February 2017
Peering out onto a snowy street, I realize that all memories are ghosts.
It doesn’t even feel like I’m here.
Certain presences linger.
Certain memories remain.
But if you look too closely, you are prone to miss them.
I keep a general gaze instead.
When you let things go hazy, they occasionally come into better focus.
Heavy is the head that wears the crown… jewels.
Sometimes, especially in the middle of winter, you need a bit of sparkle to see you through the darkest days.
I find such joy in a piece of costume jewelry, draped as a headband, almost like a crown.
I wear it like a weapon, channeling its crystalline powers, shooting off shards of reflected light from the almost-diamonds like so many magical bullets.
Not even semi-precious stones, their worth does not translate to money or value, but some things carry greater worth in the way they change one’s perception.
If you believe you’re a queen, no one can take that away.
Royalty is not always God-given.
Not even Zac Efron in a Speedo will get me to see a ‘Baywatch’ movie, so I’ll just wait for the clips and screen-caps. Besides, everyone likes Zac Efron naked so much better. Or at least, as naked as Zac Efron gets here.
Let’s be honest, I had nothing to do with the Super Bowl, no matter how many jockstrap photos I might take. (Search the Archives if you want to see, I’m too tired to link them up for you. Just search “jockstrap” in the helpful “Search feature at the bottom of this page.) At the time of this writing, I’m actually watching the game, and by that I mean waiting for Lady Gaga to perform. (UPDATE: But wow what a game – after checking out early in the 3rd quarter (inning?) I returned to watch a nail-biter of an ending. Congrats to the Pats – enjoy the featured pic of Julian Edelman.) On with the recap…
The week began with an ending, as January wound to a welcome close.
Before the month ended, however, we celebrated the 14th anniversary of this very website.
It was a rather weak week, because I was dealing with numerous maladies. But we did the best we could do.
The brilliance of Betty Buckley.
The Super Bowl brought out the jockstrap in certain guys.
Hunks of the Day included Bob Harper, Andy Mientus, Brian Justin Crum, Garrett Swann, Danny Cipriani, Sakis Rouvas and Michael Xavier.
It’s Super Bowl Sunday! I’ll be too busy hosting a brunch for family and friends this morning, so I’m not going to be getting up into any jockstrap antics – we’ll leave that to these gentlemen. This is the one day in the entire year when I make that Buffalo chicken dip and drink a beer. (And, to be fair, that only happens when I’m excited about the half-time show, which really only occurred once before: the epic 2012 Madonna episode.) This year I’ll watch to see Lady Gaga’s performance, because she knows how to put on a good show as well.
Even though the Patriots are in this one, I’ve not paid any attention to this year’s festivities and the games leading up to them. Is there a naked Rob Gronkowski? I’ve gone a bit sour on Tom Brady, but he’ll be there. Anyway, if it’s your thing, you probably aren’t reading this now, and if you’re just waiting for Lady Gaga, like me, let’s regroup tomorrow and have a kiki.
Until then, here’s a revisiting of some jockstrap posts.
Maybe I’ll get into one for baseball season.
But more than likely I’ll leave it up to guys like this.
And when the jockstraps come off, there’s only this left.
Betty Buckley has always held a special place in my heart, and as her career has progressed she’s maintained that place with every role she’s taken. When I was a little kid, one of my favorite television shows was ‘Eight is Enough’. I wasn’t even old enough to talk that much, and all I could do was fuss and point at the TV, screaming “Nicholas” until my parents finally figured out I was talking about ‘Eight is Enough’. (Which I knew solely by the name of their youngest character.) Ms. Buckley was Abby Bradford, the mother figure of the show, and after every episode I went to bed comforted by her displays of patience and love. She tucked me in at night just as I was starting to become aware of the world (or enough aware to know that the kid’s name was Nicholas). That role as America’s Mother stuck with her, despite a theatrical prowess that went largely unnoticed by my small upstate New York upbringing. It wasn’t until she clawed her way through the role of Grizabella in Andrew Lloyd Webber’s ‘Cats’ that the world became aware of her incredible voice and command of stage.
