A Fragrance Fresh for Winter: Birch & Black Pepper by Jo Malone

Winter demands something clean in a fragrance. The holidays call for excess and fancy finery, and by the time January rolls around I want to shake off that heaviness for something light and clean. Tom Ford’s lighter Private Blends are decidedly summer-slanting, as are the gorgeous perfumes of the Hermes Jardin line. Winter doesn’t want for something sweet. Like the finest cocktails, winter scents are best left on the dry side. A bit woodsy, a bit smoky, and with just a touch of leather. Enter the Huntsman.

A Christmas gift from Andy (after I tried it out on this year’s Holiday Stroll) this is Jo Malone’s ‘Birch & Black Pepper’ cologne, a part of their Huntsman line, currently offered exclusively at Neiman Marcus. (So much for avoiding excess; no place on earth is more extra than NM.) With its top notes of black pepper lending a spicy factor which gives it some heat, this is a dry scent that goes well with the season. The birch notes kick in shortly thereafter, giving it a smoky resin that marries beautifully with the pepper. Dry and warm, with a hint of leather for rugged comfort, it revolves around a base note of gurjum, giving it a heart of wood that staves off the coldest winter wind.

Like many of Malone’s works, ‘Birch & Black Pepper’ is a straight-forward reading of its namesake ingredients (at least, at close to birch as a fragrance is ever going to get), but slightly more potent than the usual light-as-air offerings this house tends to favor. Indicative of its higher price point, there is a bit more staying power, though it still requires multiple sprays to retain anything that’s going to be noticed.

That’s good for winter though, when we are all confined to small spaces with stuffy uncirculated air. This one opens up nicely into such confines, then lets you go on your merry way without commitment or offense.

 

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Snoopy and Woodstock Welcoming the Winter

It looks so much nicer than it really is. The snow appears pretty. The wardrobe seems cozy. The whole atmosphere is a thing of beauty and wonder. But this is just winter, and it’s going to suck. We need to get through the worst of it before we reach the ease. Hunker down and stay close to home. Close the curtains and stock up on the heavy blankets. Put on the soups and stews and crank up the crock pot because this is the time for comfort food.

Hats and gloves, scarves and boots. Winter was designed for accessorizing with a purpose. Personally, I prefer to accessorize for no other purposes than beauty and whim. The necessity of such stuff immediately lessens the enjoyment. Still, no sense to frump out just because it’s cold outside. Let’s lift it.

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The Madonna Timeline: Song #159 ~ ‘Waiting’ – Winter 1993

{Note: The Madonna Timeline is an ongoing feature, where I put the iPod on shuffle and write a little anecdote on whatever was going on in my life when that Madonna song was released and/or came to prominence in my mind.}

Apologies for keeping you waiting on this Madonna Timeline, but it fits the song, so the slightly masochistic game of anticipation worked out in the end. This selection brings us back to the winter of 1993, following the hubbub and release of the ‘Erotica’ album and ‘Sex’ book – one of the most stunning and spectacular sections of Madonna’s career, and one which almost sent the whole thing off the rails. True fans thrilled at the ride, and as 1993 began I took cues from her ‘Body of Evidence’ thriller and lit a cadre of candles in my bedroom, watching the soft light elicit shadows as I writhed beneath the blankets on those frigid January nights.

WELL I KNOW FROM EXPERIENCE

THAT IF YOU HAVE TO ASK FOR SOMETHING MORE THAN ONCE OR TWICE

IT WASN’T YOURS IN THE FIRST PLACE

AND THAT’S HARD TO ACCEPT WHEN YOU LOVE SOMEONE

AND YOU’RE LED TO BELIEVE

IN THEIR MOMENT OF NEED

THAT THEY WANT WHAT YOU WANT BUT THEY DON’T

When she wasn’t waiting, anticipating or hesitating, Madonna kept a pretty active beat. Impatience may be her greatest sin, though it’s served her well. At a time in her career when slowing down may be mandatory, looking back on the way she rushed through the early 90’s in a whirlwind of image-change-ups, keeping all of us guessing as to where she might be headed next, is a lesson in inspired ambition. Such a continual and provocative turn of guises might blunt the power of a singular persona, yet they only added to her allure and intrigue. For someone who seemed to revel in revealing so much, she retained a mystique that felt tantalizingly impenetrable. We always wanted more.

