August 2014
I won’t pretend I didn’t consider doing it naked – for about one mortifying second – but I opted for more clothing when executing my version of the ALS Ice Bucket Challenge. Thankfully, Dan Osborne went totally starkers, and seeing his backside bolt after getting doused is one of life’s greatest gifts to the gay male population. You’re most welcome.
Bonus butt shot for the true bottom believers:
Carey Mulligan’s rendition of ‘New York, New York’ perfectly encapsulates how I feel about the city. Enchanting and seductive, but by turns depressing and diabolical. My latest visits have been better, however, as I’ve learned to stick to better hotels and nicer locations. For this birthday weekend, I’m hoping to make it magical again, and nothing makes New York more magical than a night in a fine hotel, accented by a Broadway show.
With accommodations by 70 Park Hotel (Kimpton properties have never let me down) and dining by Tavern on the Green and The NoMad, I’ve already planned out places certain to satisfy. A Broadway stop for the final performance of ‘Bullets Over Broadway’ will round out the fun.
This has been a summer bookended by Broadway, from ‘Mothers & Sons‘ to “The Bridges of Madison County‘, from ‘Hedwig and the Angry Inch‘ to ‘Here Lies Love‘ (even if the latter is technically Off-Broadway.) We’ll see how ‘Bullets’ stacks up against those other powerhouse productions. All I want is a spot of shopping on Madison, by way of Tom Ford, and I’ll be a happy birthday boy.
This neon pink beacon brings all the butterflies to the yard, and they’re like, it’s better than yours. It belongs to the aptly-monikered butterfly bush, around which the fluttering creatures congregate, unfurling their tongues into the deep-throated blossom bases. Attracting yellow swallowtails and magnificent monarchs, along with the elusive Karner Blue butterfly in the sky, it is a favorite among such flying brethren.
While it’s almost outgrown its position by the pool, I’m hesitant to move it as it continually puts on a decent show every year. That sort of performance and perseverance does not go unnoticed. I may try to establish a new one in a better spot, as they make wonderful magnets for wildlife, including the bewitching hummingbird moth.
It took me a while, but once I got a taste of beets I fell in love. It’s Andy’s fault, really, as he snuck them onto a pizza one night and I was so ravenous I ate it all before questioning what was on it. That risky experiment paid off and I’ve been a beet lover ever since. We found a few fine specimens at a farmer’s market last week and he pulled another culinary rabbit out of the hat with this strawberry, beet, and goat cheese salad.
He boils them in vinegar and sugar, and it’s a heavenly combination that brings out the tanginess in their garishly-colored flesh.
I especially like the way the magenta dye bleeds onto the goat cheese. It seems too vibrant to be natural, but there it is – the beauty of Mother Nature on a plate. Sprinkled with a strawberry vinaigrette, it made for a lovely summer salad.
Most of the hostas have finished their blooming and are well into filling out their seed pods with plump futures. This variety, deliciously named ‘Guacamole,’ is a later-blooming variety, coming at a time of the year when most flowers are running out of steam. It’s a welcome sight, adding a bit of refreshment to a fatigued garden. Located in a quieter portion of the side yard, it inspires contemplation and reflection. It’s beneath the umbrage of a seven-sons-flower tree, which is fully in bud and about to intoxicate the bees with its own fragrance. Taken together, they are a reinvigorating reminder that the summer has not yet begun to leave.
Following-up on recent Hunk of the Day Damien Rodgers, this post illuminates that behind the fierce body is a compelling bit of motivation and purpose. As previously mentioned, Damien Rodgers is representing the United States in a bid for Mr. Gay World. (And I thought Best Dressed Man of the Capital Region was a lofty goal.) Mr. Rodgers has grander notions than simply looking fine and fit; he is out to change the world with such aspirations as fighting for human rights in all regions of the world.