Originating the role that culminated with an electrifying rendition of Lloyd Webber’s most famous song (‘Memory’) cemented her status as Broadway royalty, and despite turns on television and film it has been on the stage where she has most moved me. Even shrouded in feline fur and heavy make-up, Buckley managed to emit the shredded-soul of a cat, both wounded and fierce, stealing the show every night. A decade later, she wore a different kind of glamour in one of the modern-day marathons of musical theater roles: Norma Desmond.
Following in the footsteps of Glenn Close is no mean feat, but Buckley’s soaring voice and drastically different take on that tragic yet noble figure of ‘Sunset Boulevard’ imbued the production with new life – glorious life too, as her vocal instrument performed death-defying acts nightly in the Minskoff Theatre. I remember watching her studied take on the role, transfixed by the manners in which she managed to be beguiling, brittle, and brilliant in a single scene. She brought audiences to their feet with her stunning interpretation of ‘As If We Never Said Goodbye’ – the way she held onto ‘home’ in the climactic declaration of “I’ve come home at last!” sent shivers down my spine. Her voice was spellbinding, reaching the furthest rafters of that immense theatre, and when she brought it delicately down to a wounded coo, it was even more transfixing. I’d always admired and marveled at Norma Desmond on stage, but Ms. Buckley made me love her a little more as well.
While her portrayal of Ms. Desmond ignited my fan status, it was the musical wizardry of her albums, where her divine voice was barely contained by the recordings, that completely captivated me. Hers was a talent that could never be fettered or bound by traditional artistic means – she demanded more, and she delivered. Her criminally-short EP of ‘Sunset Boulevard’ selections (available at the Minskoff) only left us wanting more, and her stripped-down and spare ‘With One Look’ CD was an essay in how to deliver a story through a few piano chords and a richly nuanced voice. That album got me through a couple of trying semesters at Brandeis, when I’d go to bed practically in tears, but I listened to the hymn-like ‘My Love and I’ and things were made achingly but bearably beautiful. When pain becomes art, and longing finds form in music, there is healing. On her jazz-inflected ‘Much More’ she embraced her playful side, while giving such standards as ‘The Man That Got Away’ and ‘Come Rain or Come Shine’ magically transformative touches. The exquisite collection that is ‘Heart to Heart’ with Kenny Werner offers delicate renderings of ‘Just the Way You Look Tonight’, ‘I Am A Town’, and ‘Danny Boy’. Taken together, they are a glorious map of an artist’s journey.
I had third-row tickets to see her joyous appearance in ‘Triumph of Love’ but it closed a few weeks prior; thankfully she’s on the cast recording of the woefully under-appreciated show. It just goes to prove that Ms. Buckley doesn’t play it safe – she challenges herself and her audience with material that’s not guaranteed. It’s the mark of a true artist who finds supreme joy in her craft.
Her live recordings, particularly ‘The London Concert’ and ‘An Evening at Carnegie Hall’, almost manage to capture the enchantment that she holds over an audience, and much of her powerhouse voice, but to truly get the full experience of her magic, you need to see her as well. She manages to make each song a story, where every note paints a different shade to a fully-fleshed out work of art. See any of her renditions of ‘Meadowlark’ as evidence of such brilliance.
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Those wonderfully expressive hands that so framed her face in Norma Desmond’s ‘With One Look’, tell another story in her most recent role, the sympathetic doctor in M. Night Shyamalan’s film ‘Split’. Buckley is the emotional heart and psychological brain of the movie, giving weight and pathos when needed, as well as lighter touches in an otherwise sinister landscape. The way she brings her fingers to her forehead says more in a single touching gesture than any amount of words could convey. As tears fill her eyes, she once again reminds me how she’s managed to connect in the most human way to all of her roles, and, as a result, to her audience. That memory will never fade.
With tickets to ‘Sunset Boulevard‘ and ‘War Paint’ already secured, my Mom and I are contemplating a third show for this year’s Broadway trip. Bette Midler will be appearing in ‘Hello, Dolly!’ but that might – just might – be diva overkill. I’m leaving toward ‘Dear Evan Hansen’ or ‘The Great Comet’ but am open to a play as well. (That might help the wallet too, which was sorely depleted for the first two shows.)