DON’T GO BREAKING MY HEART LIKE YOU SAID YOU WOULD

BABY YOU’RE NOT GOOD

AND YOU HURT ME LIKE NO OTHER LOVER EVER COULD

DON’T GO MAKING ME CRY

YOU’RE GONNA SAY GOODBYE

BABY TELL ME WHY, TELL ME WHY OR YOU’RE GONNA HAVE TO JUSTIFY THIS

WAITING FOR YOU

JUST WAITING

CAN’T YOU SEE I’M WAITING FOR YOU

DON’T BREAK MY HEART

For all her naked exploits and controversial posing, her vulnerable core seemed an easy target for careless men, or men who simply couldn’t quite live up to the impossibility of being her match. When you’re the most interesting person in every room it’s difficult to find much happiness or hope after a while. That doesn’t mean she ever stopped looking. It also didn’t mean that people couldn’t break her heart. Quite the contrary, and this song embodies the icy fire that burns beneath the entire’Erotica’ era. The album sizzles in snowy fashion. Sex was a weapon and a way to salvation. It could act as salve and savior, destroyer and devil. It could seduce and betray in a single slinky encounter.

IT WAS SO EASY IN THE BEGINNING

WHEN YOU DIDN’T FEEL LIKE RUNNING FROM YOUR FEELINGS LIKE YOU ARE NOW

WHAT HAPPENED? WHAT DO I REMIND YOU OF?

YOUR PAST, YOUR DREAMS, OR SOME PART OF YOURSELF THAT YOU JUST CAN’T LOVE?

I WISH I COULD BELIEVE YOU

OR AT LEAST HAVE THE COURAGE TO LEAVE YOU.

‘Waiting’ is mostly a spoken song that travels along the whispered path of ‘Justify My Love’ but it contains a few impossible-to-shake hooks. While Shep Pettibone (of ‘Vogue’ glory) got much of the production attention, Andre Betts gave the album its jazzy, hip-hop grooves, most of which were wetter than all those salacious dance tracks. (See the wizardry of ‘Where Life Begins’ and ‘Secret Garden‘.) ‘Waiting’ also contains some pretty pointed and powerful words that only occasionally verge on veering into trite territory. Madonna’s blunt delivery saves it, giving it an edge heretofore unseen in much of her work.

LIFE HAS TAUGHT ME THAT LOVE WITH A MAN LIKE YOU IS ONLY GONNA MAKE BE BLUE

BUT I LOVE YOU ANYWAY NO MATTER WHAT YOU DO

YOU DON’T COME AROUND HERE LIKE YOU DID BEFORE

WHEN YOU DID ADORE

TELL ME WHAT I DID TO DESERVE THIS

WAITING FOR YOU

I’M WAITING

CAN’T YOU SEE I’M WAITING FOR YOU

DON’T BREAK MY HEART

As the candles flicker and the wax drips, the intoxicating pull of desires and dreams lends the bedroom a sexual shadow. This song runs on for a healthy length, its meandering piano passes tickling Madonna’s breathless delivery, and the idea of waiting for a man, and for everything he might deliver, hangs in the smoky air. The hand moves languidly to the cock, and overcome by the need for sleep, my touch is one of casual lethargy. As sexually-charged as some cuts of the ‘Erotica’ album might be, there’s a richer layer of emotions at work, as evidenced by cuts like ‘Rain‘ and ‘Deeper and Deeper‘ and the title track itself. Sex was messy like that. As plainly physical as it could be, it always seemed tied into something deeper. Sometimes it was love. Sometimes it was pain. Always it was complicated. But I loved that about it. The complexities that swirled around the cock formed a heady conundrum that never failed to fascinate. What we did for gratification. What we did for want. What we did to connect… 

FINALLY I SEE A DIFFERENT MAN

ONLY LOVE CAN HURT LIKE THIS CAN

FINALLY I SEE A DIFFERENT FACE

TELL ME WHO IS GOING TO TAKE MY PLACE

The clock ticks. The clock tocks. Time hastens and slows, back and forth in a building rhythm. It pushes and pulls, and the body responds. Rivulets of wax run forth from the thick candles, spilling onto the desk, splashing and coalescing into muted echoes of what they once were. The transformation into heat and light and liquid complete, the flame flickers, daring and demanding to be blown out. Just open your mouth and lick your lips, letting the breath of life devour the fire. Take it all in…

I KNEW IT FROM THE START THAT YOU WOULD DESERT ME

YOU’RE GONNA BREAK MY HEART BABY PLEASE DON’T HURT ME

I KNEW IT FROM THE START THAT YOU WOULD DESERT ME

YOU’RE GONNA BREAK MY HEART BABY PLEASE DON’T HURT ME

Such was the fantasy, and such was the spell Madonna cast over me at the time. Whether it was pussy or prick for which I yearned, I couldn’t quite tell. The ‘Sex’ book had me straddling the divide like Madonna straddled a mirror while touching herself. The look of Madonna’s gaze as she reclined in shadow was as enthralling as the guys in the gaiety. The jockstrap-clad bald men enticed me as much as her dalliance with a shirtless Vanilla Ice. Sometimes sex was sex and it didn’t matter if it was with a man or a woman.

