My family and I posed in front of the Ice Blue Show Queen in her virgin voyage to Amsterdam, NY. She has since been outfitted with chrome license plate frames, because my car fanaticism has taken root. All this time I’ve been worried about catching the menopause from co-workers, I didn’t realize the car obsession syndrome that was right next to me in the form of my husband. It’s the unsuspecting ones who always get it.
A seagull pokes its head over the sand dune. Among beach grass and scattered feathers, it peers at us from a distance, then flaps its wings and disappears. The wind is strong on this day, scattering sand into waves that echo the ocean. Examined closely, the grains are fine, and the sand here is soft. In-between our toes, it sifts as if in an hourglass. I bury my foot deeper. The breeze is cool on the tip of Cape Cod, and for this overcast day the beaches are relatively empty. It’s late in the season – end of August or early September – and Suzie and I have made an impromptu trip to Provincetown. The year is 1995.
We had driven over in the rain, and somehow Suzie found us lodging for the weekend. The fall semester was set to begin in a couple of days. We didn’t want the summer to end. On our last day, instead of hitting the road, we made our way to the beach. Not the gay beach – it would be a few years before I learned the long and winding way through the marsh and dunes to make it there – but a quiet stretch of shoreline where only a few other brave folks withstood the chilly wind. I would have left early in the morning, but Suzie wanted a day at the beach, and in the first break from the rain, and our last hours on the Cape, we took it.
I listen to the waves crash rhythmically upon the shore. Their roar is muffled beneath the rushing wind. I put on a pair of headphones, as much for the music as to shield my cold ears. A Shirley Horn song begins as my eyes follow a fellow walking along the beach.
On a plaid pillow, I lean back. Suzie snaps a photo, likely at my insistence. The sun looks as if it wants to break through, but a layer of clouds prevents it. There will be no direct sunlight today. That doesn’t bother me as much with Suzie by my side. I don’t know then that this moment will be one of my happiest memories, before the entanglements of romance began for both of us, before the break-ups and breakdowns. For now, the hope and possibility and excitement of love looms beautifully on the horizon, just ahead of us, and the only thing bothering me is the impatient anticipation involved: I cannot wait to find it. To find him.
I don’t know what he’ll look like, but I’ll spend the next several years searching, and seeking out the one. Some will come close, and I’ll try to force them into the place of my heart where I most want someone to fit, but I begin to doubt that anyone will fill that hole. Even those who love me, at least for a moment, seem ill-suited for such treacherous and tedious environs. I watch them pass on. I watch them walk away.
There is passion I find along the way. Enough to sustain, enough to maintain hope. And there is love. Even when it is fleeting and ephemeral, it matters. I believe this because the alternative is too grim to fathom. When the world turns dark, and loneliness cries forlornly like the whimper of a trapped animal, you will believe in almost anything.
Every now and then a post comes along to catch all the miscellaneous pics of previously-featured Hunks that have been revealed in the time since their crowning glory. This is one of those posts, and it’s a catch-all for some heavy-hitting hunks that have already graced these virtual pages. We begin, as we often do, with Tom Daley – and it’s a very good place to start.  These shots are from his latest calendar. Everyone loves it when Tom gets wet, and Tom is more than game to please the fans.
Ronnie Kroell is another celebrity who knows how to treat his fans, as seen in this pair of pics. His workout regime is reaping wondrous rewards, most of which are easily visible to the naked, and thrilled, eye. His work for the Friend Movement adds a layer of depth to such a pretty façade, and it feels good to celebrate someone whose inside is just as gorgeously-rendered as the outside.
This hairy shot of Jude Law, who bounced his naked ass around so sexily here, shows him aging in an impossibly hot manner. Chin up, man.
Finally, a pair of peeps whose butts merit their own post, but who will have to suffice with this major minor feature. First up is tennis champ Novak Djokovic, who previously posed in his black briefs and super smile.