Rather than put my words into his mouth, however, here’s an excerpt from the press release delineating his hopes:
By seeking the Mr. Gay World title, Mr. Rodgers wants to become a global ambassador for LGBT rights. Already an active voice for the LGBT community and HIV awareness here in the United States, the 2014 Mr. Gay USA winner hopes to join the previous world title holders from Ireland, South Africa, and New Zealand as role models for young gay men everywhere. “My ultimate goal is to add LGBT+ history and information into the educational system for the advancement and understanding of the community as a whole,” says Mr. Rodgers. “I want to match available resources with the needs in the global community, and make sure that my LGBT brothers and sisters don’t have to hide in the shadows and fear for their lives just to be who they are.”
If you’d like to lend your support for Damien, and our fine country, please visit this site and scroll down to vote for the U.S.A. (You can vote once every 24 hours until August 30.)
For weeks I’d been keeping a relatively low-profile, careful not to like any posts mentioning it, vigilant not to reference or comment on it, and I was just starting to feel a bit of relief that no one had tagged me to partake in the ALS Ice Bucket Challenge. Then Skip Montross called me out. I was hoping it would be someone I could dismiss or ignore, but when a friend you genuinely admire does it, you answer the call in one way or another. The cause was good too – donations for The ALS Association, which works to fight Lou Gehrig’s disease – so even if you want nothing to do with this silliness, you should check out the ALS Donation page and see what you can muster. As for my take on the challenge, watch the video below.
Everyone knows I have no problem getting wet (see pool pics here, here, here, here… well, you get the idea) so the idea of pouring a bucket of ice water over my head was not really a big deal. Besides, Tom Ford (!), Adam Lambert, Henry Cavill, Neil Patrick Harris, David Beckham, Adam Levine, Dan Osborne, Joe Manganiello, Oprah Winfrey, Andy Cohen, Cristiano Ronaldo, Martha Stewart, Ashton Kutcher, Donatella Versace, Justin Timberlake, Chris Pratt, James Franco, Hudson Taylor, Jesse Metcalfe, Novak Djokovic, Ryan Seacrest, Lance Bass, Chord Overstreet, Jamie Dornan, Josh Groban, John Barrowman, Eddie Redmayne, Chris Hemsworth, Keith Urban, Nick Bateman, Zac Efron, Matt Damon, Benedict Cumberbatch, Matt Bomer, Josh Hutcherson, Ben Foden, Nick Jonas, Chris Evans and countless actual friends of mine had already done it. I would be in good company. Yet doing what everyone else is doing has never been my thing. It may have cost me a hundred bucks, but it was worth every penny. And since I didn’t actually do it, I didn’t have to challenge anyone else. (At least, that’s my interpretation, and I don’t intend to change it. I doubt Madonna would deign to get doused anyway.)
Yes, I know, my birthday is technically only supposed to last one day (August 24 for those out-of-the-loop) but since when have I hesitated to make the most of an occasion? By this time next week it will be over and done, so let’s make the most of the anticipation. I prefer to celebrate the future rather than the past. That said, I’ll be a good sport and indulge in this look-back over the past few days on this blog.
Let’s begin with the boys – the shirtless boys – who kept things smoking in spite of the rather cool-spell we’ve had of late. Say hello to Charles Dera, Parker Gregory, Willie Gomez, Kerry Degman, Damien Rodgers, and Ezra Miller.
Gay serial killers aren’t always fun, but they’re always remembered.
A scrumptious summer recipe utilizing crab, lemon, and capers.
A sneak-preview of school memories, which may just spark a new series.
And speaking of a series, one of the more prolific and popular on this blog – the Madonna Timeline – came roaring back to life in honor of the lady’s birthday. It was time for ‘Like A Virgin‘ wherein I recalled what it was like to be touched for the very first time.
I picked a major bone with this self-professed lost soul, who wrote a ridiculous post on the gay man as Peter Pan. Just call me Captain Hook.
On the verge of turning 39, I am not quite one of the over-40 men trolling the gay bars that Dalton Heinrich so viciously vilifies in this ridiculous post he wrote for GayGuys.com. In the article, Heinrich laments all those “sad, thirsty” men over the age of 40 who still go out to bars and clubs. He wants to know when they’ll grow up and start families. He wants them to get out of their “Peter Pan” syndromes and act their age. He wants them to be proper role models. Above all else, he wants to sound like he’s making a valid point. Unfortunately, he ends up sounding like a number of homophobic people who have a problem with the “gay lifestyle.”
