I’ve been avoiding YouTube tearjerkers like they were flash mobs, but every now and then someone I admire and respect shares something like this, and I take the time to watch. It’s a little long for the usual YouTube clip, but more than worth it. This is a family that could teach many other families some wonderful lessons.
The first day of summer is here at last, and the promise of the happiest season of the year finds fulfillment. While it’s the hope of all to come that fuels these glorious early days, here’s a brief look back at a summer that came before. Only by acknowledging the past can we move gaily toward the future… or some bullshit like that – it’s summer, who gives a fuck?
It wouldn’t be pool season without a few gratuitous Speedo posts, like this one featuring Tom Daley.
My reign-of-terror on Instagram began last June, and since that time far fewer photos than expected have been taken down for objectionable content. I’ve disappointed myself, and no doubt a few of you. Those who follow, however, had a chance to see the banned pics before they get pulled, so what are you waiting for? Follow.
How long will it take to get used to me? Don’t wait that long.
This year was all about Tiffany’s, but last year it was Gatsby’s party.
The tea-scented tree peony in all its fragrant splendor.
A winter Olympian in the summer has no choice but to get naked.
What’s simple is true, and beautiful.
Eat me, I’m juicy.
Not clitoris, clematis.
Last year at this time Ian Ziering was stripping for the Chippendales. I hear he’s doing the same thing this summer.
The babies, the babies!
Go Doogie.
A look-back within a look-back.
Lovely ladies – two of them.
It’s always summer where Madonna is concerned.
The pool. Nothing matters but the pool.
And the Speedo.
And the skinny dip.
And the sun.
There haven’t been as many Boston trips of late, but a few are coming up, with a possible game at Fenway in the works with a certain webmaster. I haven’t been to a baseball game since 1993, when the Red Sox were down by 11 in the 7th inning and I left to go shopping on Newbury Street. It was the best decision – and they did not make any sort of miraculous comeback.
This summer, guided by my brother and his methods of procuring tickets, we may check out a game, as long as it’s not against the Yankees. Cooler heads must prevail.
Certain people loathe hydrangeas, others loathe rhododendrons. I’m in the latter camp. When we bought our home, a gigantic rhododendron stood in front of the large window of the living room. It blocked the light and the view year-round, with its evergreen foliage and enormous stature. In late spring, it bloomed in the traditional bright magenta – a color I usually love, except in the ubiquitous form of the rhododendron. The trouble was, I had no clear idea of what to do in its stead, so it stayed in its spot, growing larger and larger from year to year, despite my futile pruning attempts.
Eventually I couldn’t take it anymore, and early one spring I chopped it down. This was a difficult endeavor. The trunks were thick and gnarled, and the roots had twisted in on themselves. It was a stubborn thing that initially refused to budge. I let it go for a few days before hacking away at it with a hatchet. Finally, it released its hold, and I fell backward in a shower of dirt and sweat.
I amended the soil and planted a double-file viburnum where the rhody used to be, in a poorly-thought-out moment of viburnum obsession. I hadn’t realized the importance of the former’s evergreen nature, and when winter came the bare branches made me question my decision. In another year, the fast-growing branches of the viburnum had reached the same proportion of the rhody that I’d taken down, leaving me with the same predicament.
Once again, I got out the saw and hatchet, and chopped away at another overgrown specimen. This was the ruthless part of gardening that, once I made up my mind to do it, I executed with cruel deliberation. Even in its relatively short time, it had somehow burrowed deeper than the relatively-shallow-rooted rhododendron, its long tap root extending beyond comprehension. I had to dig an enormous well around it just in order to get deep enough. For having such a delicate flower form, the viburnum is a hardy wench, but I fought until its death, because a gardener doesn’t give up. In the end, a bare patch of ground remained.
I didn’t move hastily to fill in the spot, enjoying the expanse for a bit and carefully contemplating what to do. The answer presented itself when an umbrella pine in the background outgrew its space beside and beneath a weeping cherry. On a rainy afternoon, I dug it gently out of the only home it had ever known and put it into the empty space that always seem to fill too quickly. The slow-growing nature of the umbrella pine was perfect for the spot, and we would have years before it would even need to be pruned.
For All State Insurance no less, and bloody brilliant.
(Yes, I teared up, as I tend to do these days.)