Second, and bringing up the hottest rear ever, is Matthew Camp. Mr. Camp has been here a number of times before, notably for his fragrance, his looks, his scent, and his sexiness. This shot should cement his hunky status as he gears up for film stardom.
He’s been featured here before, but since his new book is available to order now, it seems a fitting moment to post a feature on Mark MacKillop. ‘Rm. XIV’ is Mr. MacKillop’s coffee-table book collection of photos taken during a ‘West Side Story’ touring stint in Europe. He described the tour as a challenge that left him feeling isolated, which, to our benefit, resulted in this collection of intimate portraits.
With an introduction penned by ‘Kinky Boots’ star Billy Porter, the book comes with Broadway’s blessing, and some serious theatrical fairy dust. MacKillop is one of those rare performers who seems inwardly shy and introverted, while thrilling the world with his talent and craft. ‘Rm. XIV’ offers a peek behind the veil, with the perfect alchemy of intimacy and intrusiveness.
The book can be ordered here, and a few limited-edition versions are still available.
Tonight I’m seeing ‘Guardians of the Galaxy’ with my pal Skip. His daughter Mia Grace just appeared on the Jimmy Kimmel show going head-to-head with the actual stars of the movie (Bradley Cooper, Zoe Seldana, Vin Diesel, Chris Pratt, et.al) on Marvel trivia (and promptly whipping their butts). More on the miraculous Mia in another post (she merits one of her own). For tonight, Skip and I are heading to what looks to be the movie adventure of the summer. Skip has been my man-date for a number of movies over the years, and he’s a reminder of what I miss most by not hanging out with straight guys that much.
There’s also the thrill of an adventure movie, something that harkens back to the first time my brother and I saw ‘The Goonies.’ I remember coming out of that movie and yearning to go on a similar thrill-seeking journey. We spent the summer riding our bikes through the neighborhood or exploring the forest behind our house, hoping to find our way into an adventure that offered a bit of danger, but not enough to truly threaten or frighten us. Measured risk, wherein we’d try to tempt the neighborhood bully into giving chase and following us along a booby-trap-laden forest path. (That’s what I said! Booby traps!) Of course it never came to fruition, but the planning and anticipatory delight we took in mapping out the possibility was all the fun we needed.
Other movies through the years inspired similar adventure-seeking desire: ‘Cloak and Dagger’, ‘Adventures in Babysitting‘, and the first ‘Batman’ reboot by Tim Burton. After each, I was left wanting something more exciting to happen in my life, some exciting trip down the rabbit-hole that resulted in growth. In some ways, I longed for the simple cementing of friendship that happens when you go through something so extreme with someone else.
Tropical of form, gigantic of structure, and immense of leaf span, these plants are affectionately known as elephant ears. They provide the perfect backdrop for a pool or water feature, with their waxy and wavy leaves rising high into the sky and dwarfing all else around them. This is the first year I’ve successfully managed to grow them. Last year I tried starting them from a few sad corms that never quite took off, but this time I used plants that had already sprouted. I transplanted them into enormous pots to allow for ample root growth (and there is much; rumors of busted-out clay pots are easily believable). The results are spectacular, even if these photos offer but a glimpse of their glory.
At least three feet in length and width, the leaves are an accurate approximation of their whimsical namesake. Lending the patio a tropical aspect, they also have a personality that changes upon circumstances I have yet to figure out. At times the foliage stands up straight – erect and pointing to the sky – a rigid stance that gives a strong vertical flavor to the proceedings. At other points it relaxes, arching gracefully in soft curves, delicately bobbing in the breeze. I need to make further observation and tests to see if I can figure out what is going on. Both pots are relatively close to other plants, which may explain the phenomenon. Many plants will grow away from other encroaching plants, resulting in the rigid, vertical form I’ve seen this one occasionally take. It may also indicate a watering issue. Aside from the more obvious signs of wilting, some plants will change form when lacking or wanting water. Whatever the case, it’s a beautiful mystery that will play out over the rest of the season. I will keep my eyes on the ears.