Rather than offering a critical or even half-thoughtful reading of the differences between generations, Heinrich sticks to broad and sweeping generalizations, claiming that at a certain age we need to start acting a certain way, settling down and having families. It might have been charmingly nostalgic if it wasn’t so ass-backwards and close-minded.
It must be noted that by writing such a post Heinrich perpetuates the very stereotypes he so deeply criticizes. He attempts to shade it with the shaming of such gentlemen as not providing a good set of role models for him. I’d like to remind Heinrich that some of those “over-40” gentlemen fought for him to have a voice and to spew such stereotypical nonsense, and they’ve earned the right to have a night out if and when they please.
There are two quotes in the post that particularly wrought my ire:
“I think most of the gay men I associated with had never mentally passed the age of 25.”
“Why are there so few gay men in my life that look at the next generation as someone to mentor and coach rather than a new addition to their dating pool?”
The common thread here, Mr. Heinrich, is not the gay men you lump so carelessly together, but yourself. You chose the people in your life. The gay men in your circle of friends likely did not force themselves upon you, but found their way into your world by invitation or your own machinations. You get to decide who your role models will be. If you don’t like them, then you’re the one to blame.
I wonder how Heinrich would feel about such stunningly-stupid generalizations like ‘Young gay guys are stupid’ or ‘Twinks are pretty but vacuous.’ I could list a staggering number of examples of each, but I don’t do that because as a thinking person I know how such stereotypes can be damaging and dangerous.
If Heinrich took the time to talk to some of the over-40 guys he finds unfit to be role models, he might change his mind. I know a number of gentlemen who regularly go out to bars for the social aspect, the shows, the dancing, and the friendship. They’re just as good at being role models as a gay father who stays home tending to his family.
Mr. Heinrich, I would ask that you consider that there’s enough room in the world for everyone, and enough room at the 18-and-over bars for those, well, over 18. In your post you asked, “When my generation of gays gets older are we going to think that is the normal thing to do with our nights?” If it is, it will be entirely a matter of your own making.
Growing up, I had even fewer visible gay role models than you do. Rather than limiting myself to those few brave souls, I sought out anyone  who impressed me, who made me want to be a better person. That included older gay men and women, and – just as importantly – straight men and women. It included people who enjoyed hanging out in gay bars, as well as those who preferred to stay home and read. The one thing I never did as a younger gay guy was to go around judging others based on their age or what I thought they should be doing with their lives. Perhaps you’d do better by broadening your own mind, rather than criticizing the rest of the world for being as limited in their views as you have proven to be.
Yes, it’s true that certain men do have a problem growing up. Thank you for revealing another one, Dalton Heinrich.
{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.}
The woman stands alone in the spotlight. Thousands of screaming fans surround her, watching her every move, but she is undeniably alone, and, dare it be said, perhaps a little lonely. Her hair is disheveled, her body is both beautiful and a wreck – bound by a corset, restricted by lace, and held only half together by her trademark fishnet stockings. She looks a bit broken and fiercely forlorn. The familiar pop chirp and breezy bounce of the signature track is almost unrecognizable in this waltz – and the woman, almost three decades after she first sang the song, imbues the performance with a tragically ironic take on all that is shiny and new. This is Madonna and her latest incarnation of ‘Like A Virgin’ – the emotional high-point of the MDNA Tour. She sings to a plaintive slowed-down ballad version, with world-weary fatigue and heartrending abandon. Here, then, is our Queen, laid low by life. It is a mesmerizing moment from a woman who has made a career of transcending the boundaries of pop culture.