Having said that, there’s nothing like a big Broadway musical to take one away from the troubling real world that daily encroaches on television and social media. I’ve been slowly moving away from both because they’re filled with lying pundits of a dangerous administration. I’ll fight when the time comes, but right now I want escapism, and Broadway is perfect for that. Whenever I need a quick pick-me-up, I go back in my mind to those performances we’ve already seen: Kinky Boots, Pippin, Mothers & Sons, The Bridges of Madison County, Hedwig & the Angry Inch, Bullets Over Broadway, Fun Home, and The Humans.
A quarter of a century ago a little radio show called ‘HomoRadio’ premiered on WRPI College Radio. It was the very definition of a grass-roots, bare-bones sort of set-up, and about the only thing it had going for it was a provocative name (and accompanying subject matter) and the passion of its commentators and contributors. That passion soon ignited a steady, dedicated, and ever-expanding group of listeners that now leads to all corners of the world.
Shortly after its inception, I was visiting home from college and fiddling around with the car radio on a Sunday drive when I heard a group of people who sounded like me, who were playing music I liked and knew, and who were talking about gay topics. Like my discovery of xy magazine a few years prior, it was a revelation. It was the moment of understanding that I was less alone than I realized. Galvanized, I tuned in whenever I was in town, and those Sunday mornings helped me understand who I was, and, more importantly, that I had allies and friends in the world, even if I’d never met them.
On any given Sunday, the topics range from the super serious to the super silly (I will never not crack up at Dr. Ray reading a dildo story), and in a span of four hours emotions can run from giddy and elated to heartbreakingly despondent, but through it all the guiding voices, and sometimes dissenting opinions, remind us that even in our differences we are together in this world. Now more than ever there is comfort and healing in that, and for twenty five years we’ve been lucky enough to have this wonderful group of people sharing their thoughts and hopes and dreams and integral information with us.
Tune in to HomoRadio‘s 25th landmark anniversary broadcast this Sunday, February 5th, from 10 AM until 2 PM eastern time! (You’re also invited to share your memories and stories by calling the studio line during that at 518.276.6248.)
In February of 1992, the local media outlets were positively buzzing about the premiere of “HomoRadio,” a groundbreaking new show on WRPIcollege radio. Bill Clinton was a little known governor of Arkansas at the time with his eye on the White House. It was indeed a different era in every way. The very title of the show was heart stopping in the very starkness of its sound. “HomoRadio?!” Even some members of the gay community were in awe of the choice! Now, a quarter of a century later, various media outlets have reported that the show has grown to be the top rated college program in the world, often rivaling commercial programming!
Executive producer and co-host of the show, Dr. Ray Werking likes to say, “When I started on ‘HomoRadio’ eleven years ago, we used to quip that our audience consisted of two people and a dog. Now, the whole world is listening!” “HomoRadio” has been lovingly referred to in the press as the gay version of the popular ABC-TV daytime talk show “The View.” The show has grown from an initial two hours to a current four hour stint. Nationally known best-selling authors now literally wait in line to discuss their works! The depth, breadth, and spectrum of the popular show is nothing short of amazing!
Werking commented, “We have a huge audience, ranging from middle school and high school gay-straight alliance clubs to a loyal group of folks in an Arizona nursing home who never miss a week. What a ride this has been for a show many thought would never survive!”
Sean McLaughlin, a 20 year veteran volunteer who serves as the show’s program director and engineer said, “I’m very proud of all that ‘HomoRadio’ accomplishes by entertaining, informing, and educating the community with a constantly changing mix of news, interviews, features, and music. It’s amazing to think about how the love that once dare not speak its name is now heard by loyal and dedicated fans all over the world.”
McLaughlin noted several awards the program has been honored with, including a highwater mark in “HomoRadio” history that occurred last June 10th when the program was awarded the coveted “Ally of the Year” Award from GLSEN, The Gay Lesbian Straight Education Network, a non-profit organization whose goal is providing a safe and respectful learning environment for all K-12 students to learn.
“HomoRadio” consists of news, interviews with local and national guests, event listings, and music by gay-friendly artists. The show kicks off each Sunday with “This Way OUT,” an internationally syndicated news magazine for the gay community.
A team of dedicated volunteers broadcast live to a wide audience filled with members of the lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender community as well as straight allies every Sunday from 10:00 am until 2:00 pm Eastern Time on WRPI 91.5 FM from Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute in Troy, New York. The show streams live on the web at www.wrpi.org and via an ever-increasing number of smartphone apps, including TuneIn, iTunes and Apple TV.