The song is by singer-songwriter Eli Lieb, who will no doubt be featured quite a bit more here – in a couple of short hours in fact…
Every summer our parents would take us on a family vacation. These were usually about a week in duration (it was the most my Dad would take off from work) but they seemed much longer, in the way that childhood has of stretching out time, especially during spells of grand adventure. We’d pack up the big station wagon, load a cooler with ice and sandwiches and soda (a treat, as we never got to drink much soda as kids) and head out on a carefully-plotted excursion. Sometimes we went South – to Florida or South Carolina – and sometimes we’d head North – to Montreal or Toronto. It didn’t really matter to us – we just loved the thrill of getting out of town for a while, and the excitement of hotel stays and new places to see.
For one of these vacations, a friend of my Mom gave her a journal to keep track of everything we did. She made a few entries before this final one:
The kids are miserable.
Emil – generally miserable.
Me – wondering why the hell I plan these vacations…
Looking back, we laugh at it. At the time, I’m sure there was hell to pay. Now, as we are about to embark on our first family vacation in over two decades, I hope the twins don’t volley my karma back at me. We’ll be on the Cape, where a couple of four-year-olds can get very tiresome if there’s not fun and sun and a lot to do. Wish me luck.
Can we talk about dance recitals for a moment? Not in a politically-correct and kind way, but in a blunt, honest, hard-truth kind of way? I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings, but some things need to be said. I just attended my first, and very possibly last, dance recital for my four-year-old niece. Let me say upfront that she was great – I have to say that as her Uncle, and as someone who loves her dearly. She executed her dances well – all two that were in the early part of the program – and finished in relative unison in the finale. It was the intervening couple of hours that had me questioning my sanity, and the very existence of humanity.
First of all, two and a half hours is a long time for any production – but I’ve been told that this is relatively short for this sort of thing. All I can say to that is that if I have to sit through a recital longer than this, I’m taking a hostage or calling in a bomb threat. Either way, there will be people thanking me for it.
Second, there’s a rule against leaving once the kids you are there to see are finished, right? I’m certain that this is a rule, or at least polite protocol. I’m also guessing that this is why every single person, no matter how briefly or how early they appear in the program, is in the final number. As Madonna once remarked, “That’s one of life’s little fuck-overs.â€
By the time we reached the Justin Bieber medley, my patience was tried, my brain was fried, but I still hadn’t died. FaceBook friends had told me to pray for death at the start but I didn’t listen. Now it was too late, and no one was going to smite me.
And yet… and yet… watching my little niece doing her toe taps and singing the final song of the evening, I was almost moved to forgive all that came before. Almost.
You know we live in topsy-turvy times when Andy’s yellow pants trump my greatest sequin efforts, but that’s exactly the reaction we got from those who know us best. Of course, I made a valiant effort and good showing even if his buttercup butt stole the day. I’m ok with that, as long as he doesn’t make it a regular occurrence. (And I’ve got a few tricks in my closet that should insure it won’t be.)
This year Albany’s Gay Pride Parade and Festival took place on a nearly perfect day. Usually, this day is sweltering hot or pouring rain. We lucked out for once, and the sequins could shine in all their glory – especially when given a double-jolt by my brilliant Sparkle Queen counterpoint, the ever-fabulous Duchess Ivanna.
Bea Arthur at her solid-gold-dancer’s-mother finest couldn’t hold a candle to the two of us, even if she was trying to bag a priest. Looks like this lady got the sequin memo too.
The day brought out some of my favorite people in Albany – old and new friends alike – as seen in this contingent of happy faces from the Capital Pride Center.
The HomoRadio crew was headed up by Sean and Ulysses.
I have mercifully cropped out the shoes of this otherwise-beautiful shot with Brenda and Marline (you’re welcome).
The ladies and gentlemen of the Rocks float, waving to the adoring throngs.
It was also a day of meeting FaceBook friends like Jai in person for the first time. (And I daresay he may have managed to out-sassy me in this pose – no mean feat.)
Oh look, it’s Oh Bar!
On our way out, we ran into two very dear friends we’ve known for over thirteen years ~ Bob and Jeff.
It was the perfect end to a perfect day of Pride.
It seems like this past week has been about one outfit after another in a quick-change game of outrageous wardrobe switch-ups, culminating with the featured sparkling ensemble you see before you now. This year’s Gay Pride outfit came together rather haphazardly. Unsure of which route to take ~ sequins or leopard ~ I posed the question to FaceBook and Twitter and the results were overwhelmingly in favor of sequins, with most people citing leopard’s hey-day of last year (to which I beg to differ – leopard is timeless).
