I miss the early days of this blog, when a few photos constituted an entire post. Here’s to that!
Monthly Archives:
October 2016
07
October
2016
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October
2016
07
October
2016
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October
2016
Pom-Poms of Petals
Along the meandering Southwest Corridor Park of the South End, pockets of pulchritude lie hidden in wait for any unsuspecting passers-by to happen upon them. Little jewels, like this mound of white flowers, flutter in the fall breeze, a visual foreshadowing of a snow-laced winter to come. That elicits a slight shudder. How dare I mention the W-word at this early stage of the game. No one wants to hear that just yet.
But snow blossoms, they’re another story. I’ll always have room for a white flower. A sign of innocence, a pretend vow of purity, even if no flower is ever truly innocent. They want for nothing more than to procreate like everyone else, and devise the most ingenious ways of doing so. We’ll leave that for another post, however, for on this day, on this morning, we want only to take in the virtuous beauty.
06
October
2016
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October
2016
Ominous Remnants
A puff of fur.
A scattering of hairs.
A bone stripped bare, still pink from blood.
The ominous signs of a meal.
And someone is missing.
05
October
2016
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October
2016
For the Love of a Faggot
I’ve never been called the f-word as much as I have this year, and across the board it’s been by Donald Trump supporters trolling my Twitter account. Up until now, I’ve been puzzled as to how best to deal with them. Reason and logic and truth got me nowhere. Witty and intelligent counter-arguments only confused them. Reciprocal vitriol engaged them on their homegrown turf. Blocking, reporting and ignoring them worked, but still left things unresolved. Not until today did I figure out the best way to deal with them, and it’s the simplest but sometimes most difficult thing to do. I fought against it for so long because it seemed too cliched and trite, too weak and wimpy, but it turns out it takes more guts and courage and grace than anything else I’ve ever done. The most powerful way to shut down someone who hates is to love them.
I’m not talking romantic love or physical love or even friendly love – I’m talking the simple love we all can, and should, feel towards another human being, if only because they are human too. As prickly as I pretend to be, as ornery as I behave, and as annoying as I can act, I’ve always held a certain modicum of love for my fellow human beings. I respect life too much to devalue it with hate, even for people who don’t agree, or who don’t believe I deserve the same rights as they do.
This was not an easy shift to make. I had just been called a faggot by someone on Twitter who goes by the name Canadian Lucifer (@ConCanadian) in response to one of my Donald Trump comments (on Trump’s own page, not Lucifer’s). I started by calmly replying, “You only perpetuate negative stereotypes of Donald Trump supporters by calling me a faggot.”
Lucifer quickly replied: “I don’t care about stereotypes. I only care that I know you are a faggot.”
It was then that I realized this person had no interest in engaging in a reasonable discussion, or even simple human decency. I surrendered, but in so doing issued the ultimate challenge. With one Tweet, I made it impossible for this person to win: ‘All you need is love.’
Far more than any angry diatribe or cutting insult could have done, it hit a nerve more sensitive than those accustomed to receiving hate from hate. Lucifer retorted immediately: ‘Not from faggots, I don’t.’
Normally, this would raise my ire. I’d lash out, cut this person down, or report and block them. Instead, I wrote this: “I love you anyway, as a fellow human being. You may not like it but you cannot stop it.”
Lucifer did not take kindly to that. When hate is confronted with love, it rarely responds in kind. “Sick fuck” was Lucifer’s succinct response.
“Why do you think it’s sick to love?” I asked without guile or pretense.
Lucifer replied, “Because it is a ridiculous emotion in light of human nature. Hate is far, far stronger.”
“And yet you’re not strong enough to stop me from loving you as my fellow human being,” I wrote.
There it was. The underlying heart of the matter. The one thing that they cannot and will not ever be able to take away: our love.
Even if Donald Trump wins this election, and if he and Mike Pence strike down marriage-equality and implement gay conversion therapy as they have written specifically into the Republican Platform, they still won’t be able to touch the one thing they really want to stop: our love.
We will love, and we will love, and we will love – and no one can outlaw or regulate or stop that.
It’s not an easy thing.
You can’t fake it.
You have to mean it.
