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The Modern-Day Valentine Mix – Side Two

The relatively dark ending of Side One now over (there should always be a dramatic finish to the first act) we turn now to a Valentine’s reprieve in the form of fantasy. When real life doesn’t work out, and more often than not it doesn’t (at least not to the perfect extent that some of us would like) there’s only one thing to do: escape. I’m not talking the well-practiced acceptance speech after winning an Oscar/Grammy/Tony/Emmy award, or the imagined thunderous applause after performing a sell-out concert in Madison Square Garden, or even the perfectly-executed dance routine at a wedding that has all guests gasping in thrilled adoration and awe, I’m talking something more subtle yet just as seemingly unattainable: the perfect guy.

Track #4: LOST IN YOUR EYES

 

I get lost in your eyes, then I feel my spirit rise

And soar like the wind, is it love that I am in?

I get weak in a glance, isn’t this what’s called romance?

And now I know, cause when I’m lost I can’t let go…

He watches me in the brief moments between classes. Our lockers are across from each other, and out of the corner of my eye I can tell he is pausing, waiting until I catch him staring, at which point he’ll look away or rush off or, on those happiest of days, look back and give a brief smile. He is older than me, but I like that. There is something protective about the way he behaves toward me, something I never felt even from my own parents. His protection was absolute, unwavering, and unconditional. It was simply in his nature.

After school one day he found me sitting by the curb, waiting for my ride. He sat down next to me. The brush of his denim was soft but firm, and he smelled vaguely of warmth – of toast on a cold morning, of apple pie on a cold night, of hot chocolate on a winter day – and of something dirtier.

He makes a bit of small talk, asks about a class I’m in that he took a couple of years ago, then squeezes my shoulder as a way of saying good-bye. I look up at him as he rises, and he has that smile again. And those eyes. And suddenly I am lost.

That night, I lie in bed unable to sleep. The feel of his hand on my shoulder had thrilled me, and I put my own hand on the bony area trying to determine what he might have felt. It is thin and slight beneath my hand, and I wonder at how it would compare to his own broadness and muscles. I feel embarrassed and ashamed, and my heart is in riot and rapture. I try to conjure his scent, try to recall the brief brush of his leg against mine, and only end up pulling a pillow close to myself for comfort. I want to cry.

I don’t mind not knowing what I’m headed for

You can take me to the skies

It’s like being lost in heaven

when I’m lost in your eyes. 

I just fell…

The days pass slowly, filled with the agonizing distractions of school work and classes between which I live in the brief moments that I’m near him. I write his name on scraps of paper that I quickly tear into tiny pieces with less than a letter on each lest anyone piece together the secret wishes of my heart. Alone in my bedroom, I write more than his name.

Love letters and dreams and fantasies of a life together. I write him my darkest fears, tell him my most daring desires, and explain how in the moment he touched my shoulder my whole world changed. I fold it up, seal and date it, and hide it deep in the bottom drawer of my desk. One day I will present it to him ~ maybe when we get married, maybe when we buy our first home, maybe when we celebrate our 50th anniversary – but some way and somehow he must know.

 

Track #5: I’LL BE YOUR EVERYTHING

 

I’ll lift you up when you’re feeling down

Make your whole world turn around

Give my heart and soul to you

Let you know this love is true…

He says hello to me in the hallway, whenever we pass. Sometimes it seems like he goes out of his way to do so, pushing through a throng of students just to get closer to me, then I think it’s all in my head. Why would anyone bother, especially someone as beautiful as him? But then I’m sure of it, certain that he looks frustrated if he can’t reach me before the sea of classmates swirls me away from him. On those days when we both linger after classes are done, I wonder if he too feels shy and excited and reluctant to leave. We begin walking out together, and I admit that I wait if he’s running late, or hurry if some teacher keeps class a little longer than usual. After a few days, it feels like old habit, and soon it is my favorite part of the day. There is a decent trek from our lockers to the parking lot where his car is and where my ride arrives, and I want to believe we both slow a bit near the end, anything to prolong our time together.

One day he tells me he should just drop me off to save my parents the drive. I’m not far out of his way. The excitement of the prospect of being alone in a car with him is matched only by the realization that he knows where I live. In those pre-internet days, before FaceBook and social media left us all transparently visible on a Google map, he managed to find out something about me. That someone cared enough to research where I lived, or at least to ask, touched me more than anything. Most of the time the world – at least my world – didn’t bother to care. Then, just like that, he was driving me home every day. Away from the prying eyes of classmates and the boundaries of school, he was different.