And so I stayed Waiting…

THE NEXT TIME YOU WANT PUSSY

JUST LOOK IN THE MIRROR BABY.

SONG #159: ‘Waiting’ – Winter 1993

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Like A Snake Sheds Its Skin

Looking back over days gone by is mostly a painful exercise. You have no idea how trying it was to compile the Year in Review 2019: Part One, Part Two and especially Part Three. It was positively ghastly. I don’t like rehashing or retreading things, particularly from the near past, but I’ve learned such enterprises are crucial in truly moving forward. Failure to do so can result in some devastating consequences. Let’s just say I’ve got all the anger and resentment to prove it. The problem with not forgiving and not forgetting is that you end up carrying all of it with you, when everyone knows the best way to travel is to travel light.

This year, I’m working toward that goal. Toward letting go of the past after working through it. That means there are difficult conversations to be had, confrontations to be thrashed out, and all sorts of emotional fall-out which will need to be cleaned up and properly eradicated. None of it sounds very appealing, and most of it will probably suck. But I need to do this work if I want things to get better. I’m taking a deep breath, pulling up my big boy breeches, and charging purposefully into the process.

Fasten your seatbelts, it’s going to be a bumpy night.

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2020 Begins With A Hazy Vision

“You know, I think I’m in a state of shock…” ~ Madonna, ‘Truth or Dare’

Most years begin with a bang or a whimper.

Most of my life has been the same binary situation.

Either/or, never/always, yes/no, stop/go.

This year comes in somewhere between the two, with a hesitant air of uncertainty. The brighter way of looking at it is as a happy medium at long last. The darker way is as a harbinger of difficult times to come. And there I go down the two-way highway again instead of simply getting off the damn road altogether.

We begin in a multitude of grays. Subtle gradations of shadow, nuanced renderings of light, all the spaces in between the spaces. The stillness and the silence in between the noise. Beauty and madness and sorrowful glee, the mask sheds a tear, and I shed the mask. What will this bold new year bring? What does 2020 have hidden for us? Surprises have always worked better in theory and on paper than in execution. I still remember the surprise birthday party an ex-boyfriend once lovingly, if haplessly, tried to throw for me. It was disastrous all around, as Kira did her best to keep me away from the proceedings and I, thrown by her behavior and strange requests and stalling tactics, grew so annoyed that we ended up having a big fight. I walked away from her to go home and celebrate my birthday alone as she scrambled to find a phone to call the condo and tell everyone I was on my way, ready or not, and I was pissed. Virgos don’t like surprises.

I’m entering the new year with a little bit of hope, and lowered expectations. Better to stave off disappointment that way. Hope can be a dangerous thing. We’ve all been hurt by it. I’m at the age of safeguarding the heart, though in all honesty I’ve been at that age for years, probably before Andy came along. And part of me will always be fortified in the eventual case of hurt. I’m just beginning to see why. At key moments in my life there was no one to protect me, and at every one of those turns a little part of me died. Before the world could take it all, I took up arms to protect myself, and I’ve been safer ever since. We’ll deal with the side effects of such armor later, but to get to that point you have to survive first.

One of the biggest lessons I learned in the past year was how to take things one little step at a time. Instead of focusing on some grand all-encompassing goal and vision, I found it better to break things down into smaller increments, allowing for lots of little accomplishments as I worked toward something greater. It was a way of combatting a tendency toward perfectionism, as well as a way of training the body and mind to engage and act instead of plan and wait. This year I’m aiming to continue along those lines, and while 2020 is a big year for anniversaries of all sorts, I’m starting with this single day, and trying to make every minute of it matter in some way. To take joy in this very moment, in the moment that I write this, in the moment that someone reads it, in the moment that I close the lap-top and take a deep breath.

Outside, the stand of fountain grass is drained of all green, standing stiffly in the wind in shades of raw, stripped pine. The bones, the structure of it all, were still intact. With all that happened in the last year, all the growth and the beauty and the gorgeous straps of tall, healthy leaves, then the slow yellowing and rise of the fluffy seed heads, and finally the drying and decay of the frozen days, it still stood in our backyard. It will remain, beneath all the snow and ice, in the face of whipping winds and plunging temperatures, until I cut the stalks down next spring. It feels a long way off, too far to find any solace in the notion of spring. But the days are already getting longer. There is more light during our waking hours. I will focus on that. Through the storms. Through the chill. Until the light outweighs the dark.

