October 2017
Jamie Dornan has been here a few times before – in his Hunk of the Day crowning, in these scintillating shots, and naked as a jaybird in motion. (Incidentally, why do jaybirds get all the nudity?) His work on ‘Fifty Shades of Gray’ – a movie I have yet to see in its entirety, and a movie I will always have yet to see in its entirety – spurred a fan-base thirsty for more of the shirtless scenes seen here. Who am I to disagree?
Kristi Barlette recently lamented that it wasn’t socially appropriate to strike up a conversation, ask for a person to exchange numbers, and become friends after a single brief interaction in a store, but I beg to differ. (Well, that’s my extravagant extrapolation from a single FaceBook post of hers.) The point is that I just saw the exact described scenario play out the other day at Colonie Center.
I was browsing the clearance section of Barnes & Noble (don’t judge – they have hidden gems there! I once found discounted hard-cover versions of one of my favorite books – ‘The God in Flight‘ by Laura Argiri – for $2.97 or something ridiculously cheap and bought them all for friends). As I wound my way around the celebrity dish stuff and then the calendars, I happened upon a conversation just struck up by two strangers. I hovered nearby, listening to see if it was a pick-up because once in a great while I’m nosy like that. (As a general rule, I’m not.) The days of randomly picking people up in person seem quaint now and I was intrigued – it’s rare for two guys to just start gabbing, right? Or is that a gross and unfair assumption? Guilty for making an ass of myself if so. Alas, they were both straight, at least one was, based on his ready revelation that he had just gotten married (to his girlfriend) in Jamaica. The other guy offered his congratulations. They talked about destination weddings for a bit, then jobs and careers, and then the other guy extended his hand and introduced himself officially.
By this point I was invested, like in some stupid reality show that comes on after a decent Real Housewives episode, and you don’t want to watch and you say it’s so stupid and then you just have to know why the girl with the lotus tattoo is SO MAD at the guy with the mopey slacker vibe.
Eventually, though, their talk about mundane things like job satisfaction had turned dull and I was ready to bring my ‘Vogue’ and ‘Vanity Fair’ to the register (I’m an old school magazine-reader for road trips). As I was about to take leave of my eavesdropping expedition, I heard them reintroduce themselves and saw them taking out their phones and exchanging contact info.
“We should get together over a coffee sometime,” I heard one of them saying as they typed their numbers into their phones. “I’ll text you.” So yes, Kristi, apparently people do this sort of thing and it’s not entirely socially unacceptable. If you’re a straight guy, that is. I guess neither of us can relate.
We don’t celebrate Columbus Day much in these parts, other than for the day off from work. Instead, we celebrate the here and now, except in posts like this, when we celebrate the week that came before. We are scheduled to be getting back from our annual fall trip to Ogunquit, so this recap is a welcome moment of pause.
It began in the shadows of the past. Most things do.
Never trust a Starbucks in a Price Chopper.
Vanity, crushed by morning light.
Those “things we’d never do again…?” You know she’s singing about anal.
The Hunks were back in full effect with shirtless and pants-less shenanigans from the likes of Troye Sivan, Vernon Davis, Davood Ghadami, Rikk York, and Colby Jansen.
It’s not all that outlandish for a robe to inspire me to like a song. There was a time when I’d do very bad things for the perfect robe. And finding the perfect robe would take many attempts (read: many purchases). It had to be just right – the exact degree of flamboyance, the measured amount of elegance, the slightest hint of decadence. If the robe was right, the rest of my life would fall into place.
It’s not merely the robe – it’s all the connotations that it invokes.
Comfort. Coziness. Safety. Glamour. Luxury. Contentment. Quiet.
The Golden Girls gathered around a cheesecake at the kitchen table.
Norma Desmond descending her staircase in a gorgeously-mad scene of devastated ruin.
Jennifer Tilly’s grating high-pitched squeals in a feathery pink extravaganza, telling of her thrilling, show-stopping numbers in a musical called ‘Leave A Specimen’.
And one of my favorites – the silk robe that Celine Dion wears in her 1996 video for ‘It’s All Coming Back To Me Now’.
A confession: I was never a big Dion fan. She annoyed the fuck out of me with her Adult Contemporary bullshit. (I still find ‘Because You Loved Me’ to be one of the most joyless exercises in listening that the hearing world has been cursed to endure, and don’t even get me started on ‘The Power of Love’, whose bombast simply wouldn’t stop.) But in the years since I’ve softened on such stuff, and Dion’s so kooky and good-humored about everything (her own over-the-top zaniness included) that I came around. And the robe she wears in this video went a long way toward changing my stance.