It’s hard to explain – he was a little less guarded, more ready to laugh, and somehow happier. I thought it was just being out of school that produced the giddiness, but a small part of me – the part that struggled to believe whether I was worthy of love – peeked out from years of hiding and allowed myself the possible realization that he was happier because I was with him. No amount of therapy or self-help books would ever surpass what that single moment accomplished. There is nothing quite as nourishing as feeling loved.

One day he doesn’t stop at my house, but glides past and around the block again. I challenge him with a quizzical glare, but his look and subsequent tone are so serious I don’t make a sarcastic comment. He tells me that he has something for me but that it’s not a big deal, just something he made because he saw how I liked certain songs on our rides home. With a trembling hand, he reaches into the glove compartment and pulls out a cassette tape. On the side he has written, “Alan’s Melancholy Mix” and then a listing of all the songs. Most are ones we’d listened to on our brief rides, when he’d briefly sing along and give me a side smile, knowing I was too shy to ever join in.

There were a couple of classic rock songs, some power ballads from the likes of Journey and Chicago, and a few New Wave dance ditties that we both guiltily admired. The smile-inducing if infuriating inclusion of ‘You Can Call Me Al’ (because he knows that you absolutely can’t) rounds out the tape, but the best part is what he writes within the liner notes:

“For a guy who always seems a little sadder than he should be.”

 

Track #6: FAITHFULLY 

 

Highway run into the midnight sun,

Wheels go round and round

You’re on my mind

Restless hearts sleep alone tonight

Sending all my love along the wire…

I wear the tape out, getting out of bed multiple times in the night to flip it over and begin it again. I replay the moment he gave it to me, the way his hand touched mine and lingered, as if there was more to be done. Years later, I would reassemble that mix of songs into a playlist and present it to him on an iPod. His eyes would light up as he played each song and we remembered those rides together. Our first kiss, the way he held my hand before it, and the ensuing lifetime of love played out amid the pop songs of the 80’s. We were in a different car, in a different city, and a completely different world, but we’d managed to stay together.

I’m still yours…

Faithfully.

You don’t need the whole world to love you, you just need the one.

{PS – None of this fantasy ever happened. No guy ever rescued me from the doldrums and terrors of school. I had to rescue myself, and I did, and if I’m a little bitter about it, well, that’s what Valentine’s Day is sometimes for.}

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The Modern-Day Valentine Mix – Side One

There is no cheesier “holiday” than Valentine’s Day, and while I have no horrible V-Day memories to conjure, neither have I any overtly romantic ones that come to mind. Every day with Andy is like Valentine’s Day. (Awwwww…) This has always been a Hallmark-perpetuated celebration of the hollow and trite, and traditionally I wear black to mark the occasion. It wasn’t always this way. When I was a boy the sweeping grand possibility of romance blasted from the horns of golden cherubs, and I fervently believed that one day my prince would come. As a throwback to that innocent time, to the moments when my jadedness had not yet hardened into its current implacable state, I present to you this modern-day version of a mix tape.

Back when I was a wee youngster, we had cassette tapes. They were small plastic rectangles that slid into a stereo or Walkman and played music from the slow turning of a fine, shiny brown filament. They could hold anywhere from 60 to 120 minutes of music – most clocking in at the 90 minute range. That’s a lot of space to fill with sound, but there never seemed to be a dearth of things to say though music. I won’t put you through anything as torturous or time-consuming as that – in fact, this is more of a super-brief EP than a proper mix tape, but the sentiment is the same. Happy Valentine’s Day.

Track #1: YOU’RE THE INSPIRATION

 

You know our love was meant to be

The kind of love that lasts forever

And I want you here with me

From tonight until the end of time…

In the scant few years before the boys would square off against the girls, my best friends were mostly of the female persuasion. While any burgeoning physical attraction was leaning toward the guys, I had much more in common with the girls. They found me funny, and I found them more interesting than boys. They cared about pretty things, like hair and shoes and jewelry, and they were less rambunctious and violent than boys. We were not quite to the age where the lines were drawn in the sand though, so my friendships with girls in the class went relatively unridiculed. Such safety and freedom were more fleeting than I realized, and soon enough it would be forbidden to sit at a table of girls until high school. I didn’t know this then, so went about blissfully unaware of the impending end to such easy and sexless camaraderie.

For Valentine’s Day we would create our own Valentine receptacles out of brown paper bags, decorated with construction paper and glitter and doilies – the only time it would be ok for boys to dabble with doilies. I poured my heart into it, making the prettiest bag I could, hoping to attract the most Valentines  ~ not just because of who I was but because of how pretty I could make my bag. In truth, none of this really crossed my conscious mind. I loved a good craft project as much as the next person, but when given free reign I always felt a shiver of panic, particularly when no guidelines or rules were established. A little freedom is a good thing; too much makes me uncomfortable. Chalk it up to my Virgo birthdate.

