February 2018
With a name set for All-American marquee glory, Tucker West is making a more prominent name for himself on Team USA, hurtling to greater recognition by way of the luge. He joins fellow Team USA mates Nick Cunningham, Adam Rippon, Nathan Chen, Chris Fogt, Shaun White, Steven Langton and John Daly in getting a gratuitous shirtless post during these Winter games. The show is not even close to being over…
He was an Olympian in 2010, and he’s currently in South Korea doing it all over again. His sport is the luge and his name is Chris Mazdzer. As of this writing, he’s on the precipice of earning a medal, but anyone who makes it to multiple Olympic games is already a champion in these parts. Congrats to Mazdzer for always exhibiting Olympic spirit. (Especially when he takes his shirt off.)
The class of ‘Dawson’s Creek‘ was a year or two younger than us, if I recall correctly, but we’ll use this winsome theme song nonetheless. (We were actually the same age as the fictional class of the original ‘Beverly Hills 90210‘ and practically went through the exact same things. (I almost cut a chunk out of my eyebrows to be more like Dylan. NOT.)
By 1995, I had grown into myself a little bit more. It was pretty much the year I finally began to acknowledge that I was possibly, shock of shocks, the slightest bit gay. (A couple of dicks in my mouth would soon confirm it, as would these lace sleeves.)
Not quite twenty years of age, Suzie and I didn’t do much in the way of drinking or drugging, choosing to get our kicks off Route 66 and in a matching pair of velvet shirts from Bonwit Teller. I distinctly remember this day – it was a sad gray one in March, the kind that personify Ithaca and its litany of suicides over the years. Suzie and I had gone to visit one of the bridges from which students occasionally jumped, and it set a pall over the already-depressive proceedings. March is always a difficult month for some of us, and this day in particular was trying, so we did what we often do: found a shopping excursion, bought a stupid clothing item, and laughed our way away from the crying ledge. Only Suzie could do that (with a little help from Bonwit Teller).
Sometimes I marvel at how we made it through that time in our lives. Everyone marvels at the past at some point, and all that they’ve been through. We all go through patches where it feels too forlorn and hopeless for there to be much sense in life. Somehow, if we’re strong enough, if we’ve found enough love in the world, we keep going.
I was lucky enough to have the right friends and family to see me through the dark stretches.
It isn’t often that I find myself looking back over the years that came before, at least not in the extensive archives of photo albums that I’ve amassed in the last two decades. (Remember, I’ve been doing this long before digital photography was even a thing.) Every once in a while, however, usually when I’m cleaning (as was the case here) I pause to thumb through an old and yellowed album, and I remember…
The photos here are from 1995, and the start of my very first ‘tour’ ‘Chameleon in Motion: The Friendship Tour’ – back when it was a more innocent time, and the world a more innocent place. At least, it feels that way now. Maybe we were just better at hiding how awful humanity was. Maybe we simply didn’t want to see. Instead, we had fun and silliness and the general tastelessness of our college years.
Luckily for me, I had a few mother figures who watched over me when my real Mom was not around, and who kept me more or less in line (or at least gave me a fighting chance).
There were other mother figures around, not pictured here, but I saw them again peering out from the sticky old pages of the album – Funzie and Janice were there, both gone now – and my heart ached at how time had plucked them from our world. Grandmothers were captured here too – Suzie’s and my own – and I paused as this song from the 10,000 Maniacs played in my head.
There’s no need to dissect the fashion going on here. All I can say is that it was the height of the 90’s. CK One was everywhere (except on my bathroom shelf) and I was probably high on all its unisex pervasiveness. I took my sartorial cues from the International Male catalog, for worse and worser. It was all about the Gothic drama, the velvet vests, the satin pants – and if I could incorporate sequins or feathers into it so much the better.
That outfit with the red pants, silk boxers and sequin top is the infamous one that got me mistaken for a clown by some child in Ponderosa. There are a lot of things wrong with that sentence, and Ponderosa is one of the lesser ones. Let’s shift the focus to that other youthful guy – my pal Chris. You may not recognize him with all that unruly stuff on his head, or the bear in his hand. I can only be blamed for the latter (and I know he misses the former).
Up next is a special photo of my Mom in front of the Minskoff Theatre marquee, where we saw the original Broadway production of ‘Sunset Boulevard’ near the end of Glenn Close’s first run. That was one of our first Broadway theater weekends, and still one of my favorites. (And we’ll end this first nostalgic post with a look to the future, as I’m currently plotting out this year’s Broadway adventure…)
THESE ARE DAYS.
THESE ARE THE DAYS YOU MIGHT FILL WITH LAUGHTER UNTIL YOU BREAK.
