existed is the province of heavenly work. If ever I doubt the existence of something greater at hand here, a work of art always calms my soul, and restores my faith.
The first time I met Thomasa Nielsen was, fittingly, at a First Friday event in Albany. She was talking about a painting with such animation and excitement that I knew she was an artist. A few weeks later I saw some of her work at the Upstate Artists Guild and was blown away. There was passion and power in her pieces ~ in some a whimsical thread of playfulness, in others an underlying pull of melancholy. These aren’t quiet paintings – they yell and scream in joy and sorrow, in pain and humor. They laugh loudly, weep openly, and cry out in passion. They are, at their cores, the visual heart of an artist, laid boldly before you.
She is perhaps best-known for her exaggerated scale and dramatic use of color – both of which initially drew me to her work. (I was lucky enough to be managing the Romaine Brooks Gallery when she had a solo exhibition there- and the riot of color and excitement on the walls made it one of my favorite shows ever.)
It’s sometimes a risky move to put your image in the hands of an artist, especially if you’re already insecure. You have no control over what might be conjured or created, and when the idea of being the subject of one of her paintings first came up, I was hesitant. What if I look ugly? What if my body isn’t good enough? What if everyone laughs at me? But Thomasa is a very captivating woman. Yet in all honesty it wasn’t her charm or persuasiveness – or even her kindness – that convinced me: it was her work. That gorgeous saturation of color, those brilliantly jarring juxtapositions of darkness and light, the challenging distortions of scale ~ I wanted to be a part of that. And so it was with great honor, and nervous humility, that I agreed to be a subject.
She asked me my favorite colors and color combinations, what inspired me, and how I would describe myself. I sent her a list of inspirational items that I thought might be helpful, as well as a CD of some of my favorite songs to give her an idea of what informed my world. Taking that, and a few photographs I sent her, she crafted this amazing painting. In it, she captures things I never noticed before, deeply personal things that I won’t expound upon here. A good artist can capture the essence of a person, a great one sees through to their very soul.
The piece is hung in the most prominent space of our dining room – on a wall that can now be seen from the kitchen and beyond – and it always tickles me that guests, when sitting down to eat, have an unobstructed view of my colorful ass. I’m not sure if that makes the food taste better or worse, but I enjoy the awkwardness of it.
In truth, it’s a beautiful piece in spite of my butt being front and center – the colors work marvelously in the space, brightening up the wall and adding a vital jolt of vibrancy to that formerly-staid room. The transitional shading fits brilliantly into its placement – there is a window to the right of the painting, which is where the light is coming from in the scene. What I like most is that the beauty of the composition, the way the colors complement and collide, makes one forget the subject matter completely. Only when someone is seeing it for the first time and remarking on it do I remember that it’s a naked butt on the dining room wall. That’s what a great work of art does – it mesmerizes with its beauty in such an absolute sense that all else fades away. Even my ass.
Here’s an idea whose time has come: cornbread croutons. They form a part of a trout recipe that I tried out the other day, and they are the sole reason for this post. The tomato and parsley and red onion salad that formed the base of the fish dish was all well and good, but it was the croutons that were the star of this show. (And the point of this post, so I won’t get into recipe details just yet.)
At first I was hesitant – I’m not the biggest fan of cornbread, and it seemed just a little too sweet for a savory salad like this. That turned out to be its most pleasantly surprising feature. Countering the sting of the onion and a bit of vinegar, the cornbread mellowed the whole scene, and provided just enough carbs to render an additional side dish unnecessary.
The original recipe came with a ‘See page__ for Cornbread recipe’ which is a notation that I always dread. If I cook, I’m cooking one thing. But Andy found a decent pan of cornbread from the market, so I cheated like Sandra Lee and cut the thing into crouton-sized cubes.
In order to keep the cornbread from crumbling, and to give the croutons their customary crunch, it was necessary to toast them in the oven for a few minutes. This too worked in changing the consistency of the bread for the better.
The rainbow trout was a fine addition, but I could have eaten the cornbread and tomato salad on its own. It was that good.
Big changes are afoot here (well, in my life, which will translate to this blog) but more on that later. Let’s just say this will be a spring of new experiences all around, and there won’t be much looking back. Except for Monday mornings. Here we go again…
Last week Harry Judd got naked again for Attitude magazine’s 20th anniversary special (providing these two new luscious shots,) while David Beckham debuted a rather lack-luster swimwear line.
I finally posted a full-frontal shot, followed quickly by an almost-full-frontal shot. Not sure which was less well-received.
Lest you think it was all hard and edgy, things got soft and sweet with some under-the-table action, some statuesque poses, and some lotion-rubbing antics.
For some reason, this sort of flashing always makes me wet in the face.