It must be genuine. It must be earnest. It must be given without expectation or want of anything in return. That makes it hard to do.
It also makes it the most rewarding.
It extinguishes the burning rage of anger.
It heals the residual hurt of sadness.
It relieves the stubborn ache of pride.
And suddenly, just like that, Lucifer was gone, and the sting of the word ‘faggot’ dissipated.
Love really does trump hate, and it always will.
05
October
2016
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October
2016
The Naughty Books
Would that I were a child again so I could go back and read these classics for the very first time! Alas, one can never go back and do the same thing twice, no matter how fierce. Deeper and deeper my ass.
05
October
2016
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October
2016
Sleep No More
I’m a bit late arriving at the ‘Sleep No More’ party, but since they stay up a little later, it worked out. For years, friends have been nudging me to see this ‘show’ – which is less a traditional piece of theater and more of a completely immersive experience – a chance to travel into a different time and universe, one that is spun of spooky, nightmarish, and at times gorgeous stuff. I finally took the plunge and my friend Chris joined me for a few enchanting, and deliciously disturbing, hours of sinister mayhem and intriguing debauchery at The McKittrick Hotel.
All six floors are decked out in stunning detail and elaborate design. Such layered intricacies make this production a thing of wonder, and from the moment you enter the Manderley Bar and receive your playing card and mask, the world you thought you knew disappears into the future as you are plunged into a timeless past.
There are no words, only images and emotions conveyed in dance and visual drama, fleeting and ephemeral, and though style is highly-favored and impeccably-produced over substance, the cumulative effect is one of magic and sorcery that takes you into other realms. You are given two and a half hours to peruse the sprawling space, and you’re welcome, and encouraged, to follow any of the performers as they travel briskly through the rooms enacting various scenes to the loose MacBeth narrative. As such, you never quite get to see everything that goes on, which explains the repeat visits; there is always something new to see and explore.
Though you will often be in groups, there is an overriding sense of compelling isolation as you act as voyeur and part-participant throughout the evening. Everyone has to take their own journey, and no one experiences the same thing. That’s a challenge for anyone accustomed to sharing in the theatrical voyage safely beside a partner. For others, like Chris and myself, it’s the perfect adventure with the promise of meeting up after it’s all over.
04
October
2016
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October
2016
A Night in New York – Part 2
As I exit the Standard and walk to meet Chris, that moment of sadness that always washes over me whenever I’m in New York arrives. The first flush of night has deepened the already-gray day, and I pass groups of girls smoking and unsteadily wobbling about in their high heels, and suddenly this despondent view of life lands me in a brief depression. It is the ‘sinking humanity feeling’ I get when I visit this city. I try to focus on the sweet woman who did her best to guide a lost tourist on the subway earlier in the day. I think of the care and concern in her dark eyes, and the way she did her best to explain where we were, all in her light accent. It reminded me of all the good that was in the city, and in the world. Now, I struggled to hold onto that feeling but it was slipping away. I leaned against a sign post and pulled my coat a little tighter across my chest, crossing my arms in defensive fashion. A plastic bag pushed by the wind flew across the street, almost in slow-motion. Caught in the wake of a turning taxi, it eventually flutters to a stop. There are ghosts even in the midst of all these people. Strange, lonely beauty too.
I spot Chris across the street and my melancholy passes. We walk down the stairs to a new restaurant, Megu, where we have a dinner cocktail. A blood red Negroni greets my lips, and the distinctive texture of velvet brushes my hand – either from the chair or the rope-wound handrail that led us downstairs. More smiling faces of greeters and hosts and bartenders, and all of them mere masks. I’d rather talk to my friend than meet new people, but Chris has always been more social in that respect. Even when we are together, we are always alone. I’m ok with that solitude; I think it makes Chris panic.
We head over to the McKittrick Hotel, where our ‘Sleep No More’ adventures will take place. The dashing and debonair Colin takes care of us, and we sip our pre-show cocktails while an enchanting atmosphere takes hold. The darkness that fleetingly frightened me earlier on the street has evolved into something thrilling, and as the show takes us into its surreal world, and the clock strikes midnight, I’m walking through spooky rooms that seem conjured from nightmares and dreams. There’s a graveyard on one floor, a maze of a forest on another, and scenes bathed in blood and lust, all leading to their grandly gruesome climax.