THESE DAYS YOU MIGHT FEEL A SHAFT OF LIGHT MAKE ITS WAY ACROSS YOUR FACE.
AND WHEN YOU DO YOU’LL KNOW HOW IT WAS MEANT TO BE.
SEE THE SIGNS AND KNOW THEIR MEANING.
IT’S TRUE, YOU’LL KNOW HOW IT WAS MEANT TO BE.
HEAR THE SIGNS AND KNOW THEY’RE SPEAKING TO YOU, TO YOU.
Olympic champion and current commentator for the Winter Olympics, this is Apolo Ohno, and it looks like he skated so fast all his clothes fell off. (Not an easy feat, given those extra-meaty thighs.) Naked Olympians are nothing new in these parts, as witnessed by the clothing-free shenanigans of Gus Kenworthy, Matteo Guarise, Greg Louganis, Evan Lysacek and Michael Phelps.
[POSSIBLE DRAG RACE SPOILER!]
Polarizing Drag Race contestant Milk was eliminated last night from RuPaul’s Drag Race, and though the general consensus was one of relief, many didn’t believe he as the weakest queen. (Personally, I thought he was fabulous, nervy, dramatic and fun.) This post is not about to engage in that divisive convo, however, but rather to celebrate the kind of body that Milk results in. (Well, his history of figure skating doesn’t hurt either.) Best of all, this post sets up Dan Donigan as a future Hunk of the Day – all it will take is a sexy photoshoot or two. Big & Milky indeed.
A few upcoming posts for the weekend are going to feature several throwback photos, and in the process of finding them, I also found a few other sneak-peeks of the past. This slice of my life took place in the mid-nineties, as some of the fashions will attest. Others are just timelessly tasteless, cause that’s how I used to roll. (Still do, on the good days!)
“It is an illusion that youth is happy, an illusion of those who have lost it; but the young know they are wretched for they are full of the truthless ideal which have been instilled into them, and each time they come in contact with the real, they are bruised and wounded. It looks as if they were victims of a conspiracy; for the books they read, ideal by the necessity of selection, and the conversation of their elders, who look back upon the past through a rosy haze of forgetfulness, prepare them for an unreal life. They must discover for themselves that all they have read and all they have been told are lies, lies, lies; and each discovery is another nail driven into the body on the cross of life.” – W. Somerset Maugham
“His talent was as natural as the pattern that was made by the dust on a butterfly’s wings. At one time he understood it no more than the butterfly did and he did not know when it was brushed or marred. Later he became conscious of his damaged wings and of their construction and he learned to think and could not fly any more because the love of flight was gone and he could only remember when it had been effortless.” – Ernest Hemingway
Representing Italy in the pairs figure skating category, this is Matteo Guarise, our first naked figure skater of these games. The opening ceremony is tomorrow night, and this is the best way to start things off. Nothing better than a naked Olympian. Guarise began as a professional roller skater. Why didn’t anyone tell me there was such a thing? I would have taken those Saturdays at High Rollers way more seriously. (And spent more time on the rink as opposed to the place where they sold the fries.) Here’s to the next naked Olympian, whomever he may be…
UPDATE: My increasingly-musty memory has failed me again: an astute reader just pointed out that I had already done a post on Mr. Guarise when he was named Hunk of the Day here. Oops, I did it again.
The Winter Olympics 2018 kick off today in PyeongChang and there’s no better way to commemorate the occasion than with a video of ten notable hunks stripping slightly down for the event. Thanks to Cosmopolitan magazine for giving equal-opportunity ogling to these fine athletes, most of whom will be featured in posts coming very soon to this site. (Truth be told, the video is more endearingly awkward than sexy for these athletes, but skin is skin for the thirsty among us.)
Stay tuned for more gratuitous Olympic programming here. It’s how we roll.
When one is at the tail-end of a stomach bug, a little Italian digestif like Fernet Branca is the only way to make it through the last steps of a churning wilderness. The only cocktail I know that balances its bitterness with a deftly-integral orange peel is the Hanky Panky. Legend has it that it was created by the first (and reportedly thus far only) females head bartender at The Savoy’s American Bar, Ada ‘Coley’ Coleman. She recalls the creation of the cocktail thusly: ““The late Charles Hawtrey… was one of the best judges of cocktails that I knew. Some years ago, when he was over working, he used to come into the bar and say, ‘Coley, I am tired. Give me something with a bit of punch in it.’ It was for him that I spent hours experimenting until I had invented a new cocktail. The next time he came in, I told him I had a new drink for him. He sipped it, and, draining the glass, he said, ‘By Jove! That is the real hanky-panky!’ And Hanky-Panky it has been called ever since.â€
This is not one for the sweet-loving faint-of-fruity-heart; the Fernet Branca is no joke, and most modern takes on this chestnut add some sort of sweetness (orange juice or other nonsense) to take the edge off of it. I prefer the original, just keep in mind that the orange peel is of absolute necessity.