The day after a party is usually a bit of a downer. There is something especially depressing about party decorations on the morning-after, each a little jab at the heart of fleeting happiness. One would think a forecast of rain and stormy weather would add insult to such injury, but on a recent Sunday following a get-together, I found a slice of solace in the skies opening up and pouring down.
Surely, we needed it. The sorry states of our lawn and trees have not been helped by all the dryness, but more than that I’ve missed the tranquil peace that the rain affords. Like a snowstorm, it stills the hustle for a little while, and makes watching ‘Dirty Dancing’ for the first time a little less of a guilty-pleasure. (Suzie gave me the DVD for Christmas last year – I’d never seen it. And I honestly don’t know what the fuss is all about.)
As Baby learned to dance, and Johnny Castle rescued her from the corner, I listened to the rain and thunder. It was wild and heavy for a spell, but soon passed on. The sun peeked out again as water dripped from the drooping leaves and flowers of the garden. There would be more storms in the night, with several severe strokes of lightning that took the power out. Better to sleep through such nonsense, but for now the return of the rain was a welcome respite.
Late July… that rings ominously, as it feels like we just left June. The summer is flying by, the last week of July is here, and it’s a lazy Monday morning. Time for a recap, and no better place to begin than with the Hunks of the Day that turned the heat up.
It began with British diver Jack Laugher, continued with Madonna’s boy-toy Timor Steffens, second-time-around crooner Adam Lambert, and hairy male model Ryan Barrett.
An anniversary gift from Andy scented the air, and my body, with a little yuzu from Issey Miyake.
And speaking of that anniversary, this week marked number 14.Â
Summer crept along, rather prettily.
My first car in over a decade: introducing the Ice Blue Show Queen.
An enchanting secret in the backyard, and an unexpected bed post.
Summer fun with family, a habit to which we are getting happily accustomed.
And some adult swimming pool fun, because that’s what most of you wanted to see. (Or not…)
The title of this post takes its name from a book by Truman Capote, and contains the following quote:
Of many magics, one is watching a beloved sleep: free of eyes and awareness, you for a sweet moment hold the heart of him; helpless, he is then all, and however irrationally, you have trusted him to be, man-pure, child-tender.
The obvious route to take, pictorially-speaking, is a bed shot, with some teasingly-placed sheets entwined around the nether regions. However, since we’ve already gone the nude road earlier today, I’ve switched it up with these early-spring bearded shots from a few months ago. Spring already feels far away, and I’m somewhat sorry that it should be so.
Why wet a suit when no one can see? Continuing this weekend’s gratuitous grab for summer hits, here are a few more naked shots, taken right in my own backyard. While I’ve never been one to sit around and bake in the sun, there are days when it feels right and good to do so, especially with a decent book in hand.
There have been a couple of good summer reads so far – ‘Mr. Owita’s Guide to Gardening’ by Carol Wall, and a non-fictional recounting of the Boston Marathon bombing – and I’m already entranced by Marcus Zusak’s latest ‘I Am the Messenger’. Mr. Zusak wrote one of my favorite reads, ‘The Book Thief’ so when I saw his latest in the bookstore, I giddily grabbed it. Just ten pages in and I was instantly hooked.
It looks to be a quick read, so if you have any ideas on a few more books, I’m always ready to receive.
In the meantime, a few nude pics for those who prefer watching to reading. You know who you are, and why you’re here. (And I couldn’t be more thankful.)
Hidden in the less-than-expansive environs of our backyard, beneath a Chinese dogwood, and behind a towering stand of Miscanthus and a rising patch of a recovering cup plant (which just barely escaped ruin by an interrupted groundhog) is the lace-cap hydrangea pictured here. While these photos isolate and feature it in a way that makes it impossible to ignore, in its habitat it is subtle and quiet, and sometimes I even forget about it until something draws me closer, and I find it again with happy wonder, half-buried beneath a stand of ostrich ferns.
The flower takes the same form as the climbing hydrangea, but is imbued with a subtle shade of lavender, veering toward blue if you’re lucky to get the soil pH just right.