Drama. Intrigue. Devastation. Loss. And that’s all before she starts singing. In the aftermath, she haunts the house where her presumed love once lived, her only companion a robe that billows behind her in desolate beauty. At the time this song was released, I was about to fall in love again – a typical fall practice for me in those days. Everything was imbued with the import and passion of a person in their early twenties. I lived in a fantasy world; it was the only way I knew of to survive.
‘Evita’ was about to come out, and though my heart was pining away for the uninterested, I tried to focus on the Madonna movie, and on the drama of this video. The fantasy of a robe was an easy-to-accomplish escape. Like a heroine who lost her love in a tragic motorcycle crash, doomed to roam the hallways of a windy mansion, I walked from room to room (literally, as there were but two main rooms in the Boston condo) and felt the various fabrics fall and swirl about me.
By that point I had amassed a decent collection in various styles – silk and velvet, beaded and embellished, trimmed with feathers and fringe, tied with tassels and trinkets. They were a comfort, a balm on a troubled and restless heart. Just because I was alone didn’t mean I couldn’t do so in fabulous form. There is an exquisiteness to misery when it’s dressed just so. As the great Diana Vreeland once remarked, ‘Elegance is refusal.’ Refusing to feel was a discipline I learned while draped in the softest silk, idly running my fingers across a faint damask pattern, absent-mindedly dragging a pool of velvet and feathers in my wake. If there was a martini within reaching distance, so much the better. Retreating into a frivolous fantasy was my way of finding warmth on cold October nights. Wrapped in a robe, I indulged in make-believe, and if you think you are fabulous for long enough, sometimes it comes true.
That fall I floated along the amber-hued floorboards of our Boston condo, robes fluttering behind me in dramatic recreation of this video. Life is more fun when you have to pretend, when the worry and want is for the sake of drama over any real emotional taxation and desire. Pretending was a form of protection – perhaps the ultimate for of protection – and the best way I knew to pretend was to put on a pretty robe, a steely mask, and the nonchalant attitude of aloofness that repelled all sorts of messy feelings.
James Van Der Beek has been here before, and fans of the Beek should revisit this post of our old pal Dawson, in which he received his first crowning as Hunk of the Day. Today’s entry is a holding spot for his next Hunk honor, which will come as soon as he shows a little more. We shall put a pin in that for now.
It seems to me that Mr. Van Der Beek is a star in need of a killer sitcom or a raunchy rom-com that showcases his edgy and sultry good looks, as well as his comedic grace. His work on ‘Varsity Blues’ and ‘Dawson’s Creek’, and his thrilling turn in ‘The Rules of Attracton’ showcased his dramatic gravitas, while his hilarious turn on ‘Don’t Trust The B—- in Apartment 23’ illuminates the prowess of a cunning funny guy. I still feel like we haven’t seen his full potential, which makes him an exciting actor to watch – those on the precipice of greatness carry an intrigue and aura of the future to them.
The best bow-tie statements are bold, crisp, and colorful. If you can muster the cadence of a rainbow in the design, so much the better. In a few days (October 11) we will be celebrating National Coming Out Day. In the event that you’re in need of an accessory with which to spread your LGBTQ spirit, check out these colorful Gay Pride Bow Ties – the perfect addition to an outfit of which one can truly be proud.
The best part of these is that part of the purchase goes toward a wonderful cause (each tie has its own non-profit organization to which part of the purchase goes). When you can add some pizzazz to your sartorial regime and help others out in the process then by all means you should proceed. These bow ties are a lovely addition to any wardrobe and come in handy at a multitude of events. A burst of color is never wrong, and a hint of rainbow can be a subtle treat if you’re looking to make a splash.
Using hand-woven silk from the United Kingdom and made in the United States in the state of Vermont, their creation is truly an international affair. The end results are works of unity and love, but you don’t have to take my word for it. Here’s their official promo:
It does not matter if you are Lesbian, Gay, Transgender, Intersex, Allies or whatever religious affiliation, it is important to know we need to coexist and respect each other. This is why we donate $5.00 for every bow tie sold. We want to unify people and make a difference in the world. That is why we are more than just a bow tie!
{Visit their site here to lend your support.}
My pants hat goes off to any Alan who spells his name correctly. Case in point is Alan Ritchson, who returns my pants-less favor with these smoking-hot GIFs of his naked ass. I thought he’d been here before in similarly-revealing fashion, but my memory seems to be faulty (or that post was deleted with the great revamp of 2012). For now, it’s enough to witness the wonder you see here, and prepare yourself for the Hunk of the Day honor that is surely coming his way.
