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November 2014

A is for Avocado

Like many recipes, this approximation of guacamole came about as a happy accident. A few months ago, I wanted a couple of slices of avocado to go with an egg sandwich I was planning on assembling. A neophyte to the world of cooking, and the supermarket in general, I did a giddy dance when I saw ripe avocados on a super sale – four for five dollars or something. I scooped up four and let my mind run free with visions of perfectly sliced avocado slivers in shades of lime and chartreuse.

When I got them home and sliced them open, my dismay was instant. Far from fresh and bright green, they were mottled with bits of brown, streaked with veins of gray. Even worse, they were so soft that they fell apart before I could even get them out of their skin, much less separated from their hard pit. Completely unacceptable for a breakfast that I wanted to photograph and post to my obnoxious Instagram feed. I’m all about occasional #foodporn and the oft-sought-but-seldom-achieved #foodgasm. Each of the avocados were in this over-ripe state, but rather than toss them into the trash, I took the lemons that life gave me and made lemonade. Or guacamole, as the case was.

I found a few stray limes, a small chopped onion, a lot of leftover cilantro from a Mexican dip the night before, then added some salt and pepper, and a diced tomato at the end. Served with some pita chips, it was a happy alternative to the sliced avocado I’d originally craved.

This past weekend, I saw avocados on sale again, but this time I went in with the intent to craft a batch of guacamole, using a trick that a friend taught me: save the pits and keep them in the final product in order to keep the guacamole from turning grey and brown. Previously, that’s always been the problem – any time that green flush gets in contact with air, it’s only a matter of moments before it starts to turn. Keeping the pit as part of the mix prevents it from turning. I don’t know the scientific explanation for it, and I don’t care, I’m just thrilled it works. (The same tip can be used if you want to save half of an avocado that you’ve cut – save the part with the pit still attached and it will remain fresher for longer.)

I love when science meets culinary craft to prolong the life of something like guacamole.

A few additional tips that made this batch superior to that first raw attempt: add some cumin to the mix. It’s that missing element that gives it a more authentic taste. I used a couple of green onions (scallions) in place of their larger cousin – I like the sweeter, less sharp flavor. Also, a finely chopped jalapeño pepper can be used for those who like things with a bit of heat.

While it may be tempting to eat the whole batch at once, after you’ve tasted for flavoring, let it sit (covered) at room temperature for an hour stirring once or twice, to allow all the flavors to  meld. (This is when the pit-trick really comes in handy.)

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The Art of Joe Phillips: JoeBoys

It was the mid-late 1990’s. Armed only with the light of a bedside lamp, and the questionable, haunting thoughts that come to the insomnia-racked night bloomers, I turned the pages of ‘xy’ magazine. It wasn’t naked men I was after, or titillating underwear pics, it was something deeper. The glossy rag, intended for young gay men (and perhaps those who admired them) was a lifesaver for me, someone on the verge of coming out, on the verge of becoming myself, or becoming nothing. On the page that featured letters and photos from readers, I saw a guy in a Structure sweater proudly standing in his store, with a subtitled phrase that he had written: Why should I be hated for my love?

It was a simple statement, and stirred something in my heart that has never gone away. A shared connection. A longing. A desire to feel that I was not alone.

I thumbed through more pages. A colorful riot of guys having fun, enjoying each others’ company, laughing and doing the little things that friends and lovers do. Sharing an ice cream. Walking down the beach. Holding hands. Kissing. It was another world – a world which looked too fantastical to be true, a world that seemed so far from this dark night in upstate New York, a world filled with fun and fabulousness and light. It was the world of Joe Phillips, and as I reflected mournfully on the question of why we should be so hated for loving, I found a hopeful escape in the cartoon giddiness of what life might be. Maybe not for me, but for others. At that point, it was enough.

With a comic book background working for DC, Marvel, Dark Horse, IDW, Image, and Wild Storm, Phillips has been a freelance commercial artist since the 80’s. Where others have struggled and failed to turn their talent into a career, Phillips has insisted on it. His signature style has catapulted him into one of the most instantly recognizable artists working today, as distinctive as Tom of Finland or Steve Walker or Herb Ritts. Each, in his own way, has done something to advance the notion of equality, but whereas Tom of Finland pushed boundaries by being brazen, Phillips breaks down barriers with humor and affection. His work hints at the happiness that comes of love and companionship, the beauty intrinsic to friendship and acceptance.