Looking back, I can see now that I was never as despised as I sometimes felt I was. In fact, my bag was one of the heavier ones. This was a time before we were really hardened by the world, a time before any serious divisive differences. When left to their own devices, most children are pretty accepting of each other. It’s when parental and adult prejudices and influences start coming into play that kids get ruined or enriched.

For those few Valentine’s Days when boys and girls could give loving cards to each other without care or concern, I felt happy and adored. There was a purity in that exchange, something that would be missing after a certain age. We gave our hearts to one another, without reserve, without fear, without judgment.

You’re the meaning in my life, you’re the inspiration.

You bring feeling to my life, you’re the inspiration.

When you love somebody til the end of time…

 

Track #2: OPEN ARMS

 

Lying beside you here in the dark

Feeling your heart beat with mine

Softly you whisper, you’re so sincere

How could our love be so blind?

By the last years of our time at R.J. McNulty Elementary School, we were beginning to galvanize into adolescents. The change was sometimes sudden, sometimes slow, and always irreversible. Boys didn’t much socialize with girls except to torment and antagonize. It was playful teasing for the most part, the set-up for more serious flirtations to come. Yet my heart sang a different tune. The sirens that called to me weren’t female, and the attractions I felt toward girls in my class were platonic and comforting, not dangerous or tinged with desire.

At night, the glowing red digital colon of my alarm clock blinked on and off its steady count of seconds. Staring idly at the shaft of hallway light that came in through the cracked door, I listened as Journey’s ‘Open Arms’ came on over the radio. At such a young age, I couldn’t have had the first clue about romantic love, but something in me had always understood longing. The unrequited fancies of a boy too often get lost in the assumed toughness that comes from being a boy. I never had that toughness, so I’d have to craft a cage for my heart for my own protection. I didn’t know that then, and I’m sort of glad.

I opened my heart to every silly crush and foolish infatuation, and fell head-first into the giddy swirling notion of what I thought was love. I pined silently and relentlessly for a camp counselor, a class-mate, and the blonde guy on ‘CHiPs.’ It would be my major downfall in life: to want the ones who didn’t want me back. My heart would never learn. My heart would never quiet. And my heart would never stop… longing… wanting… loving.

So now I come to you with open arms

Nothing to hide, believe what I say

So here I am with open arms

Hoping you’ll see what your love means to me…

 

Track #3: THE SEARCH IS OVER

 

How can I convince you

what you see is real?

Who am I to blame you

for doubting what you feel?

I was always reaching…

Shards of ice amid a crazy state of mind. Disconcerting winter thaws and restless summer nights. The shifting of seasons across the mine-field of my heart. The ongoing search for a match. The quest for a partner. The fear of being alone. Such thoughts marred the mind as it tried to empty itself for sleep.

A love song on the radio. Lovers listening on the ride home. And me, not giving a fuck. Not even trying. In black and gray, damning the day of St. Valentine with a vehemence reserved for the bitter and the bereft, I spit out emotional vitriol and the carrion of trampled hearts in my wake.

I was living for a dream,

Loving for a moment.

Taking on the world,

That was just my style…

The random act of violence upon an innocent bystander is somehow easier to take than the sweet stab of veiled aggression by a lover or a family member. The former may leave you with a sickening lack of faith in the world, but the latter always leaves you with a sickening lack of faith in yourself. It is invariably destructive.

A shattered heart can never quite be put back together again.

All these silly love songs, all the cards and flowers and candy, all the jewelry and perfume and cologne – are but masks to disguise the utter emptiness of this holiday. If you’re lucky enough to get to this point in your life relatively unscathed, and if your heart has never been broken, hold onto that. For the rest of us, we’ll just keep looking for a way back to the day our school desks were littered with the innocent love notes of classmates, to a time when love was given without hesitation or reluctance or question, and to the last moment our hearts were full.

 

[I bet you can’t wait to flip the tape to get to Side Two…]

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50 Shades of Male Nudity

Maybe it doesn’t quite add up to fifty, but there are at least five nude male celebrities in this post, and that’s to count for something. Kicking it off is Channing Tatum, who will be appearing in the sexy sequel to ‘Magic Mike’ as discussed here. That’s fairly safe fare for summer, but Mr. Tatum provides some badly-needed heat for winter fun right now, particularly in the trio of GIFs below. Scroll down… (and keep your eyes peeled for Matt Bomer in the background.)

Another favorite who’s appeared on this blog many times over is Dan Osborne. From his cute diving stint with Tom Daley to his steady flow of underwear pictorials, Mr. Osborne provides regular fodder for eager eyes. Here’s a shot from his latest Attitude photo shoot.