Reconvening in the bright lights of a nearby diner, we eat fries, and Chris orders a strawberry shake. It’s a 3 AM scene we’ve played out a number of times, and every time we wonder if it will be our last.
I hope not.
Not yet.
The next day I’m heading back up the Hudson River. Despite a woman talking loudly on her cel phone (which takes two dirty looks to quell) I am able to fall into another troubled sleep. ‘The Perfume Lover’ rests on my chest, a lone comfort I hug closer to myself, as if a friend might be found in a book, and there’s no reason to believe he or she can’t. When I awake, we are still an hour from Albany, but closer to the end of the day. The sun finally emerges, shining brilliantly for one brief moment, tearing across the river and lighting up the surrounding foliage, only to say goodnight and cloak herself in clouds and mystery by the time we arrive.
04
October
2016
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October
2016
A Night in New York – Part 1
Speeding smoothly along the Hudson River on a gray Saturday morning, the train to New York is only about half full. A rare luxury – a seat to myself – allows me to man-spread and sprawl, and soon I am asleep, albeit fitfully. It’s the kind of sleep where you never quite feel like your eyes are completely closed, more of a forced rest and a way of blocking out the light of day. Yet there were pockets of unawareness, places where I did skid off the spectrum of cognizance, because the two and a half hours passed quickly, and when next I opened my eyes they were greeted with the dark cavern of Penn Station. Thus the dream ended… or began.
As one enters the dimly-lit elevator at the Standard High Line, a pair of psychedelic videos runs on each side of the otherwise-black walls. A looping excerpt of Cinderella’s Waltz by Prokofiev plays over the sound system, and it’s as enchanting as it is tinged with darkness. This is a place and time where magic can happen.
Spiraling into an infinite well, images of pop culture and beauty swirled like a colorful lollipop – lotus poses and nude women, Julie Andrews and marionettes, all to the slightly-menacing movements of Prokofiev. My key grants entrance to the floors above. There are other faces here too, all silent and still, and as the images circle further away, I seem to have jumped down a rabbit’s hole even as I’m ascending. The Standard High Line provides the home base for a night in New York. Chris is already there, and we meet for a brunch before I head off on my own for a quick shopping excursion. More faces on the subway, more smiles in the stores, and after procuring a coat of many colors, I head back for a disco nap.
We are seeing ‘Sleep No More’ and I need to rest because I’m old now. The show doesn’t begin until midnight, and a nap is mandatory. Again, though, my sleep is restless, or maybe restful is better term, because it’s not quite sleep, it’s merely slight sedation, and the whole time it feels like I am forcing my eyes shut. In some ways it would have been easier just staying awake. Still, those minutes went somewhere, and as I get up again it’s almost possible to capture the moment day turns to dusk.
With one flick of a cosmic switch, night comes on just as the lights of the Empire State Building flicker to life. Its spire almost disappears into the low clouds and I wonder again if I’m dreaming, so surreal has the city become on this cloudy day that mists a little but never quite gives itself over to rain. I pull a gauzy curtain over the peep-show window and perform my Standard shower routine. When I’m finished, I pull the curtains open and there is no longer any doubt: the day has disappeared.
Back in the elevator, Prokofiev plays again. It is wickedly wonderful music, and I’ve always been a sucker for a waltz. Disorienting and dream-like, it is the soundtrack to midnight, when magic ends and begins all at once. I descend into the evening…
03
October
2016
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October
2016
A Most Pornographic Post
Half-heart, half-cock and the bloody red spath of a spread vagina. Flowers are sexual creatures of exhibitionist tendencies, unfurling their sex organs with flamboyant pride. Here, a bright lemon-hued protuberance rises from its vermillion bath, firm and strong and sensing all sorts of things from the base to the tip. Surrounding its upward-tipped glory, smooth scarlet ripples fan outward, mottled with veiny ridges, shiny and at the ready for any falling drops.
03
October
2016
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October
2016
03
October
2016
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October
2016
The Recap That Snuck Up On Me
Having spent a spur-of-the-moment weekend in New York (more on that later), I am in no way ready for monday to come this soon. Powerless over such matters, however, we must press onward, but before delving into everything this soon in the day, let’s take the usual quick look back at the week before.