Mr. Phillips and his artwork offered a portal to possibility. For myself and countless other young gay men, it was a way out, a distant vista of paradise ~ the proverbial light at the end of our individual tunnels. It wasn’t heavy-handed, it wasn’t tortured or labored, it was the simple vision of hope, a glimpse of the way life should be. I don’t think I’ve ever thanked him for that, so this is my way of doing it, all these years later.

The happiest part of this post, however, is not in celebrating what has already happened, but what is about to happen. Mr. Phillips is currently working on a brand new book – JoeBoys – to celebrate the spirit and power of being gay, being alive, and being part of this world.

When I think back to that lonely night before I ever came out, One of the sole bright spots is the memory of Joe Phillips and his artwork. I remember seeing his signed name in the corner of his work, and wondering if this person would ever be a friend. In some ways, he already was. In the smiling faces of his subjects, and the hopeful happiness of his work, he did what most friends do: he made me feel a little bit better about the world.

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F-ing Bifocals

The little red farmhouse in the distance faded in and out of focus. I looked straight ahead as instructed, wondering how long the wait would be once this bit of the appointment was finished. Vision check-ups have been notoriously long in the past, with lots of waiting in between each part of the process. Sitting in the quiet of the doctor’s office, after a noisy spell in the waiting room, I felt at ease and relaxed.

She put a different test in front of me, words written on a piece of paper and held up close to my face. An adjustment was made: “Better here… [pause] Or here?” I chose the latter. Again. “Better here… or here?” I chose the former. And that apparently made all the difference.

The doctor rolled her chair back to her desk and scribbled a few notes down.

“I’m going to recommend that you try bifocals,” she began. I looked around to see if there was someone else in the room to whom she was talking. “Around the age of forty, most people start to…” and it was there that I zoned out. Who the fuck was around the age of forty? Oh my God, she’s talking about me. I need fucking bifocals. I’m almost forty.

I looked at her again. Words like “line-less” and “bifocal contacts” were being uttered. Her hair was straight and shiny, and her initial ennui with the day had slowly transformed to genuine concern and engagement. I noticed then that she must have been in her early thirties. She was younger than me. The older I get, the more people seem to be younger than me.

There are some things I can take about the aging process. I don’t mind the growing battalion of gray hairs that have sprinkled the side of my head with more salt than pepper. I don’t mind the little spare tire that’s lassoed itself around my waist despite my disinvitation. I don’t even mind curbing the fried foods that make my stomach hurt the next morning. But bifocals? How far away is a cane? What’s next, a coffin?

“I’m sorry,” I stammered, “But I wouldn’t even know how to use bifocals.” She gave a small patient smile and ensued an explanation which I promptly ignored. She wasn’t hearing me. I may have gone blind, but she was clearly deaf. I returned the smile and went back into the waiting area to select the frames that would hold my new fucking bifocals.

[Incidentally, Andy had his first eye-exam in two decades a day before I had mine. He doesn’t need bifocals.]

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The Fine, Fine, Super-Fine Philip Fusco

Fan favorite Philip Fusco fills out these photos quite finely, and looks even more fit out of uniform. To that end, there are a few of him fittingly in nude form as well. Mr. Fusco has made quite a splash on this site in a short amount of time – and I’m making up for years of not featuring him with a rash of posts that started with this gratuitously grand entry here, and his initial Hunk of the Day honor here.

Thus far no one has complained about the sexy excess. Come back for more. Also, be sure to check out Mr. Fusco’s own website at PhilCity ~ where fitness, health, and lifestyle come together in one explosively sexy arena.

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A Recap on the 3rd of November

Another month has gone ~ farewell October – and thus we begin the quick slide into the holiday season. Woe to those of us who are not ready – time stands still for no man. November has always been about mixed emotions. The definitive end to warm weather, the arrival of early evenings and the fast fall of darkness, and only a bit of Thanks near the finish.

The Parade of Hunks was kicked off by the magnificent Mr. Brooks.

It continued with a pair of J’s: Jack Walton and Julian Edelman.