A number of years ago I saw my first castor bean plant. It’s not something one easily forgets. It was fall in Ogunquit, and my parents were staying at the Anchorage. That establishment always does an amazing job with their landscaping, particularly in their fall displays. Gigantic pumpkins lined the entrance, and the garden nearby was filled with these spiky scarlet seedpods. They rose high into the sky, and their vermillion brilliance popped against the deep blue of a fall day. At the time, they were an interesting sight to behold, but not something I particularly wanted for my garden at home.
Tastes change. Appreciation evolves.
Their dramatic structure and immensity began to haunt me. The fascinating armor of their seedpods was more interesting and colorful than many a flower. The burgundy leaves lent a compelling contrast to the world of green that is summer. When I went on a seed-buying spree for my Dad earlier this year, I bought a packet of seeds for myself.
I read that they liked a sunny spot, so I offered them some choice real estate right in front of our house. The noon sun hit that area directly, and with a slow-growing Japanese umbrella pine still working on its expansion, there was room for three castor beans to grow. After a rainy start (which had me worried that they might rot) they stretched their wrinkly first leaves into the spring air. Only when it turned hot did they truly take off, and then there was no stopping them.
The flowers and seedpods appeared earlier than I anticipated, then continued to come as summer turned into fall. Our late stretch of hot weather lengthened the growing season, and added to their already-impressive height – so much so that they almost overwhelmed their space. As it is, they soar above our little roof, and it’s only a matter of time before the squirrels and chipmunks realize they have a new ladder with which to ascend and wreak havoc. Next year, if these seeds ripen as I hope they will, I’ll see about planting them further away from the house, in the sunny side bank where it’s too difficult to mow. The ground is less fertile (these benefited from the amended soil and regular fertilizer that our front bed provides) but even at half this size they would make a dramatic statement. They are also said to deter moles and voles and other critters – a boon to our beautiful lawn that is in constant peril of one sort or another.
A word of warning if you are contemplating trying these out: every part of this plant is extremely poisonous. If you have curious kids or animals that feel the need to nibble on everything in their path, be very wary. A single seed is said to have killed a person; their spiky form is a telling warning label, as pretty and exotic as it may appear. Personally, I like a little danger in the garden. It wards off the ignorant and unwanted.
The ravages of forty-plus years of life show most prominently in the morning. After pressing the snooze button for the third time and tumbling out of bed, I walk hesitantly to the bathroom. It is still dark at this hour, and my eyes need a moment to adjust to the unforgiving light of the bathroom vanity.
There’s that word again, in different meaning.
And there’s the same visage in the mirror.
Vanity and happiness are said to be incompatible, but we’ll spend our lives trying to prove the adage incorrect. There’s nothing very valiant or noble about the fight. Still, we try.
On this morning, as on many mornings lately, I feel the years dragging behind me… attached and making things sag that never sagged before. I see the wrinkles and the growing preponderance of gray hair. It doesn’t bother me, but it makes me feel tired. This is why I rarely look back. It’s more exhausting to think of all that came before than to look at what might be ahead.
Capturing myself here, on this blog, has always been a diary-like exercise, a place to chronicle things and help me make sense of those experiences that get me flummoxed or bummed or inspired. My Virgo nature demands that I document history and get it down so that I can one day remember. And also so that I can feel and find my way through shifting moods and seasonal trends. It’s helpful to understand where we’ve been in order to prepare for where we are going. Patterns are powerful, but not always easily discerned.
This is where I go to decipher such matters.
One of the sole points of solace in the upcoming seasons of cold and fury is the chance to see sunrises like this. From the vantage point of my tenth floor office perch, I get to walk into work and have a moment of peace and calm (before the rest of the work day explodes in typical fashion). I’m usually alone at the early hour, and if I’m careful I can soak in that moment of clarity and peace and carry it with me for the start of the day.
It starts its red rise with just the slightest sliver of light, shooting out of the horizon like a laser beam. Then it happens quickly, right before your eyes, faster than you think it will. Suddenly there is the sun – the full orb burning brightly in a fiery shade of salmon before it gets brighter and loses all color.
If we’re lucky she will repeat the show at the end of the day, flipping and reversing it.
First off, an apology to both Starbucks and Price Chopper: I’m sorry I tried you again. I’ve had so many problems with the Starbucks store at Price Chopper Store #188 on Albany Shaker Road that it’s really my fault for coming back one more time in the hope that this enterprise might resemble a real Starbucks not leased out to Price Chopper. That’s my mistake.