The airy effect of the form, both exquisite and enchanting, is the perfect secret of a backyard garden.
There are those who would argue, and not wholly without merit, that absolutely everything here is an exercise in exhibitionism, but there are other things at work. Well, maybe not today, as this post is nothing but a gratuitous grab at lazy weekend viewers. As promised, I’m taking it easy this summer, as attention turns outside, to a real life at which these photos only hint. Tip of the iceberg…
Some posts tell their own stories with very little promoting from this exhausted writer. Let that happen right now.
It was a cold, late-winter night in Boston. Piles of dirty snow stubbornly refused to yield to overcast days, and all color had long since drained from the city in its barren winter state. Beneath a street lamp, however, a shade of hope glowed like a beacon in the night. As I approached, I made out a Mini Cooper, in a hue somewhere between Robin’s egg and Tiffany blue. A Mini Cooper was about the only car I could easily recognize (up until that time the only two cars I could accurately identify were a taxi and a limo, and even that was sketchy.)
Thanks to its color and design, however, this Mini Cooper immediately stole my heart, and the guy who swore he would never go crazy over an automobile fell hard and fast in love. I took a photo and sent it to Andy to confirm proper identification. He quickly discovered the official color was ‘Ice Blue’ and from that moment it was the only car I ever truly wanted. After some negotiating, and a generous loan from my parents, we were able to order my first car in over ten years.
This past weekend, we picked it up, decked out with some lime green stripes (‘Iguana Green’ if we’re going for technical accuracy). Thanks to Andy, it was outfitted with some chrome, a set of fancier wheels, and a Harman Kardon stereo that plays Madonna in the manner to which she should be accustomed. We had decided on the Clubman for its extended space, and it still manages to clock in at 22 inches shorter than the Blazin’ Blue Boy Racer (Mazda) that had served me so well. I think Andy misses that car more than I do, but the Ice Blue Show Queen is all that matters now.
As we sat at the dealer signing papers, Andy smiled. “It’s a cult,” he said, as another couple sat down to begin their consultation. I glanced through the reading material at hand and searched for any murder/suicide pact or a poisonous Kool Aid recipe that might give any indication of cult-status, but found none.
Our excellent salesman Ron went through the features and a basic how-to of the car (mood lighting in every color of the rainbow!) and then we were off. For the first time, I found myself excited to be behind the wheel of a car. Usually I’m content to let Andy or anyone else drive, but this car, in its color and design, was only for me.
The next day I experienced another first: I was looking forward to driving in it, just for the sake of driving. I’d often shaken my head in disbelief at those who would waste precious time driving around aimlessly, to no purpose. Now, suddenly, I found myself doing the same. The ultimate lesson in the journey being the destination.
Though it’s too soon to say whether I’ll be a complete car convert, I did find myself noticing other automobiles for the first time – their design, their accessories, their tires. I took pride in the vehicle I was driving, suddenly careful not to park under any bird-crapping trees or wires and avoiding tight parking spaces where I might get dinged. It was, in its way, like having a kid after all, and as most parents would claim, mine is the prettiest girl in the world.
Yes, I have tasted the Kool Aid… and it tastes good.
Commonly called “Creeping Jenny†this is Lysimachia nummularia. A groundcover or hanging plant often used as a trailing bit of vertical power in mixed pots, it’s also a perennial, which I discovered haphazardly a few years ago. Though this specimen covers the ground beneath a weeping cherry, it originated in one of our potted plantings. It trailed low enough to the ground to take a foot hold and send down roots into the neighboring soil, resulting in an unplanned but not unwelcome patch of chartreuse green. Happy accidents like that are some of the best parts of gardening.
Another unexpected surprise was when it started flowering. Accustomed to its foliage only, I did not expect the sunny yellow blooms that highlighted the bright leaves. I’m guessing that only when left to run freely in soil do the blooms materialize – further proof that when you give plants what they want (freedom and good soil in this instance) they perform far better than when confined to pots or other unnatural conditions.