‘Like A Virgin’ is the album that catapulted her into the pop culture stratosphere, and it remains her best-selling album in the United States. As for the title song, it had a bass-line influenced by Michael Jackson, and the synth-heavy production so favored in the 80’s. It also had a universal message, particularly when you take out the mundane literal readings of the lyrics, and nothing that has lasted all this time could ever be seriously dismissed as a novelty song. Madonna herself has always claimed that ‘Virgin’ was less about losing one’s virginity and more about a freshness, a feeling of newness and wonder as befits the beginning of any relationship. There was a sexual aspect running through all of it, however, one that even she couldn’t deny, but to peg it solely as a sex song is largely missing the mark, and ignoring its lasting cultural influence.
Going back a few years before the opening scene, she gave the song an electro-twist, riding around on a futuristic abstract horse on the Confessions Tour in 2006, while x-rays of her recently-broken ribs flashed across screens behind her. In that version she was the triumphant rider, returning to the scene of a crime in Madonna-fashion, defying that which struck her down a few months prior. By that time, ‘Like A Virgin’ was already a well-tread warhorse of its own, having undergone such drastic tinkering as 1993’s Girlie Show incarnation.
For that circus-like romp, Madonna donned a top hat and tails, channeling Marlene Dietrich in full androgynous glory. It came, right after the ‘Sex’ book and ‘Erotica’ album, with a comforting wink and nod (and only one phallic rising that was more comical than offensive). At the very moment that her career was saturated with sex, Madonna made ‘Virgin’ the unlikely heart of a rather family-friendly portion of an otherwise erotic-heavy show. That’s defiance. That’s the power of the shiny and new.
It’s withstood the test of time due in large part to Madonna’s varied performances of the song, from a silly throwaway mash-up on the ‘Who’s That Girl‘ Tour to more magnificent executions such as in the epic Blonde Ambition Tour documented in ‘Truth or Dare’. To this day, the latter remains my favorite rendering of the song. Maybe it was the time period that ‘Truth or Dare‘ was released – the summer of 1991 – and its coinciding with my budding adolescence, or the infamous golden Gaultier cone-bra, or the simple brazen act of someone who had the nerve to rub one out for all the world to see, but for whatever reason, that’s the rendition of ‘Like A Virgin’ that means the most to me.
“So, what’s considered masturbation?” the diminutive woman asked as she adjusted her head-set beneath the tangle of her blonde, Barbie-doll pony-tail.
“When you stick your hand in your crotch,” her brother sheepishly answered.
Such was the exchange that Madonna had with her brother Christopher before going on-stage in Toronto for that night’s show. It was, by many accounts, the pinnacle of her outrageous power, and her masturbatory performance of ‘Like A Virgin’ was the centerpiece of sexual provocation. Forget the cone-shaped bras strapped onto the male back-up dancers, the harem-like Middle-Eastern revision of the song, and the red velvet bed on which our tainted heroine draped her body – it was the simple act of self-satisfaction that had so many in an uproar, and this boy in rapt wonder and awe.
Watching her command the audience, and the world, with a brush of her nether-regions, illustrated the power of sex. It was titillation, it was promise, it was tease and release. It was a woman in control, with men as supporting players at best (and likely gay and uninterested to boot.) With a single touch, she brought a parochial world to its knees. With a simple grind, she felled centuries of male-domination. With one final flourish, she cried out to God and released the tormented torrent of the life of a woman.
As a gay boy, I didn’t quite get turned on by the proceedings, instead I took a different lesson: the power of self-love. Literally. Tied in with that was the power of sex and the power of seduction, along with the power that comes from being the object of desire, untouchable but for her own hands, isolated and alone yet watched by thousands. It was a daring show of raw sexuality and unabashed self-pleasure that left jaws-dropping wherever the Blonde Ambition tour landed. It is the image of ‘Like A Virgin’ that I retain to this day. It’s a far cry from its original version.
Back in 1984, a lot of the world hadn’t quite heard of Madonna. I myself missed out on her debut album – including ‘Holiday’, ‘Lucky Star’, and ‘Borderline’ (I was, after all, only nine years old) but by 1985 ‘Material Girl’ brought her into my life, and my life into sudden-focus. Its infectious beat kept me glued to the rest of the ‘Like A Virgin’ album. Even so, the title song, and its accompanying Bride-in-Venice video didn’t do much for me. It was catchy enough, and I sensed in the title a certain degree of naughtiness, but at that time in my life I listened, shrugged, and fast-forwarded to ‘Dress You Up.’