Justin Timberlake grabbed his crotch ~ truly, madly, and deeply.
Meanwhile, I put my cock in a sock and recorded the moment for posterity.
Madonna has a way of waking me up, even when it’s not over.
As almost-promised in this first Cock in a Sock post, I took the plunge, stuffed my cock in a sock, and let it all hang out. I didn’t want to go the crass route and be almost completely naked like everyone else, so I tried to make it colorful and maybe a little classy. Nothing says classy like a fuchsia jacket!
Aimed at raising awareness and funds for testicular cancer, the hashtag #cockinasock took off around the world, and men started stuffing their junk into the soft ambulatory accessory and snapping selfies all over the place. For the most part, they were naked but for said sock. I’ve been naked before, so when everyone else started taking their clothes off, I put mine back on. I don’t do bandwagons.
Before anyone feigns shock or awe, let me remind you of this and this and this, and suddenly today’s post seems rather quaint.
Michael Jackson set the stage for the crotch-grab, Madonna kicked it up a notch, but Justin Timberlake may have perfected it. At least if we’re talking in-depth digital manipulation, as illustrated in these crotch-grabbing GIFs. Mr. Timberlake has teased with his cock before, and of course he’s been a Hunk of the Day, but I don’t think I’ve posted him in such, well, action. (He has, however, been seen quite naked here.) As have other nude male celebs…
While I’m not the biggest fan of the various restaurant weeks that go on in Albany and Boston, they do serve their purpose for those who don’t get out much. For those of us that do, they’re usually a disappointing exercise in which my favorite restaurants go cheap on their portions and service in the hopes of attracting the average non-restaurant-goer. But I won’t piss on this year’s Downtown Albany Restaurant week, where one can get a three-course meal for $20.14 – mainly because Downtown Albany (not to be mistaken for ‘Downton Abbey’ despite what my FaceBook and Twitter friends not-so-wittily say) needs all the help it can get. See, I am supportive of this city. Eat your heart out, Downtown Albany!
Madonna is reportedly in the studio with Avicii (of ‘Wake Me Up’ fame). I enjoy the latter’s sole claim to fame, and can see Madonna doing something in this folk/dance vein quite well. I’m not sure it’s a groundbreaking collaboration, but it could be perfectly fine – and if her track record is any indication it will likely surpass what we expect. She has a way of forming a musical alchemy with just about anyone – I never thought I’d enjoy her getting on the Timberlake-Timbaland band-wagon, but ‘Hard Candy’ was actually a pretty decent pop record – so while some have scoffed at her seeking out Avicii, I think she may have found someone with whom some organic and new sounds might originate.
That makes this the perfect time to revisit her last studio effort, 2012’s ‘MDNA.’ It’s a banging album – one of her strongest in years – and one that went largely ignored after the flush of its first-week of sales. ‘Girl Gone Wild’ is a fun, throbbing opener, the beats of which are sustained and given additional jolts in ‘I’m Addicted,’ while ‘Turn Up the Radio’ is just about a perfect standard of a modern-day pop song, challenged only by ‘Give Me All Your Luvin’ for pure pop perfection. Deeper cuts like ‘Masterpiece’ and ‘Falling Free’ showcase her prowess with a ballad, and ‘Love Spent’ is a lesson in how to craft musical and emotional drama with a few clichéd phrases. ‘I’m A Sinner’ is an instant Madonna-anthem, a hands-in-the-air celebration of not being anything other than yourself. Lesser fillers like ‘Superstar’ and ‘I Don’t Give A…’ almost rise to single-worthy status, while a throw-away cut like ‘Some Girls’ provides the requisite clunker that she usually reserves for the last song. All in all, ‘MDNA’ is a pretty fine album, even by Madonna standards (which are always higher than the average bear’s.) Of course, my eye is already on what is yet to come… so wake me up when the wait is over.
Having waxed rhapsodic about the Victorian Stroll last winter, I find a growing soft-spot in my heart for Troy. Suzie’s even contemplating a move there, and tonight my parents are taking us out to dinner followed by a show at the Troy Music Hall. (The last time I was there must have been when I was onstage performing with the Empire State Youth Orchestra – not exactly the happiest of memories.)
Troy’s downtown area is a quaint one, with historical throwbacks dating to the 1800’s (I believe that parts of it were used in scenes from ‘The Age of Innocence’ to re-create the look of old New York City.) It retains that historical charm, with beautiful buildings and brownstones, and it continues to rebuild its image after a questionable number of declining years.
When I was a kid, Troy was the next biggest city to where my grandmother lived – in Hoosick Falls (which says something about Hoosick Falls), so whenever we were visiting she would take us on the bus to visit the downtown area. I don’t remember much of those trips, other than going over a big bridge and possibly shopping at the Carl Company. Since then, I’ve had a nostalgic fondness for the home of Uncle Sam.