A new year begins.

I know I’ll feel something later. I just don’t know when that’s going to be. I guess it’s a protection device. I hope I’m in a safe place when it happens.” – Madonna, ‘Truth or Dare’

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The Rollercoaster Year in Review: 2019 – Part Three

{See Part One and Part Two.} The higher the glory, the greater the fall. As lofty as the rollercoaster gets, it usually falls further from where it began. if that makes any sense. There is no such thing as rock bottom. The bottom is always ready to fall out again. Hold onto your hats for the last part of the year, then bid it all adieu. Bye bye, baby, bye bye. 

SEPTEMBER 2019:

Sometimes September is for getting naked.

When Maluma got together with Ricky Martin.

The category is Tom Daley.

The hot dog and peanut butter challenge, accepted.

A dozen years wasted on FaceBook.

Madgical mood Music.

Hot hunky miscellany.

Jude Law in that Speedo.

Beauty balm.

My Dad’s 89th birthday.

Beekman euphoria

Everyone loves a season premiere.

Naked summer reflections. 

Madonna’s Extreme Occident.

The most potent cocktail of them all.

Summer Sunday brunch, family-style.

Sous me.

The Summer Speedo of 2019: Part One, Part Two, Part Three & Part Four.

Confessions of a New York State Worker: my career journey with the government. 

Maybe September.

Beautiful fall day set to music.

A dragonfly visits.

Vision of a starry night.

Autumn enchantment: casting a spell.

Adam Lambert brings the super funk

Another September song.

Hunks and their bulges.

Just like that, I was old.

OCTOBER 2019:

A collection of Octobers.

Everybody in this party’s shining like Illuminati.

Losing steam heat.

Burning the wishes.

Shit just got real.

Selfie reflection.

When I’m wrong, I’m really wrong

I loved cancelling my Planet Fitness membership more than I enjoyed any of the few times I ever went there.

Sorry, I don’t work here.

The Girlie Show.

The Starbucks struggle is real.

Getting into all the Hocus Pocus of the season.

Follow this popcorn seller.

The day I’m going to die.

A gratuitous Dan Osborne bulge post.

Walking through grief together: Part One and Part Two.

Scary insidious

Is this mouse house for real?

Maybe this is where the turn began, I just didn’t see it then. I need a new project.

Our first sleepover with the Ilagan twins

The cozy scents of Tom Ford.

Sexy shirtless gents.

Feather delicacy of Algeria.

Andy’s birthday.

Madonna’s sexual anniversary.

Returning to DC under sad circumstances.

Missing mothers.

The world turned upside down.

A night at the Plaza… not yet.

Those pesky facts of life.

The backyard forest.

Velvet robe and unseen underwear.

Dinner at the Blue Duck Tavern.

October lends itself to poetry.

A friend’s mother leaves this world.

Comfort food: making meatloaf.

Soup for the soul and the stomach.

NOVEMBER 2019:

Reaching for the glued-down penny of Amnesia.

RIP Barney.

Words for November.

Quite possibly I’m simply sick of myself. 

Chris Hemsworth shirtless.

All over Albany.

Terror and wind overhead – the storm inside.

Liam Payne in Hugo Boss underwear.

When you need more than a smudging.

Dan Osborne bulges even more.

A rose full of surprises refuses to be bested by the fall.

Shirtless male celebrities: Part One and Part Two.

Saturday night television.

Savannah redux.

Hanging out with my ass out

Another fine fucked-up kitchen failure.

Get a lick and load of this cream.

Male celebrities in their Speedos and in motion.

Our family trip to Savannah: Part One, Part Two and Part Three.

Kitchen redemption: some amazing enchiladas.

Another record smashed by Madonna.

Words of Colin.

Mexican wedding cookies by Gram.

The briefs were gone by Christmas, but maybe they’ll be back in stock for Valentine’s Day.

Gender Swatching.

Simon Dunn gets deep, stays handsome

Big changes were  in store for this holiday season. Hang on…

The Ben Cohen calendar is always the best.

My first Boston Friendsgiving with Kira.

The days, this one in particular, grew long

Simon Dunn bulges through his Speedo.

A poem for late November.

What child is this and why is he talking to me?

Jason DeRulo’s anaconda in his underwear, as banned by Instagram. (Been there, my cocky friend.)

For all the holiday lovers.

Sporting shirtlessness.

The curtain rises on a whole new slew of holiday traditions.

Giving thanks through poetry.

Thankful remembrance.

Baking comfort.

After she bailed on all of her Boston shows, I took a brief break from Madonna.