Looking back, I wish I’d paid more attention to this moment and that first flush of Madonnamania. My wanna-be years were a bit further off, but something must have touched me. Now, it means a little more. ‘Like A Virgin’ tugged at my ears, at my pants, at my head, and at my heart. As it grew in resonance over the years, it came to mean different things at different times, but always the hope of starting over, the freshness of a new beginning, the bright bursting of a heart newly in love. If I listen closely enough, if I close my eyes and let my mind wander back, I can remember the innocence of childhood – and there it is again, all shiny and new… for the very first time.
Song #107: ‘Like A Virgin’ – 1984
Today marks Madonna’s birthday, so we’re going to celebrate with the return of the Madonna Timeline (a little later today). For now, a nostalgic look back at some oft-overlooked entries in that venerable feature of this blog. Her classics have been well-documented and recapped, but there are other moments that have flown under the radar. I think of these little gems as baby ‘Bedtime Stories’ – the kind of post that comes along quietly, simmers for a bit before settling down into an indelible memory. They don’t flare brightly, they smolder silently, but the end result is largely the same: an unforgettable moment of pop music.
We begin with a song that didn’t quite make the official Madonna Timeline but is worth noting anyway for its B-side brilliance. From the epic ‘Ray of Light‘ sessions, this is ‘Has To Be.’ It is proof that something very special was in the offing as Madonna collaborated with William Orbit on her best album to date.
‘Future Lovers’ was the fantastic opening to 2006’s Confessions Tour, and remains one of her greatest entrances to the stage.
One of the best tracks from 2005’s much-maligned ‘American Life’ album was ‘Nobody Knows Me‘, a pounding and jittery dance monster that somehow got lost amid the political-shuffle of the moment.
Not all B-sides are killer tracks, as proven by the rather-lackluster ‘Supernatural’ – for which so many of us had such high expectations, given its creation during the ‘Like A Prayer’ sessions. But even when Madonna lands with a thud, it’s still pretty damn good.
She is usually at her best when sassing and being bossy, and nowhere is that more thrillingly conveyed than in the bitchy ‘She’s Not Me.’ A companion piece to ‘Thief of Hearts‘ this is Madonna at her sauciest.
For the lady at her most Zen and peaceful, we have to look to the ‘Ray of Light’ album and the chanting evident in ‘Shanti/Ashtangi.’ (I worship the gurus’ lotus feet too, mutha-fuckas.)
Even the most beloved on earth sometimes feel a little bit lonely, as evidenced by ‘Another Suitcase in Another Hall.’ Yet ‘Evita’ had a few more lessons gleaned from the strength found in solitude, and taught me how to fly ‘Rainbow High.’
They’re only ‘Words‘ unless they’re true. And on the ‘Erotica’ album she went deep. And ‘Deeper and Deeper.’
Finally, in honor of the birthday girl, will someone please tell me, ‘Where’s the Party?‘
It was the song that started it all, and the album that launched her into the stratosphere. Tomorrow, the Madonna Timeline returns with one of her most iconic songs, ‘Like a Virgin.’ In addition to it being her birthday, it’s going to be an entire day of Madonna. Oddly enough, ‘Like A Virgin’ was never one of my favorite Madonna songs, and the album has lost a bit of its 80’s luster over the years. Still, nostalgia is a powerful force, and every time she performs the song it has an effect on me. Sometimes it’s happy, sometimes it’s sexy, and sometimes it’s sad. That’s the mark of an enduring song, and an enduring artist.
As for her birthday celebration, it will mostly be a social media event. I tend to post a song lyric every hour or so, infuriating some FaceBook friends and exasperating some Twitter followers. No word on whether her celebration will leak over onto Instagram. Only one way to find out.