In a twist veering from my modus operandi, I went with popular opinion (and what was already halfway in my wardrobe) so I purchased this pair of sequin shorts, rustled up a sequin top that had been in my attic closet for ten years, and paired it with a Deborah Harry tank top and pink necklace. The flip flops were simply a case of function over form, and an anticipated soggy field through which I’d be walking – plus I liked their color clash with the pink of Debbie’s top. A pair of aviators rounded out the insanity, because they forgive a lot of questionable shit.
I am so ready to slip into a pair of comfortable board shorts for the rest of the summer. Or nothing at all – so be prepared.
Harry Judd has long been a favorite in these parts ~ his body, his face, and his accent ~ and now these GIFs that capture the man in snippets of motion cement that favored status. He’s rightfully been named a Hunk of the Day (not once, but twice), taken his pants off for Attitude magazine, and then taken everything off. Because a naked Harry Judd is better than any other kind.
It’s been a whirlwind of non-stop fun, and work, for the past few weeks, especially this last one, and a bit of exhaustion has finally caught up with me. Let me try to catch my breath and recap some of the events, before we slow down a bit.
Suzie celebrated her birthday – I won’t name which one, even if she wouldn’t mind, as mine is just a couple months away. Her Mom also got some well-deserved accolades with a New York State Liberty Medal.
I got behind the wheel of a Pontiac GTO, but didn’t really go anywhere. These two, however, did.
There were a few evenings of family fun, including this one celebrating a pre-school graduation.
It was a week of Pride, and all the accompanying outfits, highlights of which included the GLSEN Formal Affaire with its ‘Breakfast at Tiffany’s’ theme.
A return trip to NYC was made for this amazing production of ‘Here Lies Love’ – a musical about Imelda Marcos and the Philippines – and a reunion with Suzie and Chris.
The Hunks were on display as always, including Ryan Phillippe, Malachi Marx, Ayden Callaghan, Jose Llana and several DILFs.
On this Father’s Day, let’s look back at some of those daddies who were featured in a very different capacity as Hunks of the Day here. Does Fatherhood add or detract from a guy’s appeal? I’m not going to give my politically incorrect answer (Fathers and sex have no business being together outside of the Catholic church) but here are a few to get you shouting ‘Oh Daddy!’
First up is Matt Bomer, who has shown us that you don’t have to be straight to be a good father – a lesson that Neil Patrick Harris also gave, fathering twins no less.
Relatively new to being a baby daddy, Channing Tatum was much better known for other things. Stripping, modeling, and going butt-to-butt with Joe Manganiello.
He’s not quite there yet (pop it out Mila!) but Ashton Kutcher is about to become a father, and it looks like he’s ready.
Thanks to Reese, Ryan Phillippe became a Daddy a while back, but he remains in fighting form as evidenced here.
A tree-trimming father who didn’t bother to put his pants on for the holiday festivities, this is Mario Lopez.
Giving off that sexy Mr. Clean vibe and displaying his prowess with a tool belt, Chip Wade is an HGTV father.
I don’t know what kind of physical gifts the offspring of Ed Burns and Christy Turlington were bestowed, but I’m guessing they’re major.
Shakira’s Baby Daddy Gerard Pique.
Jamie Foxx will often bring one of his kids to red carpet events, which is a very cool thing.
The bromance between Matt Damon and Ben Affleck did not result in any children – they got them by other means.
Sometimes Dads can be kind of slutty. Case in point Eddie Cibrian.
His own kids are becoming stars in their own right, but they wouldn’t be around at all if it wasn’t for Will Smith.
Last but not least, a pair of daddies who own the term DILF: Ben Cohen and David Beckham.
Back in the 90’s, Suzie took me to John Fluevog on Newbury Street. Back then, she was the one who bought a pair, but I filed the name and the company away for a bit, until I purchased my first pair a few months later. I still have that pair, and it remains one of my favorites. I almost wore them out, so now I save them for special occasions. It wasn’t until this past year that I returned to the store on Newbury Street, and bought the gorgeous pair you see before you now.
I waited a couple of months before showing them off, but for the GLSEN ‘Breakfast at Tiffany’s Formal Affaire’ it was time. There’s something about a new pair of shoes, especially quirky ones like these, that lifts the spirit.
The only question was: what kind of outfit could possibly hold up against such brilliance?
I think I found it.
As for the GLSEN event, it was a stunning success, and a ton of fun, thanks to the good folks behind it, especially Rick Marchant and Lisa Keller Weis – who worked their asses off to make it such a great night.