One more across-the-pond hottie comes in the form of Harry Judd from the band McFly. Clearly the most fit of that group of lads, Mr. Judd also likes to engage in some naked horseplay. Can’t fault the man for that.

Speaking of naked horseplay, here is Jake Gyllenhaal in his nude glory. Well, almost nude, as his hand protects what little modesty is left.

Last but most certainly not least is Jamie Dornan, Mr. Fifty Shades himself. He got naked before that movie (as can be seen in the last shot here) and he got naked in it (as can be seen in the next to last shot). There are some full-frontal nudes of Mr. Dornan floating around elsewhere, but you won’t find them here. (Unless they slipped by me in the Archives, but you’ll have to dig deep. Very deep.)

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Aaron Schock Is NOT Gay (And These Pictures Prove It)

Look, I don’t have a problem with gay people. I have a problem with gay people who pretend they’re not gay and then go about trying to deny rights to other gay people. There’s a certain space in hell reserved for such loathsome hypocritical asshats. Then again, internalized homophobia is its own form of hell, created during anyone’s time on earth when they live a life pretending to be anyone other than themselves. When I see that in certain friends, mostly I feel pity. UNLESS the person starts fucking with my rights.

Now, I’m most definitely not saying that Republican Congressman Aaron Schock is gay. That’s the kind of talk that gets people in trouble. And you certainly can’t tell if someone is gay based on their photos or fashion or the fact that they painted their congressional office to look like the set of ‘Downton Abbey’ or were reportedly seen in a naked shower encounter with another gentlemen. What I do know is that Aaron Schock is opposed to marriage equality. In his oh-so-original words: “I do not support gay marriage, and I believe in the definition of marriage being between one man and one woman.” Maybe it’s just a requirement of his political party, or maybe he truly feels that way. Regardless, his anti-gay voting record is shameful for anyone.

He supported an amendment to the Constitution to ban same-sex marriage. He was against the President’s decision to not defend the Defense of Marriage Act against court challenge. He also voted against the 2010 repeal of the ban on gay men and lesbians serving openly in the armed forces.

So until Aaron Schock stops fucking with the rights of gay people in this country, he’s going to have to contend with snarky posts like this (which by no means is meant to insinuate or claim that Aaron Schock is gay.)

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Grey Vetiver Via Tom Ford

These are grey days. They call for grey tweed and flannel, wool and down-lined coats. The sky blends its dull shades into the mournful hues of the earth, and all of it bleeds together in one dismal monochromatic pile of wretchedness. Into this lackluster landscape, an interjection of something slightly sharp is needed, a jolt to wake up the senses, an inhalation to prime the points of inspiration. I thought I’d find it in Black Saffron by Byredo, but that burns almost too hotly and too sweetly for this time of the year. Better to save that for a winter party, where a smoldering bit of pungent fruitiness is more suited to accent an outfit of red. For the average office day of suits and wingtips, I turn to Tom Ford and his ‘Grey Vetiver’ masterpiece.

Like his recent ‘Patchouli Absolu’ Private Blend, Ford takes a classic (read: overdone) and imprints his pristine style and trademark elegance on it. In this instance, the age-old tried and true of elders ‘vetiver’ gets a fresh make-over that refines it for the modern man. (While many of Ford fragrances are deliciously unisex, this one is on the traditionally-masculine side, so entrenched is vetiver in the history of grandfatherly cologne.)

The latter is the reason for my hesitance in coming around to ‘Grey Vetiver’ – it always reminded of older gentlemen and their safe but uneventful olfactory adornments. Ford invests his version with a few updated accents. The sharpness comes in the form of citrus – tart and fresh and bright, like the sliver of sunlight caught in an icicle. Beneath this quick note is the heart of the matter – a creamy vetiver – and it carries for a few hefty hours with vetiver’s traditional potency. A few woody notes lend a wisp of warmth to the cooly elegant proceedings, rounding out the journey wondrously. More pin stripes than herringbone, more cashmere than cotton, ‘Grey Vetiver’ is a modern-day classic, and no one does that better than Tom Ford.

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I Should Be Tarred & Feathered For This…

Preferably with ostrich feathers to restore some of the luster to my badly-tarnished crown. I just purchased something I swore I would never purchase: a pair of L.L. Bean rubber boots. Oh the shame. Oh the sorrow. Oh for the love of God… This is the ultimate sign of growing up and giving in, and I hate every moment of it. It was not a joyful shopping experience. The creaky wooden environs of the L.L. Bean store have always made me ill at ease, and up until tonight I’ve only used the space as a short-cut from the parking lot to the mall. Kayaks and customers in sweatshirts closed in on me, and I fought with a few racks of fleece before finding my way to the “footwear” section. Once there, the dismal palette of grays and hunter greens and every shade of shit imaginable stared forlornly from their wooden perches. So this then was hell.