The Trojan Renaissance continues on every last Friday of the month, when Troy Night Out features art exhibits and live performances at the restaurant and shops in the downtown vicinity. These nights are a fun time to get out and see what the city’s like at its most vibrant and active. Now that the weather is getting nice again they’re the perfect times to stroll the streets and see what Troy has to offer.
My teary-eyed love for a flash mob has already been documented here, but here’s a bit of an addendum, spurred by this video of a ‘Lion King’ cast setting the take-off scene in an airplane. Everyone wishes they were on a flight like this, and once again I teared up a bit watching it unfold, as often happens when people spontaneously burst into song.
Most of us, myself included, reach a certain state of complacent ennui as we age, a sort of stagnant and sad plateau of steady-as-she-goes. We succumb to a bit of ‘There is nothing new under the sun’ syndrome. I don’t believe in that. I like ripples and dips and ravines with ravishing drop-offs. So when something like this comes along to beautifully upset the status-quo, even in the hum-drum exercise of a plane take-off, I take notice and smile.
Those moments when we are jolted awake are what inspire me. That’s what a flash mob or unexpected round of singing does. And as touching as it is to see a group of people joining together to make strangers smile, it is the smiles on those who get to witness the event that are just as moving. That is the ultimate human experience for me – strangers making each other smile. I’m not good at that, but my closest friends are. People like Skip and Suzie, who care just as much for their fellow human beings as they do for themselves. There’s a grace and generosity of spirit that they have, and which I most often lack, so from them I try to learn to be better. Watching a moment like this restores a little bit of my faith in humanity. It reminds me that things aren’t as bad as they sometimes seem.
Quite frankly, I’m not sure what took David Beckham so long to offer his own version of the Speedo, or Budgie Smuggler, but here it is, as part of his H&M line of swimwear. My first reaction, even at the sight of his bulge in white shiny brief-like swimsuit, is largely lackluster. Like his H&M underwear line, the style, the color, and the fit are all unimpressive. In fact, the last style, with the dull color-blocking mishap, is dismal at best. I much prefer Beckham’s work with Emporio Armani – it was classic but daring, elegant but edgy, and much sexier than anything H&M has produced thus far.
Oh my God, I thought as I turned my hands over in themselves, rubbing lotion into the dry cracks of my knuckles, I’ve turned into Mrs. Loomis. She was my second grade teacher – one of my favorites – and I remember quite a few days of that school year. It was the year we each got a folder with our name on it, one we would keep until the last day of school.
In a method that would likely be unthinkable in today’s overly-egalitarian coddling of children, those students who completed a perfect day of school work would receive a sticker for our personalized folders. At the end of the year, the student with the most stickers would get to pick from a pile of prizes, and so on down the line until everyone got one. I guess in a way it was kind of cruel, but only if you were one of the dumb kids. Well, scholastically-challenged. Oh fuck it, dumb. This blog isn’t going to win any child-friendly awards any time soon.
But I digress… back to the lotion at hand. Or on hand. I use it sparingly now, remembering a certain day when Mrs. Loomis made the mistake of squeezing out more than she needed. She often sat at her desk while we were working, twisting her hands and fingers around each other after procuring a small amount of lotion from her container of Vaseline. I watched with keen interest this magic ritual. She didn’t even take her rings off to do it. One day she absent-mindedly squirted too much into her palm. She looked up and asked the class if anyone wanted some. A few girls stood up and got in line, and a boy or two. (I was not one of them.) She took a little bit from the excess on her hand and put some on each child’s hand until she had a manageable amount left. The kids acted like little adults, rubbing it in as they returned to their desks. One of the kids, Sammy, was notoriously ill-behaved. I had no tolerance for such nonsense, so he was never one of my favorites, but he stood in line, much to my amused surprise. He got his little dollop of lotion and swirled it around in his hands. My heart softened a little at that moment. I wondered if he lived in a home bereft of the luxury of lotion. I wondered what else his home might not have that mine did, and that I’d always taken for granted. While I’d never been outwardly mean (I was actually frightened of him), inwardly I became a little nicer, unsure if such an internal change made any difference at all.
This particular statue holds a special place in my heart, as it stands sentinel in front of the patch of green where Andy and I were married. At this time of the year, it’s still too soon to be surrounded by much life, but soon – very soon – it will be backed by a trio of pink Kwanzan cherries, the chartreuse strands of weeping willows, and a majestic Metasequoia. The duck-and-swan-filled pond will return to squawking activity, and the foot-bridge will carry pedestrians from flowering tree to flowering tree. It will return. It always does.
