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September 2016

This blanket is everything. It will see me through the fall and winter at the Boston condo, no matter how the wind or snow may rage outside. It’s soft and fluffy, but heavy and warm. I used to be able to find similar blankets in Chinatown – I even lugged one of them (at least 15 pounds) to Brandeis one winter. I haven’t seen them at any Chinatown shops in a while (and the ones I last noticed were much lighter and less substantial). Instead, I located this one online, and it’s perfect for the upcoming chill.

On good days, happiness is found in a blanket, a cup of tea, and a book.

A couple of years ago, at a job far, far away, someone remarked that they were in awe that I could remain so steadily calm in the face of what was a customary avalanche of insanity all around us. For the most part, that’s true. It takes a lot – A LOT – to truly rile me up. Especially regarding anything that has to do with a job. I just had this ability to let everything slide off of me, to not take anything very personally, to differentiate my employment from my real life. To this day, it’s one of the secrets of how I find fulfillment, and a certain joy, in an office job. My real world exists here – in writing, in creating, in finding beauty and expressing myself. I live my real life in trips to Boston, in visits to botanical gardens, in books and music and theater, in trying out new restaurants, in finding new fragrances, in attending new art exhibits, in exploring cities and places I’ve never been. Because of that, I’m able to take the rest of daily life with a grain of salt, and that enables me to find a sense of peace and calm no matter how many crises arise on any given work day.

Having said that, my calm does not always belie a tranquil heart. My calm is not often a relaxed or easy calm. It doesn’t always come from within. Sometimes, on difficult days, my calm is coiled and tightly wound. It is a calm imposed from my outer countenance, held together by the threads of Brooks Brothers, the silk of Dior, or the plaid of Burberry. On those days, it is a calm that contains the chaos of a widely beating heart, a calm that carries within its careful construct the terror and rage of betrayals past and present. My calm then is a very dangerous thing.

On the night that I write this, I’m somewhere between the two, the space where most of us reside, I imagine. I’m a little tired. My heart is slightly weary. Emboldened by fall and fatigued by it at the same time. Part of me wants to cry, and I’m not sure if it’s out of happiness or sadness, or simple relief. That we are still here. That most of us are still intact. That I am still writing this, and that someone, somewhere, might be reading it.

How cool do you have to be to have your concert film directed by Jonathan Demme? About as cool as Justin Timberlake, who scores the great director for his upcoming Netflix extravaganza, ‘Justin Timberlake + The Tennessee Kids’. That alone is impressive, but the sneak peeks of this show seem to indicate something much bigger than the usual concert capture. The trailer itself is a thing of power and impact, and one would expect no less from one of the mega-stars of the last decade. Can’t stop the feeling…

When I was in high school, part of my American History homework was watching the Presidential debates. That was mighty boring to someone who only wanted to pore over Madonna’s ‘Sex’ book and analyze her ‘Erotica’ album, but the world was a more innocent place in 1992, and a different Clinton was on the books. This time around it’s Hillary vs. Donald, and the stakes are a lot higher.

I vowed that this would never become a political blog, and I’m holding myself to that (for the moment). All I will say for now is that I cannot fathom how anyone could vote for Donald Trump, or any Republican candidate, when their official platform is one of divisiveness and hate. (Unless you’re Russia, in which case Mr. Trump has written some exceptions into the platform. Shady much?) The rest of the platform vows to end marriage equality, and proposes gay conversion therapy (read: torture) for the children of those parents who are not happy that their child was born gay. Look it up, it’s right there. The official Republican platform.

Even without those disgusting facts, Donald Trump is just bat-shit crazy, and I don’t want his fingers anywhere near a button that can start a war.

This photo gave the internet, and myself, all sort of tingles. In one fell swoop, I think we were all reminded of what greatness this country encompasses, and how important it is that we preserve such honor.

As if someone up above flipped a switch from summer to fall, in one day we went from the 80’s to the 60’s, and suddenly it was autumn. I’m not complaining, and the cooler temperatures made for much more pleasant walking in Boston, where I spent most of the weekend. Because of that, I’m easing my way into the work week, and what better way to do so than with our usual recap.

September’s sexy quotient rose a bit thanks to the likes of Sean Smith, Matt Bomer and Ollie Locke.

Keeping things light (pants down).

This summer took three posts to recap: Part One, Part Two and Part Three.

This is how we pull the pork.

Super hot.

Pants down again.

A hotel is my happy place.

Hunks of the Day included Nicolas Dalby, Mike Bissonette, Levi Casboult and Tyler Hilton.

From a distance, even the grandest of cities look small and meek.

The world is vast, and we are small.

Shifting perspectives.

Fading views.

Everything, no matter how big, can be made to disappear.

Is there comfort or solace in that? I’m not sure.

In my perfect fantasy world, life would take place in a hotel lounge. Preferably one run by the Mandarin Oriental or a fancy Fairmont property as seen here. I love the idea of glamorous transiency, of people in flux and in travel status, going or coming hither and yon. There’s a pleasure and comfort in having a cocktail in such environs when your room is just upstairs, a sense of being at home even when away from home. And while I don’t usually have the luxury of a room in such establishments, itâ’s still a thrill to inhabit those spaces, even if I’m only borrowing them for a bit.

The art of a dramatic backdrop seems to be a lost one.

The grand lobbies with sky-high ceilings and elaborately ornate wood carvings are going by the wayside.

I mourn the loss of it all.

We need the space and time to breathe.

We need the moments to collect ourselves.

We need a bit of beauty to ease the weight of the world.