Let’s back up a bit, though, to the snowy day my Ice Blue Show Queen (a.k.a. the Mini Cooper) stood in the parking lot outside my office building. By the time I made it out a little after 5 PM, she was covered in snow, and the parking lot was buried in a few inches of cold fluffy ice crystals. My black wingtips crunched and groaned beneath my feet, and snow fell across my ankles and snuck beneath the arch of my feet. It was awful. The 100-foot walk was brief, but in half a foot of snow it felt like forever. When I finally finished brushing the white stuff off my car all by myself (co-workers had scattered when I ordered them to help me) my feet were frozen and wet and my shoes were cursing me out for daring to treat them with such disdain. I told them to pipe down and suck it up. (Yes, I talk to my shoes. They’re that nice.) I thought briefly of doing what I never thought I’d do, but put it from my mind. Not that. Not yet.

A week later, I was walking into work and daintily trying to navigate the slushy mess another winter storm had left behind. Burgundy leather recoiled at the contact with white and gray salt, practically squealing and begging me to stop. When I entered the building they cried out, spattered in white salt and gasping for breath and fresh water. This couldn’t go on much longer. There were shoes at stake. My babies. My precious…

So tonight I did it. I took the plunge and bought a pair of L.L. Bean rubber boots, just for walking through the mess this winter has so brutally dumped upon us. They were handcrafted for me “at L.L. Bean Manufacturing in Brunswick, Maine by Holly and the Bean Boot Team.” Holly signed her first name, but didn’t dare leave her last because she knew I’d hunt her down and make her pay for this. Well, someone has to pay dearly for making me break such a solemn vow.

They don’t go with much of what I’d normally wear (being that I don’t typically carry an ax or favor plaid flannel) but I will make them work. This will be my greatest challenge – and my biggest defeat. Winter, you win. For now…

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Painted with Words, Brought to Life with Imagination

I have told you that I was reluctant to describe him as an artist pure and simple, and indeed that he declined this title with a modesty touched with aristocratic reserve. I might perhaps call him a dandy, and I should have several good reasons for that; for the word ‘dandy’ implies a quintessence of character and a subtle understanding of the entire moral mechanism of this world; with another part of his nature, however, the dandy aspires to insensitivity…

The dandy is blasé, or pretends to be so, for reasons of policy and caste. He is a master of that only too difficult art – sensitive spirits will understand – of being sincere without being absurd.

To be away from home and yet to feel oneself everywhere at home; to see the world, to be at the centre of the world, and yet to remain hidden from the world – such are a few of the slightest pleasures of those independent, passionate, impartial natures which the tongue can but clumsily define. The spectator is a prince who everywhere rejoices in his incognito. The lover of life makes the whole world his family, just like the lover of the fair sex who builds up his family from all the beautiful women that he has ever found, or that are – or are not – to be found; or the lover of pictures who lives in a magical society of dreams painted on canvas. Thus the lover of universal life enters into the crowd as though it were an immense reservoir of electrical energy. Or we might liken him to a mirror as vast as the crowd itself; or to a kaleidoscope gifted with consciousness, responding to each one of its movements and reproducing the multiplicity of life and the flickering grace of all the elements of life…

And the external world is reborn upon his paper, natural and more than natural, beautiful and more than beautiful, strange and endowed with an impulsive life like the soul of its creator. The phantasmagoria has been distilled from nature. All the raw materials with which the memory has loaded itself are put in order, ranged and harmonized, and undergo that forced idealization which is the result of a childlike perceptiveness – that is to say, a perceptiveness acute and magical by reason of its innocence!

~ Charles Baudelaire, The Painter of Modern Life

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With a Flash of Booty, and a Breathtaking Performance, Madonna Ruled the Grammys

“This will be a revolution of inquiring further, of not worrying about winning other people’s approval, of not wishing we were someone else but perfectly content to be who you are, someone unique and rare and fearless. I want to start a revolution of love.” ~ Madonna

 

A swirling vortex of minotaur horns forms itself into a marching line leading to the stage of the Grammy Awards, while Madonna’s disembodied voice rings deeply over the majestic intro to the Offer Nissim Living for Drama mix of ‘Living For Love.’ A blood-red curtain disappears into the sky revealing our Queen, standing there in a toreador cape, which she quickly throws off in one powerful gesture (and with such force that one of her epaulets comes partially off.) She’s had wardrobe malfunctions before, but unlike some whose careers have derailed because of them, Madonna just shirks them off and carries on, this time strutting around in that giddiness-inducing ‘Papa Don’t Preach’ prance. 