Next, however, the latest issue. A few days ago I tried ordering a decaf frappucino only to be told that they couldn’t make one. With that in mind, I thought it best to keep things simple. A simple decaf. Whether it be a pour over or previously-brewed one, I didn’t care, I just assumed they couldn’t mess up a decaf coffee. Grande. Not too much, not too little.
Kiara took my order (she who was unable to make the decaf frap a few short days ago) and then took my Starbucks card. She said it would be $4.27. Umm, for a Grande decaf coffee? This is just coffee – not even an Americano. Are you sure, Kiara? I asked if that was the real price for a decaf coffee. She insisted it was.
Good Lord, I thought, prices have gone up immensely in a crazy short amount of time. I asked for the receipt to be sure. There it was: $4.27 for a Grande decaf coffee. Since I’d already questioned her once, I thought maybe I was wrong. As her purple-haired co-hort made my drink, I looked it up on my phone and saw that no, $4.27 was about twice what a grande decaf coffee should be. At this point, another girl, who had actually been talking with Kiara and blocking the order area when I arrived, began laughing with her and I was so annoyed I said that I really didn’t think that was the correct price but I would take it up with management later.
She looked back at the register, finally registering my annoyance. She must have realized her mistake, and her mistake in insisting that it was the correct price, because she told me to come back the next day and tell them that Kiara said I could have a free drink to make up the difference. A sweet gesture, to be sure, but I’m so over this place it’s unlikely that I’ll take her up on it.
Leaves scuttled along the street, dry against the cool pavement. The outline of a hat and the billowing shadow of a cape undulated on the pavement, as if in some dramatic trailer to a new superhero movie. Something about it portended danger or might, power or worry, and the wind that tugged and chewed at it carried a vicious bite. What mystery-figure stood so tall, shrouded in cape and millinery madness, on a strange October night?
A streetlight behind me set the captivating motion into relief, where it danced according to the whim of the wind. On this cool night, we had assembled as members of the Amsterdam Marching Rams for the Halloween Parade. I made do with a simple hat and a cape, and though I was small my shadow was larger-than-life, shifting in the waves of air beneath the buzzing streetlamp. It looked much cooler than it was. (When your everyday wardrobe is as outlandish as mine tended to be, Halloween is a welcome day off; amateur hour for the masses who didn’t have the guts on an average weeknight.) As I stood there, my shadow caught the notice of a classmate who remarked that it was “wicked cool.†Another pointed down at it and agreed. Secretly smug that even my shadow was cool, I soon wondered if it might only be my shadow. What if the shell was the best part of the package? What if no one liked what was inside? It was a split second of pride and doubt, and passed quickly. Soon I was consumed with the task of marching with an oboe and trying not to have a double reed get shoved down my throat or into an eye.
I’m not sure why I remember that moment before the parade so distinctly. Nothing of import or note happened – I don’t even remember anything after that first few minutes of assembly. Yet it has stayed with me all these years – and I attribute it to the power of an image. An image of mystery, something that hinted and whispered rather than screamed in perfect bright clarity. It was a notion, a nudge, a suggestion – and somehow it was more powerful and omnipotent because of that.
Elongated and larger than life, my shadow stretched deep into that night, overwhelming and overpowering everything in its path. That it came from such a small kid seemed unfathomable, and my young mind struggled to wrap itself around the idea that I might one day have such reach. I would simply have to remember: the world isn’t kind to little things.
A hat and cape might protect me one day.
Or they might just look cool when set into stark relief.
Settling into a new schedule takes some adjustment. I’d ask how you were enjoying the new set-up, but it’s not changing anytime soon so what’s the point? I dig it, a lot, and as a wise man once said I should be doing what makes me happy here, so let’s go over the last week in posts. Then I’ll see you on Thursday.
It began in earnest in the spirit of Miranda Priestley.
Tom Ford offered something that was truly ‘Fucking Fabulous.’
Billy Joel gave us music for night-walking.
Meet Matthew Olson, the shirtless violinist.
Nyle DiMarco got butt-ass naked.
October: the month that goes Boo!
A Tom Ford fragrance that won’t break the bank.
Cameron Dallas takes his first bow as Hunk of the Day.
The trumpet of an angel.
It was one of the first songs I learned on the piano, and to this day I can still play the opening chords and melody. A hit for Bette Midler before I was old enough to walk, ‘The Rose’ is one of those classics that has endured thanks to its timeless lyrics and beautiful balladry. For me, it conjures memories of my grandmother.