Of course, it was a quick one, and we were back in good graces by the time ‘Medellin’ joined the Madonna Timeline

DECEMBER 2019:

Decembers gone before.

Cyber Monday breakdown.

Shirtless men again.

Wait, Shazam is my doppelgänger? Well follow me to a place I know…

When Charlie Brown met Snoopy.

Sugar & booze… well, the sugar at least.

The Beekman Boys do the holidays right.

The easiest pecan praline recipe ever.

This year’s holiday card was sweet, messy, and burnt the fuck out, just like its maker-baker.

Another friend loses her beloved mother, and the world grows dimmer

Beating a storm with teamwork

A host of holiday hunks.

My nine topped out at ass and cock.

Facing loss at the most wonderful time of the year.

The casket that got away in Albany.

Midnight colloquy with owls

I am officially in therapy for all sorts of shit. Watch out. The past is back.

Tree-trimming melancholy.

This is easily my favorite holiday tradition now

The calming crunch of biscotti.

Steve Grand selling underwear in his underwear.

Finding the next Madonna Timeline

The best preparations sometimes come crashing down

Hometown hero wants to make movie magic again.

A mixed batter.

A Hambone Holiday with Suzie.

The second go-round with this song because it’s so good.

Holiday Stroll 2019 with Kira.

Even more Holiday hunks.

Christmas Eve memories fading

The Boston Children’s Holiday Hour 2019: Part One and Part Two.

A comprehensive Merry Christmas retrospective.

The anti-climax of Christmas

The Hunks of 2019 in one convenient link-filled post. 

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The Rollercoaster Year in Review: 2019 – Part Two

The year crested in may ways during the high summer months, as is often the case. Most of our happiest moments fell during the stretch from May to August, so enjoy them now. They are fewer and further between once the fall arrives.

MAY 2019:

Adding some spring to my step.

The weekend everyone went to Boston: Part One and Part Two.

Zac Efron gets nude and shows off his ass.

Met Gala 2019.

A quiet nine-year anniversary.

And a bang-up anniversary recap.

Balls, balls, balls.

Annual Broadway weekend with Mom.

Madame is on the move

Channing Tatum naked.

My turn as a Carpool Mom.

‘To Kill A Mockingbird’ on Broadway. And ‘The Cher Show‘ for sparkle.

How I turned down the road rage. For the moment.

JUNE 2019:

A Yellow Dress Debuts in Boston: Part One and Part Two.

The flower clock begins its countdown to a new project.

Jason Momoa shirtless.

A few new spins on an old tradition: Boston baseball. 

A kick-off to a family summer.

Summer fun with the Ilagan twins.

 Summer love in bloom.

BroSox Adventure 2019: Part One, Part Two, Part Three and Part Four.

Madonna on the horizon

Decades into a storied career, Madonna releases her gutsiest record ever: ‘Madame X’.

Hot hunks.

Summer song: ‘Sit Down’ by James.

‘Borrowed Time’ by Madonna joins the timeline.

Signs, signs, everywhere signs.

Flowers.

Superhero hunks in their flesh

We like it best doggystyle.

The gay parade.

Massacre of the Madame X masterpiece.

Courting summer.

Summer fizz.

Boston summer day in Saigon.

Boston summer night in Saigon.

JULY 2019:

Shirtless hunks heat up.

The turkeys across the street.

Delta Dawn in Provincetown.

Connecticut Idyll: Part One and Part Two.

When summer gets to be Too Much.

Rib rubdown.

Seeing Faye Dunaway before, and apparently after, she went ballistic. 

My naked ass on Instagram.

A man sandwich: Jake & Tom.

I’ll be the king of wishful thinking

Painting a project.

Upon a teasing.

A summer read.

Painting a Press Release.

A watercolored interview: Part One and Part Two.

The Future.

The infamous tale of how Pier 1 Imports refused to sell me a pillow

Nineteen years with this guy.

Stretching with Roger Frampton.

Pool breathing

Summer hunk break.

The robe of falling flowers.

Florals for fragrance. Groundbreaking.

Once Upon A Watercolor: the new project.

AUGUST 2019:

If Nick Jonas has a Dad bod, call me Daddy. 

Taylor the Archer.

The underwear merchant in his goods

Beauty & evil intertwined

A gratuitous post of Chris Evans and his ass.

The voluptuous fig.

The Beekman Boys left my skin soft as a baby’s bottom.

Bopping around to this summer song.

The families you choose

Why do I even bother with these gift wish lists?

The days were gently tinted lavender pink, lemon and lime.

Madonna’s birthday.

‘Batuka’ joins the Madonna Timeline ranks

Sexy Simon Dunn on full display.