What’s notable about the performance is her enduring and endearing willingness to bust her ass out there in front of the whole world. She admittedly had butterflies in her stomach, and performing at the Grammys has never been her strongest bit, but she delivered the most electrifying performance of the evening. Annie Lennox may have musically brought the house down, but it was Madonna who got the crowd to its feet and audibly cheering. (Industry crowds aren’t necessarily the most fun.)
She was lifted, twirled and spun by her menacing minotaurs, but it was clear there was but one bull-wrangler here, and she was in supreme charge. She removed her problematic jacket halfway through the show, lied down on a riser for a second, and made a quick nod to her rolling-on-the-floor ‘Like A Virgin’ performance on the inaugural MTV Music Awards, before a choir joined her to get everyone on their feet and clapping along. She disappeared but for a second behind her sea of bulls, and then rose literally to the rafters, lifted by love (and a couple of wires.) All in all, it was a grand return to form from the woman whose own revolution started over three decades ago. 
Now, let’s talk about her entrance to the show, because the red carpet get-up is just as integral a part of the evening as the performance itself. Madonna is nothing if not a living work of art, and her corseted toreador-triumph by Givenchy was a thrilling moment in itself. Better still was her cheeky fuck-off to reporters and press, as she lifted her tiny dress and exposed her fishnets and thong-bound ass while her publicist grinned in the background. That takes balls ~ and that’s Madonna. 
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Snowy (Re)Cap

Let’s not discuss the snow, ok? Only because I’m trying to cut down on the word ‘fuck’ here. And ‘bullshit.’ So please, no snow talk. Instead, let’s go back to the days immediately following all the SuperBowl glory, and one Sebastian Vollmer. Besides, I’m still coming down off the Madonna high of last night. I need a moment…

Ricardo Veia showed the magic of black and white, and he did it all in his underwear.

For those of you who missed Ben Cohen on the blog of late, you’re not alone, so here you go.

Dance, dance, cry.

It’s all about The MoMo.

Only a few special guys get a second crowning as Hunk of the Day. Chris Salvatore is pretty damn special.

When in doubt, quote Baudelaire and post a mustache.

Getting your Krit off ~ Krit McLean.

Sometimes you just have to Thai one on.

The Special Guest Blog spot this Sunday was delectably filled by Carl Franco, who put a culinary spin on things.

Channing Tatum’s naked ass.

Finally, the highlight of the week was easily the return of Madonna to the pop scene. Not that she ever really left, but she’s back in full-force thanks to this brilliant video that elevates the lead single from her forthcoming album ‘Rebel Heart’ to a whole new level. Things are about to get damn good. Ole!

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Channing Tatum Gets Butt Naked

Much ado has been made of Channing Tatum’s new poster for the sequel to ‘Magic Mike’ ~ ‘Magic Mike XXL‘ ~ and its full-frontal ‘Coming’ tease, but it’s his ass that features here. (By the way, does one need to have seen the original to get much more out of the sequel? Am I the only one who’s only seen GIFs of the movie?) Anyway, this is Channing Tatum’s naked butt. It’s been on display here before (particularly in this booty-throwdown with fellow hunk Joe Manganiello), but I find such things deserve a second look, especially when it wiggles like that.

An alternate, but more succinct and powerful take on ‘Magic Mike XXL’ was given by my hero Louis Virtel, who had this to say:

“When the hell do we get what we deserve? When do we get the frontal nudity? It’s 2015, I’m watching a trailer for ‘Magic Mike XXL’ and I’m pretending to be scandalized by humping motions. I’ve got news for you: I see at least one penis every day of my life. Sometimes more! The idea that we’re about to watch another ‘Magic Mike’ movie that congratulates itself for being edgy without even offering up a well-lit frame of a single dick is stupid and annoying. Do the cool thing, Channing! Wink and whip it out. Done! You’re done! Just do it. The title ‘XXL’ is promising, but I’m hoping it’s a response to our very, very reasonable demand for an actual damn johnson in this lacquered-up smutfest. Amen and praise be.”

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Ritorna, Ritorna Madonna!

Madonna heralds her official return to the pop frontline this evening on the Grammy Awards (she’s been middle-of-the-pack for the last few years). This time the hunger is back, the sparkle in full effect, and the music easily her best in a decade. New album ‘Rebel Heart’ drops in a few weeks (unless the most recent leak impels her to surprise us a little early). The video for lead single ‘Living For Love’ was discussed in a post before this. All in all, it feels like a very exciting moment. That’s always been the case for us die-hard fans, but this time I think the whole world is going to join in the celebration.

It feels similar to the excitement and electricity in the air before the releases of ‘Erotica‘, ‘Ray of Light‘, and ‘Confessions on a Dance Floor.’ In other words, the magic of Madonna is about to take hold. In my life, it turns out I could actually count on very little, but the one woman who has always been there for me still stands tall, and gives me strength. The rebel heart beats faster, the blood pumps harder, and the world rattles with anticipation.