Whenever she’d visit, she would request that I play it for her, and she’d sit and listen in rapt fashion as only a grandmother could. Occasionally, as was her disturbing way, she’d mention that she would like me to play it at her funeral. A macabre and rather unsettling notion for a kid to contemplate, and when she did pass away, years later, I was in no condition to play ‘The Rose’ on the piano even if I wanted to. Still, there was something beautiful to what we shared as she bravely challenged her mortality and I vainly sought to put the idea from my head.
In many ways, my grandmother was a timid woman. Afraid of the world and often afraid of people, especially those she didn’t know, she taught me caution and quiet. She relied on and deferred to my grandfather while he was alive. He died before I was born, so I never saw her interaction with him, and by the time I was old enough to notice such things, she was more of a widow than anyone I’ve met since. I knew that she’d gone to work in a factory during the war, and I knew that such an act wasn’t for the meek or quiet, so I assumed she kept her strength and power hidden away. Of course she never had to show it to us children: as grandmother she doted on and adored us no matter how we might misbehave or push our bedtime back.
For all her apparent meekness, she still held a certain sparkle and pizzazz, particularly when in comparison to the staid and strict way my parents behaved and expected us to behave. My grandmother was the one who taught me how to make a fashion statement, whether in a string of crystal rosary beads, or a glittering clip-on costume earring. She would wear sequins on her scarf, and carry handbags dripping with beaded tassels. Conservative in almost every other aspect, particularly in the leather-bound chignon that kept her hair ever-pulled away from her face, she showed her spark with her jewelry. I learned the power of a statement piece, and when we got to visit her home in Hoosick Falls I had hours of fun in her jewelry boxes. In that way, my grandmother lived in my imagination.
She would tell my brother and I stories of Greta Garbo, and how she was the greatest star in the world and then simply disappeared. The mystique she described lent her an air of mystery and magic too, and we begged her to trot out those Garbo stories at every bedtime. Try as I might, however, I could never place my grandmother among the youth from a former era. I desperately wanted to picture her laughing and sipping at her favored glass of beer (“with a good head on it” as she used to say), but I couldn’t reconcile the kind elderly woman who tucked us in with someone who would kick her heels up on a table and smile for the camera. Yet I know it happened. I’ve seen the picture.
As she grew older and more feeble, as she lost her senses and her memory, she receded into the childlike innocence of old age. Shrinking into a tiny woman, she moved further and further from those youthful days of boundless energy and bold, shiny bracelets. The hesitancy and shyness that marked the bulk of her adulthood dissipated, and in rare instances she would get a glint in her eye of remembrance and fire. I wondered if she wished she had let loose more, or if she realized she had lived just enough. Whenever I have a moment of doubt before a moment of indulgence, I often think of my grandmother. She would have thrilled at this necklace, she would have run her hands appreciatingly over this scarf, she would have approved of these fancy shoes. She would have gotten dolled up and turned it out, just for a trip to church. She would have put on the pizzazz and sparkled, just for a moment, and she would have smiled like a beneficent queen. I learned that from her too.
Sounding a clarion for beauty and perfume, the tropical angel’s trumpet plant (Brugmansia) was once a stalwart presence on our summer patio. After a few years, however, I got tired of lugging the large pots up and down the attic staircase, so they fell out of favor and have been missing for the last several seasons. This year, I found a large robust specimen at Faddegon’s for a relatively reasonable price (they’ve gotten way too expensive for such an easily-propagated species) and brought them back into our summer fold.
Luckily, they bloomed, which isn’t always the case with this plant. (It usually takes a year or two to get them going.) Their lemony fragrance is a delight, particularly as it ripens and becomes most pronounced as the evening progresses. It’s a magical thing when perched beside the pool on a hot summer night, emitting its lovely perfume and filling the area with sweetness. The pendulous dangling form of its flowers are just as enchanting as its scent, enthralling with their trumpet-like form, beckoning for a closer inspection like most objects of mystery and beauty do.
Their care is simple – lots of sun and heat, lots of water and regular fertilizing, and then over-wintering indoors if you’re in the brutal Northeast. I’m pretty sure they’re only hardy to about zone 8 or warmer, but I’ve heard tales of plants surviving in unheated garages. That’s too risky for a grand specimen like this, so I’ll bring it in to the basement for a change. I can usually get two or three years out of a plant this size without needed to repot – just a top dressing of new soil and some additional fertilizer throughout the year usually suffices. After three or four years, you’ll need to repot or start over again with cuttings. The latter is often easier.