This, to my knowledge, is still the only classic cocktail that shares a name with a Madonna song. Can’t hate on that. Well, you can, but you shouldn’t be coming here.
We don’t yet know, as of this writing, who the hell is going to win this year’s Super Bowl, but as my friend Skip put it, who cares? I’m right there. I stayed with the nonsense to see what, if anything, Justin Timberlake was going to do to challenge Madonna for an epic halftime performance. Again, this was written before it all went down, so who knows, and who really cares? Nobody beats the Queen. On with the recap of the last week before a brief break.
We began with the beginning of February.
A gratuitous Tom Brady Super Bowl post.
A naked Justin Timberlake post.
Super Bowl spotlight on Rex Burkhead.
Hunks of the Day included Jordan Bruno, Kem Cetinay, Oliver Cheshire, Malcolm Butler, and Allan Kayser, a.k.a. Bubba.
Killing two birds with one stone, I tried out a couple of cocktail recipes over this Super Bowl weekend for an upcoming dinner party at my brother’s new home. This is the Blushing Betty. Our poison of choice for the evening is a bourbon, and this recipe is perfect for the winter, when citrus is in season and the warming properties of bourbon at at their most expressive.
Betty is deceptively smooth, thanks in some part to the Maker’s Mark, and the simple syrup that plays an integral part in its make-up. The fresh grapefruit juice is both sweet and tart, coming as it does during its high season. All in all, a happy concoction, and the likely signature cocktail for the dinner party.
This marks the premiere of our ‘Super Bowl Spotlight‘ feature (the first and last one until next year, because researching sports shit is just not my scene). I did, however, put forth some effort to secure this one, because while gingers may rule the red roost here, a bald man is just as much appreciated. No hair on the chest is one (disappointing) thing, but no hair on the head is quite another, and in these parts we celebrate the chrome-domed among us as the hot and sultry guys they are. Case in point is Rex Bulkhead, a running back for the New England Patriots (previously of the Cincinnati Bengals). I know several people who would gleefully trade in the carefully-coifed tops of Tom Brady and Rob Gronkowski for the sleek and chic smoothness of Mr. Burkhead’s head. Here’s wishing him luck today in the really big game.
The last time Justin Timberlake was at the Super Bowl, he was aiding Janet Jackson in the wardrobe-malfunction heard round the world. I’m not sure why they played it off like that; he clearly ripped off the tear-away patch of fabric covering her pierced boob in a move obviously choreographed to the minute. “Gonna have you naked by the end of this song,” indeed. He came out of that relatively unscathed – it was a different time then. Only the owner of the exposed nipple got all the outrage. I’d love to see what would happen if they repeated that scene this year.
That’s not going to happen, as JT’s star has risen to the point where he has to play it safe or risk alienating the adoration and love of the mainstream pop culture world. Tonight’s Super Bowl Halftime show will likely prove what a stellar performer he is, and even if it pales in comparison to the epic production that Madonna brought to her Patriots game, I’m confident he can pull off a compelling performance.
In honor of the really big show, here’s a look back at some of Timberlake’s memorable posts, beginning with this magnificent manspread moment. He probes a little deeper in an amazing crotch grab gif here. Meanwhile, the simplicity of Timberlake’s naked ass is on display to fine effect here. Recently he heralded his beast meat in the new ‘Filthy’ single. If there are any Madonna fans out there, they will remember her collaboration with Timberlake here. Finally, a larger version of the naked butt GIF below can be found here, because a naked Justin Timberlake can never be too big.
Behold, it is Super Bowl Sunday!! This is the one day in the entire year where I make Buffalo chicken dip (a.k.a. chicken crack dip according to the internet). I’ll fancy it up with some fresh green onions as a garnish, and whole wheat pita bread for dipping, because I can convince myself that anything is healthy when whole wheat is involved. Mind fucking is a glorious thing in your 40’s.
What’s on the agenda? Perhaps some live-tweeting of the big game, or at least the commercials leading up to the half-time show with Justin Timberlake. (He was rumored to be using a hologram of Prince in this one, which would, in my estimation, be rather cataclysmic, but I’ll reserve judgment for how it turns out in the end.) Mr. Timberlake will be back here in a few hours with a shameless promo-plug of his naked ass. We live to give.
Tom Brady’s mug adorns this post, as he will anchor the Patriots, who are going for their sixth (?) Super Bowl Ring. (Cue Ring of Fire.) In honor of that, a few links to past Super Bowl glories:
And a bonus shot of a naked Julian Edelman. You didn’t really come here for legit football stats, did you?