Picked up my crown, put it back on my head,

I can forgive, but I will never forget…

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Cooking with Carl: Special Guest Blog

{Today’s Special Guest Blog is written by my pal Carl, a FaceBook/Twitter friend who has broken through the computer screen with very real gifts and correspondence to both Andy and myself. Many times I have salivated over the food photos he posts of meals he’s made that seem like second nature to him, but that would take an unaccomplished novice like me two days and two thousand dirty dishes to conjure (along with some heated expletives from the kitchen-clean-up crew). As I expected when I asked him to write a post, this is wonderful and witty and makes me feel like I’m in the kitchen with Carl, sharing a glass of wine and laughing at this hapless world. It’s a grand and cozy feeling. Like friendship.}

Special Guest Blog by Carl Franco:

I love writing, yet oddly I never write. To me, the written word holds great respect, while for others it’s merely a way to locate the nearest restroom. That being said, when Alan prompted me to write for his blog, I honestly did not know what I was going to write. But if I ever have to put pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard) I can usually conjure up something somewhat creative. In addition, anyone who follows me on Twitter/Facebook or is privy to my annual ‘Christmas Letter’ knows that I have a quick, dry, sarcastic wit that I’m not afraid to use. But still, when Alan hinted that I be one of his guest blog writers, I felt stumped. So I fell back to that old adage, write what you know.

Some people shop (well, I’m gay, so I do that too), some people play sports, some people paint, some work out constantly, some people drink, but I cook. If I’m happy I cook, if I’m sad I cook, if I’m pissed off I cook, if I’ve had a good day at work I cook, if I’ve had a bad day at work I cook. So if I have not made this abundantly clear, I cook.

Working in the retail wine business adds another layer to all of this. My family has maintained the same wine shop since the day after prohibition in 1933 (FrancosWine.com if you care to visit) and so naturally this goes hand in hand with my love of food. Whatever you do though, don’t call me a ‘foodie’ or you’ll feel the stinging slap of wire mesh from kitchen spider across your face.

However, while I like to cook, I hate recipes. I have no patience to read them. Give me a list of ingredients and a picture of the finished product and I’m good to go. Our host, Alan Ilagan knows this, when he posts pictures of his food I will often message him and ask one or two quick questions and that’s all I need to know in order to recreate a dish.

Maybe it’s an internal sense, but I’ve always had a knack for what flavors/foods/ingredients will pair well, and which ones won’t. The man at my local produce store, unbeknownst to me, was fascinated by my method of shopping. One day he said to me in passing “I love how you shop, you never have a list, but yet you always seem to know what you are looking for.” Truth is, plenty of times I just walk around the market until that one ingredient catches my eye, and I build the recipe from there. I could tell you something obnoxious like ‘I let the ingredients speak to me’, but frankly if I ever hear leeks start talking to me, I’ll be forced to adjust my alcohol intake. All I do is find that one ingredient on which to build, and more than not the results are partially serendipitous.

However, don’t ever ask me for a recipe, I will be the first to admit that I am terrible at giving out recipes. While I do give them out (in good faith) chances are that I probably won’t remember exactly how I made the dish. So when people ask me for recipes, more often than not, they turn out wrong. When they tell me of their culinary disaster, I often have them walk me through the recipe. Sooner or later I will see the problem and will say something like, “Well, that’s when you add the white wine or chicken broth” to which they replied, “But you didn’t say that!” My sister has often been the recipient of answers like this, and she gets angry when my reply is, “Well, I don’t bother with instructions that are obvious” – to which she turns and walks away muttering odious names for me under her breath. Instances like this eventually led my friend Bill to do a mockup of a cookbook for me.

Yet it’s not always me, some people are just hopeless when it comes to cooking. About 25 years ago I lived with a friend of mine in Boston and his fiancé would come over and see some fabulous meal I made and say to me, “You have to stop this!!! You can’t be making meals like this on a Tuesday night. This is a Sunday night meal! Stop this at once or Kevin is going to expect food like this once we are married.” So, after they were wed, I tried to coach her, but it was a rough start, there were many mistakes including one instance where she used “six cans of anchovies” instead of “six filets of anchovies.” I asked her husband about the meal and he said, “I was starving, I just ate it.” She also once cooked a pie for three hours because she didn’t think it looked done. But eventually she improved and surprisingly their marriage survived all the food beta-testing.

One year I included the below recipe in my annual Christmas letter and you would not believe the number of people who filed it away without reading it only to realize months and in one instance two years later, when they discovered it was a fake.