It continued in the stressful vein that’s marked this political season, as a dangerous, con artist named Donald Trump fell down in the first debate, and then went on to have a disastrous week as a year of his tax returns turned up and revealed he lost over $900 million in a single year (great business skill, just what we need as a leader).
Tom Brady went nude to save the day.
Boston went soft and beautiful.
My complete (as of today) Tom Ford Private Blend collection.
Justin Timberlake gets great direction.
Hunks of the Day included Wesley Woods, Glen Powell, Kyle Krueger & Ben Baur.
And a naked Nick Jonas sex scene.
02
October
2016
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October
2016
Nick Jonas Shows Off His Naked Butt
It’s been far too long since Nick Jonas gave us a peek at his cheeks, but that gets corrected in this post. If you’ll recall, Mr. Jonas was once all about the nude scenes, and he’s back at flashing his naked backside in this capture from the new James Franco film ‘Goat.’ I probably won’t go see it – Mr. Franco’s work appeals to me on absolutely no level whatsoever. (I’m just not a ‘Pineapple Express’ kind of guy, and I never will be.) That doesn’t mean I don’t like the guy. Anyway, this was about Mr. Jonas and his naked ass, so without further ado…
02
October
2016
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October
2016
Peach Rose
I love a golden throat, particularly when it’s surrounded by this beautiful peach color. This entire rose blossom is the artistic embodiment of a peach – soft and warm, with an inner heart that practically glows. That’s one of the most magical things about gardening for me – the subtle but distinct shading variations, and the way they continue to develop and change as the life of a bloom completes its cycle.
My only tree peony – a spicy tea-scented beauty – offers a similarly-thrilling ride as it grows from the size of a baseball to the size of a dinner plate, delicately burning a heart of red as the edges of the petals bleed a bit too.
02
October
2016
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October
2016
Harvest Fruit
The title and presentation are both slightly misleading, as the bulk of cherries from this shoot were procured in the summer, and the citrus platter shot was from the dead of winter. Together, though, they provide a colorful reminder of culinary sweetness, so that’s why I posted them today. At some point we will live in a world where part of our recreational viewing will include scent (and for the sake of Tom Ford and my love of his Private Blends, I hope that’s sooner rather than later). Think about how would cool it would be if in addition to seeing these delectable images, you could smell the tart refreshing spray of a lime or grapefruit being sliced open, or tickle your nose with the latest cologne from Hermès. Obviously there are logistical concerns that get in the way, but if you don’t dream it first, it will never happen.
As for this fruity scene, despite its seasonal anachronisms, I find something soothing about it. A bowl of cherries, like some gently-painted still-life, stands in a dignified jumble. Containers of grapefruit, a plate of grapes, and a long silver platter lined with limes give stately assembly. Ordered yet haphazard. Perhaps it was by design, perhaps by happy accident.
Nature usually puts her best foot forward. Her beauty is not hidden, for the most part. Brightly colored feathers or warmly saturated fruits are designed to be noticed, for purposes of mating and propagation. If no one fucks the peacock, those gorgeous feathers will fly away. If no one disperses the fruit seed, the last of the trees will be the last of the trees.
The harvest is but part of the circle. It never began, and it will never end, with us.
01
October
2016
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October
2016
An Extra Virgin Cocktail
I’m not sure how I feel about this. It’s a trio of extra virgin olive oil drops plunked down in the midst of a ‘Steady Cocktail’ – a fanciful take on the traditional martini (with some élixir végétal thrown in, and a small bowl of olives on the side). I like my cocktails on the dry shade of the spectrum, and as I get older I find myself leaning toward the savory over the sweet. (You won’t see me sipping from any sort of fruity/chocolatey/bullshit-tini monstrosity any time soon.) In this instance, those three drops threw me for a bit of a loop. They quickly coalesced into one larger pool of EVOO, and though such fleeting prettiness has a certain appeal, I’m not sure I liked the end result. Personal preference, of course, as all cocktails are, and maybe it’s just my stubborn refusal to open my mind to the idea of oil in my drink.