Are you ready to make it through the wilderness? Somehow we’ll make it through…
It rippled through the class in the way that something shocking often does. There was a moment of pause, a suspended stillness before any of us could react. We were in second grade, a year that I can recall even clearer than some things that happened yesterday. When something surprising happens, kids often take a while to register it. Like those seconds between the moment a kid takes a spill, and then decides, through pain or calculation, whether to start crying.
It happened to Sammy – the classmate I disliked the most. It wasn’t just me, before you go off on that well-tread track. Sammy was a bad kid: he misbehaved, he was mean and nasty, and, quite frankly and quite literally, he stunk. He was the bad seed of the second grade class, a jerk of a boy who should have worn a diaper. On the day in question, the teacher must have agreed with me, because Sammy did something that brought out the fury in her.
I can’t recall what it was that he did, but I distinctly remember her rushing towards him, not screaming his name, but muttering it viciously under her breath. She gave him a few quick whacks on the butt. Not incredibly hard, but violent enough. We watched but did nothing. I wasn’t shocked or startled. I had seen that sort of thing before. It was the aftermath that was disturbing.
As I said, he was a bad kid. Well, maybe not bad, but ill-behaved, sometimes cruel, and, looking back on it, must’ve come from a family who didn’t quite love him enough. A while later I saw her hug him. And apologize. And hold him on her lap like a baby. “You just make me so mad sometimes, Sammy,” she said, almost crying herself as she rocked him in her arms. He just laid there, kind of lifeless. That was the disturbing part.
Actually, it was the way I felt about it that bothered me more than anything. Part of me wanted to see Sammy punished. Part of me wanted him to pay for the abuse he inflicted on others, the nastiness of his behavior, the way the whole class suffered for what he did. I wanted to feel bad for him, and some small part of me did, but most of me cried victory for come-uppance, for getting what he deserved.
I’ve never quite forgiven myself for that.
This simple and refreshing dish uses a delicious mash-up of crab, tomato, fresh parsley, fresh basil, capers, lemon juice and olive oil to jazz up the delicate structure of angel hair pasta. The key component, however, is the lemon zest garnish – which in this instance is far more than a garnish, it’s an integral part of the meal. It makes all of the difference.
That’s the beauty of a proper garnish. It’s much more than just a pretty addition. It can make or break a dish, much as it makes or breaks a cocktail. Sometimes, yes, it’s for more subtle and decorative purposes, like the ubiquitous sprig of parsley, more often than not dismissed and shuffled off to the side. But in cases, like the lemon zest-inflected dish seen here, it’s the vital element that turns a simple dinner into a gastrorgasmic event.
The scent of pot, skunk-like and pungent, drifted up the open staircase. It felt like the college-age version of ‘Tales from the City’ and not unfittingly so, as this was the same city. It was dark, but the magical multi-chambered jewel-box of San Francisco sparkled in the distance, even through the foggy night. Shadowy figures passed me on the stairs. Whispers and laughter and the flush of youth so palpable its headiness matched the marijuana. I hopped a train to take me further into the city, away from such magnificent madness.
There aren’t many moments when I’ve been afraid in my life. Most of my fear comes in subsequent waves, irrationally washing over me long after the fact when it should have started any adrenaline-pumping. That summer, Andrew Cunanan was going on his killing spree, starting with a gay man in San Diego, and ultimately working his way across the country to Miami, where it culminated with the cold-blooded murder of Gianni Versace outside his Ocean Drive mansion. That hadn’t happened yet, and as I sat waiting for my friend, the memory of a hand-made poster of Mr. Cunanan’s vague visage, seen earlier on the door of a bar in the Castro, suddenly haunted me. A serial killer that seemed to be targeting gay men? As if we didn’t have enough to deal with.
My friend arrived, and we spent an enjoyable time on the town. Worries of Mr. Cunanan faded away, as it’s difficult to be so concerned when surrounded by good friends and fun. Still, there was tension in the air of that summer. It crept in with the night, and lingered long after the day broke. It was the tension of evil lurking in the world.
Sometimes the nights of summer are darker than the nights of winter. How strange – and terrifying – that it should be so.