Get your kilt off and take life by the balls.

If it’s bitter at the start then it’s sweeter in the end.

The Madonna Timeline returned, so come on and shine your heavenly body tonight.

Cosplay extraordinaire Michael Hamm hams it up and takes it off.

Halloween has always been my day off and this year proved no exception.

The Sex Factor of Drew Chadwick, the ghostly goodness of Casper Van Dien, and the frank hotness of Kevin McDaid.

When October goes

… and November arrives.

Stone Cold Steve Austin has a warm heart.

Are you just being kind?

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Losing My Mind

There’s a special bit of alchemy that explodes when someone like Jeremy Jordan performs a song by Stephen Sondheim. I was lucky enough to catch Mr. Jordan in his recent creation of the J.M. Barrie in ‘Finding Neverland.’ His version is slightly more subdued than the usual female versions of this song of desperation. In that respect I tend to prefer someone like Bernadette Peters, whose histrionic tear-addled take on it tells of more heartache than any human should have to bear. Which do you like better? Both are wondrous, but everyone cottons to their own favorite for a reason.

I like the way Ms. Peters inhabits the past and present of this character. Suzie and I saw her in the revival of ‘Follies’ captured here, and she was as fantastic as expected. (Well, Suzie thought she cried too much, but Suzie’s harsh that way. She once crushed my five-year-old hand in a car window.) I found her richly dramatic and beautifully brittle. No one writes an unrequited love song like Mr. Sondheim.

I think it’s the first few lines that touch me the most:

The sun comes up
I think about you
The coffee cup
I think about you
I want you so
It’s like I’m losing my mind

Such stark simplicity, such naked emotions, such heartbreaking solitude. I remember mornings like that. Sometimes part of me even misses them, the passion they broke in me. As I grow out of my 30’s, I understand what they mean by ‘The Big Chill.’ This icy remoteness, the further we move from our youth, the further we seem to move from feeling. I don’t know, maybe it’s just me. The hardening of a heart finally coming years after I could have really used it. It’s so hard to get worked up about things. So difficult to find anything that really matters.

The morning ends
I think about you
I talk to friends
I think about you
And do they know
It’s like I’m losing my mind

There was such longing then, but that longing inspired and drove my restless heart. Every unreturned love letter, made more vicious in its vacuous silence, singed my tattered hopes. I burned willingly, from the inside out, and I “decked myself out in every little feather that floated my way” just to hang onto something so flimsy it would not matter if it could not hold me. In fact, all the better if it didn’t. I wanted it to fall apart. I wanted to fall. And I did.

All afternoon doing every little chore
The thought of you stays bright
Sometimes I stand in the middle of the floor
Not going left
Not going right
I dim the lights
And think about you
Spend sleepless nights
To think about you
You said you loved . . me
Or were you just being kind
Or am I losing my mind

Being kind. Such a nice sentiment. Such a sweet turn of phrase. Such a fucking lie. There, in a fiery instant, the rage. The fury. The thousands of lonely nights gathered in a single black sheet of wrinkled memory, cast down and thrown up into a starless sky. What despair hides in a tear that never falls. Choke it all down. Purse the lips. Glaze the eyes. And, always, smile when you say goodbye.

Does no one know
It’s like I’m losing my mind…

I’ve forgotten what I was going to say.

Sometimes this blog is just one big nervous breakdown waiting to happen.

Or maybe it already did.

You said you loved . . . . me
Or were you just being kind
Or am I losing my mind?
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Falling into November

When October goes… well, it’s too late for when, as it’s already gone. In its place is November. In many ways, it is one of the cruelest months, portending the winter to come, but somewhat mollified by the arrival of Thanksgiving and the holiday season. Before that, though, the leaves must be ripped from the trees. This month marks the arrival of early nights and gray days, cold rains and colder winds. I’m not sure I’m ready for that, but there’s no choice.

One last look at what has come before, as seen in these photos, showing the spectacular foliage on a venerable maple tree. This year the trees held onto their carriage longer than usual, and for that I’m grateful. We’ve also been granted a spell of warmer days in the past month that has eased the shift deeper into fall. Of late, however, the customary rains of the season have returned, and with them the cooler temperatures. Another November is upon us. The month of gray is also the month of gratitude.

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