Betty Buckley just keeps on getting better

Hunky bulges.

My birthday suit for #44.

My real birthday suit.

‘Faz Gostoso’ from ‘Madame X’ shows Madonna in party mode. 

A love letter to Betty Lynn Buckley.

Kids today.

Finally, a fig or two.

I’ve been working for the state of New York for 18 years.

Boston birthday adventures: Part One and Part Two.

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The Rollercoaster Year in Review: 2019- Part One

A message for 2019, directly from me: get the fuck out of here yesterday. I’m in no mood. I have no patience. And you have tried me with all sorts of fuckery. As of this moment, I officially have no more fucks to give. Now let’s look back at this bad boy of a year and do our best to move beyond it! That warrants a dreaded exclamation point.

JANUARY 2019:

It began with a bang and a circus, and I had no idea what a fitting start that would be. 

There was peace if you sought it carefully. 

A birthday and a coveted pencil.

Pietro Boselli’s naked ass.

Sliding my ass into a onesie.

Bringing sexy back, Part One and Part Two.

Mary Poppins returned in fine form.

This still brings tears to my eyes, in the all-too-rare good way. 

A glimpse behind the curtain at the inception of a new project.

Brother can you hear me?

The passing of a favorite poet.

Madonna’s Secret Garden.

Zac Efron shirtless.

Tree cemetery.

Whaling in Oklahoma, in Boston.

Hunky odds and ends.

A mocktail hints at ways to come

‘Spamalot’ galloped to Proctors.

The art of the abelskiver.

Boston winter respite: Part One and Part Two.

Quirky brunch. An experimental meal ends in success.

James McAvoy naked.

FEBRUARY 2019:

Ahh, the months of February.

Jake Gyllenhaal nude.

Text me.

Super jock post.

Adam Levine’s shirtless climax.

Chris Hemsworth shirtless in motion.

Adam Levine’s nipples.

Best life hack of the year.

Iris eyes smiling.

My roller-skating days.

Zac Efron’s bulge.

My friendly Valentine. (Broken wings.)

Valentine music by Madonna.

Shirtless Shawn Mendes. And the Shawn Mendes bulge.

Boston warmth in winter.

The very first time I rescinded a Hunk of the Day for being so awful.

Tom Ford’s ‘Beau de Jour’.

Beneath a winter sea.

Summoning the sun.

Mike Rickard’s ‘Out Loud’.

A gratuitous Nick Jonas post.

Cristiano Ronaldo’s underwear package.

Oscars 2019.

Madonna & Lady Gaga.

Meditation.

A Japanese hot pot.

Pat the puss.

 

MARCH 2019:

All these Marches.

Do you feel the magic?

This American life.

Sexy suckers.

Let there be Light, Madonna-style.

Gratuitous underwear guys.

Friends & lovers.

Sexy (naked) Ass Wednesday post.

Shirtless Sunday studs.

Celebrating Skip’s birthday.

A boy babysitter.

The little prince (and I still need to find someone who can make me that coat).

Madonna’s ‘American Life’ gets a proper timeline write-up.

Hot half-naked ginger guys.

Adam Levine nude for his birthday.

A song that inspired two posts.

Spring cleaning, summer coming.

The 30th anniversary of Madonna’s ‘Like A Prayer’. And my crotch pays homage.

Savannah approaching.

Absolutely some regrets.

Desperado.

The naked footballer.

Beekman Boys beauty.

Let’s dance... you can do a little two-step!

Chris Evans owns America’s ass.

No one got me this robe and now it can’t be found. Another one of life’s little fuck-overs. 

APRIL 2019:

Full-frontal male nudity by Cristiano Ronaldo of all people. 

A duck crossing caught in Saratoga.

Rob Gronkowski sniffs Zac Efron’s Speedo, and it’s on video.

Naked in my bed.

Chromatic colorbleed.

Madonna’s ‘Forbidden Love’ brings back the dreamy soundscape of ‘Bedtime Stories’ and that poignant time in my life. 

More of Shawn Mendes shirtless.

Suzie had no idea who Diana Vreeland was. Scott would be so disappointed. 

Broadway plans with Mom.

Don’t look back, don’t ever look back.

Newsflash: Walmart sucks.

When and where men get shirtless.

A new Madonna can now begin.

Summer by Louis Vuitton never panned out. 

Making your first-born cry like the baby he was. Yeah, boy. You sit on that thing and you like it. 

Boston about to bloom.

Family Easter.

A trip to Savannah with Andy.

Artful and shirtless.