For more information, visit their website at www.wrpi.org or like “HomoRadio” on FaceBook.
It had been an idyllic morning in Boston. Kira and I had awakened to a day dotted with sunlight, and were assembling a breakfast of bagels and lox to go with our peppermint tea. Though the sun was shining and the sky was almost blue, there were clouds traveling overhead. Outside, the street was dirty and gray, the kind of thing you see more toward the end of winter rather than in these early stages. I picked up an apple and began to slice it.
I knew what was going to happen. As I held the new knife on the precarious apex of an apple slice, I saw that my thumb was dangerously below where I was about to cut, but I did it anyway. The knife caught on the apple, and I exerted more pressure, but it wasn’t budging. I pushed a little harder, and it finally sliced through the firm flesh – of the apple first, then of my thumb and thumbnail.
I’ve cut myself before, and with knives far sharper, but this was the deepest cut I’™ve ever had, and blood immediately started gushing out. As someone who grew up with regular nosebleeds, I’m also accustomed to a large amount of blood – in sinks, on tables, in tissues and on my hands – but this was bleeding more than a nose or scrape, and I had a brief, or not so brief, moment of panic.
As I wrapped my thumb in a wet paper towel (thank God I’d already gone out and replenished them), I dispatched Kira to the store for band-aids and alcohol, since the only kind we had on hand was gin. As she rushed out, I sat down at the table and held my thumb. The bleeding had not stopped, and I pulled the paper towel tighter around the soreness.
I suddenly felt, for one of the very few times in life, genuinely frightened. Alone, without Andy, in Boston, I wondered what I would have done had Kira not been there. How would I have managed to get to the store while bleeding like that? My mind conjured more extreme ideas of what might happen to me while I was alone. The stark gray scene of a scary future presented itself in the quiet aftermath of the wound. I saw myself standing there, an old man, looking out the window onto a desolate winter day, childless and terrified of the world and my solitude. It was disturbing, and very much unlike me. As someone who treasures his alone time, I was unaccustomed to this fear. I felt very small.
My thumb was throbbing, but the bleeding seemed to be slowing. I noticed the small clots of darker blood in the paper towel. There was a gaping slit in my thumb, when I could see it before the bleeding began again, but Kira soon returned, and I doused the cut with alcohol then bandaged it up. My hand was shaking, and when Kira asked why I couldn’t answer.
Something about the whole morning spooked me, but Kira was a reassuring comfort. Nagging thoughts that the black and blue tip of my thumb would never heal played across my mind, but people have suffered far worse than a knife cut, and I rebounded into my usual frivolity, even as I knew then that I had been changed forever.
 For some strange reason, Madonna once playfully suggested that as the title for her ‘Hard Candy’ album (another criminally-under-rated gem of hip-pop). It has absolutely nothing to do with this post, other than the stiff reference for my neck. I awoke last week feeling like I had slept the wrong way, and as the day wore on, my neck grew worse. Eventually I gave in to my first session of physical therapy, but the exercises given to me (which I performed religiously every two hours) only ended up making my neck feel awful, to the point where I could barely rise out of my work chair.
By lunch, I was almost in tears, and the tension of that added to the stress that probably started this whole wretched event in the first place. I walked over to my new favorite place, Stacks Espresso Bar, and had a decaf Americano. (Caffeine is the absolute last thing I need.) I sat there and heard one of those voices whispering in my ear:
Relax… relax…
Maybe it was not so much a voice in my head, but a wish and a prayer that I was imploring for myself. I paused, and remembered what it was like to enjoy the moment. An excellent cup of Americano sat before me, exquisitely rendered and better than anything at Starbucks. I sipped at its warmth, while the wind ran down the street outside the window. Puddles and dirty snow lined the sidewalk, as other people on their lunch break hurried past. Winter was passing too.
Not soon enough…
Gleaned from the pages of the New York Times Magazine, this knock-off version of a Sausage, Kale & Potato Soup replaces the sausage with a kielbasa, and it’s a switch that lends a smoky and salty edge to the kale, negating the need for any additional sprinkling of white stuff.
I sliced up a simple pre-cooked kielbasa and sautéed it on medium heat, rendering a bit of the fat and slightly browning the pieces of kielbasa. To this, I added a large onion (chopped), then two large potatoes (peeled and diced) and about 5 cups of chopped kale (I cheated and bought the washed and chopped kale in a big-ass bag). A lot goes a little way, though it keeps its roughage and integrity far better than spinach.