Carl’s Kahlua Christmas Cookies

 

2 cups unbleached flour

½ cup granulated sugar

1 tsp baking soda

1 vanilla bean (crushed)

2 cups Kahlua, plus one shot

¼ cup whole milk

½ cup crushed ice

½ cup chopped walnuts (optional)

 

Reserve 1 cup of the Kahlua and set aside for later.

Measure out all the dry ingredients and sift together.

Pour one shot of Kahlua and taste for freshness.

Tell your family you are busy cooking and barricade the kitchen door and turn on the electric mixer. Combine remaining Kahlua and milk – Pour over the crushed ice and drink.

Use the ‘reserve’ cup of Kahlua if relatives are staying overnight. If hunger strikes, eat the nuts.

So, in closing, I invite you all to my house, there will always be something cooking, and there will always be an open bottle of wine – and being Italian, there is always room for one more…

~ Carl Franco

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Thai To-Die-For

Here are a few photos from a Thai lunch I had in Washington a number of months ago. I found them on my drive, and while I’ve forgotten the name of the place, the memory of how good it was lingers. Rather than go into the recipes and descriptions and a whole lot of hoo-ha, allow me to let the images speak for themselves. (In other words, you told me to shut up, so sit down and enjoy it.)

Tomorrow we are featuring a Special Guest Blog whose focus is on food, so let this be a mouth-watering preamble to that. Someone set the table, because this is going to be good.

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Commercial Break

This one’s worth a look, and it’s certainly better than anything I saw during the Superbowl.

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Living for This Video

The last few videos Madonna has made have largely been, gasp, lackluster – and for the woman who practically invented the music video, this was simply unacceptable. Don’t get me wrong, fluffy escapist trifles like ‘Turn Up the Radio‘ and ‘Give Me All Your Luvin‘ provided passing interest, and were devoured by a Madonna-hungry public because of the piss-poor promotional efforts for her last record, MDNA, but they paled in comparison to former glories like ‘Like A Prayer‘ or ‘Bad Girl.’

Her latest video for ‘Living For Love’ doesn’t quite return her to the apex of video artistry, but it comes damn close, and carries with it enough powerful imagery to turn a relatively standard song into something more meaningful, something more galvanizing, something more, well, Madonna. As noted, I found the ‘Living For Love’ song nice enough, but wasn’t convinced it was lead-off single material. Yes, it brought her back to those 90’s-nostalgic house beats and piano chords, and the injection of gospel elements lifted it to a higher ground, but it still felt a bit like a filler track, a throw-away song that could be taken away without leaving a hole in my heart. The video changes things a bit, more succinctly bringing the song into focus as a self-empowerment anthem, as Madonna vanquishes a circle of encroaching minotaurs like so many fallen chess pieces.

As someone who’s been under his fair share of attacks, both deserved and unfounded, I like the metaphors and the dazzling imagery. Most of all, I like the classic Madonna theme of exorcising the ghosts of those who have wronged her in such a cathartic and spellbinding way. We go to battle with our demons every day, be they family or foe (or any combination of the two), ex-lovers or longstanding-obsessions, former flames or future fucks – but rather than indulging in the bitter she exults in the sweet, rising above and leaving the past behind. It’s what Madonna has always done best: never looked back. There’s a cost to it, but you’re not about to see her emotional bank account.

The video is notable for the impossible way it manages to reinvent Madonna for the bazillionth time, repositioning her as toreador, and showing off several camera moves and angles and dance moves that she’s never tried out before – that in itself is a pretty substantial accomplishment for a woman who’s done practically everything on video by this point (witness the incredible fall and rise close-up that begins at 0:41 and the stunning jump at 1:48.)

Most thrilling for those of us die-hard fans who notice every subtle nuance, intended or not, are the references that Madonna makes to her own body of work. The matador outfit brings back the days of ‘You Can Dance‘, and the bolero might even have been reclaimed from 1987 itself. She steps into the male bull-fighter role she so elegantly paired off with in ‘Take A Bow’ and ‘You’ll See‘ – and executes a snippet of the ‘Papa Don’t Preach‘ strut that originally ended with the first sanctioned peek-a-boo of nipple back in 1986.

Madonna’s come a long way since that epochal decade in which she rose to the pinnacle of the pop heap. She still hovers in that rarefied air, and really, no one else can quite touch her when it comes to history and legacy and modern-day currency. If she isn’t as pervasive as she once was, she still holds incredible sway and power, and the readily-admitted worship of almost every current pop star, and quite a few who have come and gone over the incredible ongoing span of her career.

“Man is the cruelest animal. At tragedies, bullfights, and crucifixions he has so far felt best on earth; and when he invented hell for himself, behold, that was his very heaven.” ― Friedrich Nietzsche

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