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A Post-Christmas/Pre-New Year’s Recap

Sandwiched uncomfortably in the midst of this holiday season, made especially disruptive thanks to Christmas and New Year’s falling smack-dab in the middle of the work week, I’m posting this recap a day early, as Monday and Tuesday will be filled with year-end recaps. So many recaps, and mostly of stuff I could not care less to repeat. Here we go – one last weekly one for the year.

Christmas Eve came and went without fanfare, and I couldn’t be happier that it’s done. It was largely ruined for me and the less said or thought about it, the better. 

The Boston Children’s Holiday Hour was also shaded differently this year, but it was still enough to warrant two parts.

A comprehensive Christmas retrospective, not sure why…

Maybe we will cancel Christmas next year.

You know things are off when Sylvia Plath supplies the Christmas quote.

Now onto the purgatorial lull.

A holiday mocktail to make all your dreams come true

When the boughs don’t break and the cradle still falls.

Pistachio cookies to close out the seasonal gluttony. 

Here I lie naked before you

Hunks of the Day included James Lock, Kevin Baker, Jonathan Tucker, DJ Ruckus and Jason Michael Snow.

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The Final Shirtless Sunday of the Year

We’ll get to a weekly recap a little later today, then the big yearly recaps begin tomorrow. For now, this Sunday morning is one of our last “regular” posts for the year. There’s no sin in being “regular” despite my penchant for fighting it. Too often we are told we need to do something to set ourselves apart from everyone else, and there is a certain value in distinction. Making that an end unto itself, however, diminishes the power behind an authentic grab at staking an identity for yourself. I know a few people who are doing their damnedest to avoid the standard life of all that’s “regular” in an effort to matter. Because we all just want to matter to someone.

I’ve fallen into that trap as well. Quite a few times, in fact. Every party, every event, every dinner and show – we do our best to make ourselves memorable. We don’t want to be part of the pack, a mere member of the herd. We want to be known, even if it’s just among a select few.

When given the choice between a pair of jeans or a pair of hot-pink pants emblazoned with yellow and turquoise flowers, I will almost always choose the latter. But there is that almost, and it’s an almost that matters more than the usual. Without it, there is no distinction. There is no variety. There is nothing to make the hot pink pants pop so gorgeously.

Even this post, in which I’ve said basically nothing, when I wasn’t saying things that were completely confusing even to me, is a “regular” post. It’s not a recap or a nostalgic recollection or a brand new project announcement or a Tom Ford fragrance review – it’s just some guy droning on about how being part of the mainstream isn’t so bad after all. Especially when a pair of pink pants is waiting in the closet, and a bare-naked blog post is waiting in the pre-populated wings.

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I Love a Drop Cookie Made with Instant Pudding

My friend Marline was just expounding upon how she loved a drop cookie and didn’t bother with those that required cooling and rolling and cutting. I’m in complete agreement, as I am on so many of Marline’s offerings of wisdom. Case in point: this simple pistachio cookie, which takes the short-cut around the nut scene and relies on the use of pistachio pudding mix for its flavor and color, and I couldn’t be happier to cut corners, especially when the results are so tasty.

One day I’ll go the Martha/Ina route of growing my own pistachios, harvesting them at their optimum time, curing and baking and drying or whatever the fuck we do to make pistachios palatable, then chopping and pulverizing in an old-school mortar and pestle – but until such time that a millionaire lifestyle of leisure and frou-frouery comes my way, it’s got to be Jello instant fucking pudding. It’s so fine and pretty! Once the liquids hit that powder it’s like St. Fucking Patrick’s Day without all the vomiting and passing out.

Here’s the recipe I found online somewhere (I believe it was EatMoveMake.com):

Pistachio Cookies
  • 2 sticks unsalted butter, room temperature
  • 2 eggs, room temperature
  • 2 packages pistachio instant pudding mix (3.4 ozs)
  • 1 teaspoon vanilla bean paste (or vanilla extract)
  • 2 cups flour
  • 1 teaspoon baking powder
  • 12 oz bag semi-sweet chocolate chips (or white chocolate chips)

 

  1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees F.
  2. In mixer, cream together eggs, butter and pudding mix until combined and smooth. (Watch it turn as green as Elphaba!) Stir in vanilla, then add flour and baking soda (I sifted these in). Fold in chocolate chips. (I switched out the semi-sweet chocolate for white chocolate for a lighter look and flavor.)
  3. Drop teaspoons of dough an inch apart onto ungreased baking sheet. (I did a tablespoon of dough and spaced them two inches apart on a baking sheet lined with parchment paper.) Bake 12-14 minutes. Cookies will have a golden tint to edges but still be very soft. Cool completely then store in an airtight container. Deliver to your friends because you will have a lot of cookies. Or eat them all yourself.