As things began to wilt, I added a large carton of chicken broth (low sodium, since no one is getting any younger) and a heaping Tablespoon of Balsamic vinegar. Grind some peppercorns into the pot and, once it comes to a boil, turn it down to simmer for an hour or two. The end result is spectacular, and kale is good for you!
I’ll try the original using sausage in the future, but for now this was a pleasant reminder of my grandma, who loved kielbasa. (And a good head on her beer – her words, not mine.)
One of the best parts of visiting our Boston condo is the fact that it’s kind of like a hotel. If all is as it should be, I can arrive to a perfectly-made bed, a pile of fluffy towels, and a pristine collection of rooms that is immaculate, save perhaps for some dust that can be easily cleaned with a quick pass of the Swiffer. There’s a peace and tranquility that appeals to my Virgo mind upon seeing a perfectly-kept room, and a clean and orderly setting. And yes, there’s something anal about it, but there’s something anal about my entire life. Upon departing Boston, I make sure to leave everything as it was found, if not cleaner, because I know someone, and not necessarily me, will get to have the same experience.
This doesn’t always happen when my brother has been in the condo. Last weekend I needed a peaceful entry more than anything, but I walked into a place that was missing its bath towels, missing all toilet paper, missing all tissues, and missing all paper towels. There was, however, a used band-aid on the floor, a bunch of beer in the fridge, a dirty dish in the sink, and crumbs and water glass stains all over our grandmother’s table. Typical stuff that I’ve asked my brother to be careful of, so many times that a recent text exchange found him exasperatingly stating, “It seems like every time I go there, there’s a problem!†Umm, yeah. That’s kind of the point. This time, I just gave up. It’s one of the many fundamental differences between my brother and myself. Most people assume I’m the spoiled and selfish one, but underneath it all that’s not the case. I may demand cologne and clothing and act the diva, but I would never think of leaving a house without towels or toilet paper for the next visitor. How hard is it to put a load of laundry in the washer that’s right outside our door? I do it every time I’m in Boston. But I suppose when you still live with your parents, you don’t have to take of yourself and you forget such simple acts of existence. (The deteriorating state of my parents’ house is ample proof of this, and there is no way I will allow that to spread to Boston.)
As much as it irked me, I felt myself giving up to the whole hopelessness of the situation. Such antics and carelessness are hallmarks of my brother’s life. In some ways it’s part of his charm; in most ways it’s infuriating and annoying, but the notion of anything changing after three decades of it is a foolish one, and I’m surprised I haven’t come to that realization before now. That doesn’t make it right, it just makes it something over which I have no control. A good friend gave me some excellent advice: the only thing we can control is how we act in our own lives and how we treat other people. What they do with that, and how they behave, is on them.
While it’s certainly cold enough for it, it’s not as wet as most winters tend to be, and I’m not mad about it. Kira and I were loosely tossing around the idea of going skiing this year (at her insistence), and decided we would look into some resorts. (After my first, and last, skiing fiasco in the late 80’s, I’ve rather gone off the sport – but that’s another Suzie cruelty story that will need to be told another time, and not in the flimsy mid-day post.) I promised Kira I would support her 100%, from the cozy perch of a fireside lounge, with a Manhattan in my hand and a cashmere scarf around my neck.
Oh February, you wretched thing, please have some happy surprises stored in your cold heart. And I don’t mean Valentine’s Day either (though I will update my Amazon Wish list for those looking to appease my romantic nature, ahem). It’s time to get those doilies out and make out some Valentine’s Day cards. It’s also time to hunker down and make some soup. On this first day of the month, I offer a messy post of miscellany for Februarys past.
Random shit like jockstraps, Superbowls, Shameless movies, Beckham’s bulge and oh so much more. Narcissus, nests, nudity, & new bedding. More incongruous stuff like male models, Tibetan singing bowls, and manic Mondays. (I can’t even talk about all the zaniness of February 2015, and neither should you.) But do revisit last year’s February mayhem, with some Naked Madonna, ruinous beauty, Anderson Cooper and brotherly love.
PS – February is National Bird Feeding Month. How ridiculous.