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When the Boughs Don’t Break

There is a place of rarefied air where the pine cones dangle, untouched by human hands, unbothered by human hearts, unfettered by human bonds, and even the human eyes that bear witness from afar cannot truly reach these ornaments of nature. Not in time anyway, not before they can do their best to disperse the next generation of hope. Against the bluest winter sky, because some winter days still afford a backdrop of blue, the pine tree soars splendidly into spires of perfect form.

I’ve often wondered at these places we will never reach. So much of our planet is like this, yet we seem to not understand the humility of such circumstances. No one wants to believe they are so small, so insignificant. We still hold onto the idea that one person can truly change the world. And who knows, maybe one person can. But the vast majority of us won’t come near to making such cosmic noise. No matter how much we yell. No matter how dangerously we destroy. No matter how many people we love.

I think of my Astronomy professor at such times of rumination, he of the ‘Custom Slaughtering;’ sign on his office door, the one right next to the ‘Until Morale Improves, the Beatings Will Continue’ sign. Like certain serious scientists, he seemed to have a philosophical take on the world, coming as it did from the point of view who regularly considered our microcosmic place in the universe. Eschewing fashion completely, and even cleanliness to a certain extent, he seemed perfectly content to merely exist, as if he knew the secret to living the best life wasn’t in making meaning of anything, but rather of realizing that there was no meaning in any of it, so why bother with the nonsense? Whenever I find myself getting bogged down in the details and minutiae of life, I think back to his wild hair and ratty garments, and I understand that our time here is too short to be bothered. Strange, coming from me. My whole life seems the antithesis of that. And it’s cool if you believe that.

I’m going to float up to those pinecones and ask them what they know, what they’ve seen. It’s more than me. It’s more than all of us. If I were them, I’d never tell.

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Sparkling Pom Jewels

Quietly passing the two-month mark of not having any alcohol, I’m pleasantly surprised at how uneventful and easy such a lifestyle shift has proven to be. I’ve lost some weight, I’ve felt the heaviness of relying on such a depressant lift, and I’ve saved more than a few pretty pennies switching out the liquor for the sparkling water. Luckily, there are more than enough alternatives to keep the libation menu varied and scintillating, and I’ve been exploring all sorts of seltzers and mixers to make the holidays sparkle.

Case in point is this pomegranate rosemary sparkler, which has an easy recipe that one can modify as one sees fit. It uses a big dash of pomegranate juice (cranberry will do as well) then gets a small dash of rosemary simple syrup (one part sugar to one part water, boiled for a few minutes with a few sprigs of rosemary, then cooled) and a heavy topping of pomegranate seltzer over ice. Garnish with some pomegranates and rosemary, and you have a holiday classic that looks as festive as it tastes.

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Frozen Lull

The icicle waits and watches the innocent below.

To melt itself into a dagger is an art.

Tricky thaws lead to sharp paws.

It will scratch your eyes out.

If it doesn’t impale you first.

It feels like all icicles are just waiting to strike.

Probably an unfair bit of intent and baggage to saddle on such an unwitting, if armed, entity.

Winter takes its prisoners regardless of their intent.

Ridged and rippled, the ice takes its form from the wind.

Like the waves of a pond.

In the hand, it is slippery.

Of course it is cold too.

A cold that burns.

A cold that cuts.

A cold that renders the heart still.

Its beauty matched by its inherent threat, ready to pierce at a moment’s notice, when it’s absolutely necessary.

When it’s time for battle.

When it’s time for war.

When it’s time…

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Wrapping This Xmas Up

“I felt overstuffed and dull and disappointed, the way I always do the day after Christmas, as if whatever it was the pine boughs and the candles and the silver and gilt-ribboned presents and the birch log fires and the Christmas turkey and the carols at the piano promised never came to pass.” ~ Sylvia Plath

When Suzie asked me how Christmas had gone, I responded that I went through it like a stunned mullet. I’m not entirely sure what a stunned mullet is, but in what I believe was a ‘New Yorker’ profile on her, Liza Minelli once described coming off stage feeling like one, so I’ve always used that phrase whenever I feel shell-shocked. Not entirely sure what that means either. But when you spend a heightened holiday around people with whom you’ve shared a complex and primal relationship for twenty to forty-four years, you sometimes feel like a stunned mullet. I take it to mean someone or something that’s been shot with a stun gun or hit with some other method of blunt force trauma, and who’s just beginning to come to consciousness again.

The simile fits. The fog is lifting. The heart is heavy. And I’m tired.

Here are a few photos of Christmas 2019. It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, and when you’re channeling a Dickensian state of existence, you know you’re in trouble. 

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