It was bound to happen sooner or later, and I suppose I should be glad it’s nothing worse. A FaceBook friend alerted me to the fact that someone was using my likeness on a Scruff account (similar to Grindr, but for hairy guys?) and sent me the photo below to verify whether I had posted it or not. “David” is going around Scruff pretending this photo of myself is actually him. The silly, vain, and really only side of me is nothing but flattered, though I do feel bad for whomever has resorted to using my face to get whatever they’re hoping to get. It hasn’t worked with the Tom Ford shoes I’ve had my eyes on, so best of luck.

Personally, I’ve never understood impersonating someone else, or using someone else’s picture on the internet. What’s the point? I mean, what real, truthful thing will ever come of it? If you’re looking to meet someone (the whole point of Grindr and Scruff, I assumed) how will that work when the real “David” shows up? Or is it just a silly game to pass the time, some poor-man’s version of Candy Crush? Whatever the case, it’s sad all around.

On the plus side, this person did use a photo with a nice kimono in it when they could have chosen something far more salacious. Even better is that they have me pegged at 127 pounds. (Not since 1993, buddy, but I’ll take that delusion as an early Merry Christmas to me!)

UPDATE: Apparently it’s also happened on Twitter. Hide yo kids, hide yo wife, indeed.

A wicked cough has been nagging me for the past few days – I’ve been fighting off a full-fledged cold or flu, but it feels like I may be losing the battle. When I feel something like this coming on, I put a pot of water on the stove and slice up some fresh ginger, dropping it into the water and letting it steep for ten to fifteen minutes. The stringent ginger water is then strained into a cup with a bag of green tea in it. I swallow it all and pray for a speedy avoidance of illness. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t – either way it’s a boon to my system, and a warm way to greet the night.

Along those lines, a poem by Wallace Stevens:

Tea at the Palaz of Hoon

Not less because in purple I descended
The western day through what you called
The loneliest air, not less was I myself.

What was the ointment sprinkled on my beard?
What were the hymns that buzzed beside my ears?
What was the sea whose tide swept through me there?

Out of my mind the golden ointment rained,
And my ears made the blowing hymns they heard.
I was myself the compass of that sea:

I was the world in which I walked, and what I saw
Or heard or felt came not but from myself;
And there I found myself more truly and more strange.

The Poet Compares Human Nature to the Ocean from Which We Came

By Mary Oliver

The sea can do craziness, it can do smooth,

it can lie down like silk breathing

or toss havoc shoreward; it can give

gifts or withhold all, it can rise, ebb, froth

like an incoming frenzy of fountains, or it can

sweet-talk entirely. As I can too,

and so, no doubt, can you, and you.

The first week of December has come and gone, which means we’re hurtling toward Christmas and New Year’s at an alarming rate. Slow this sleigh down, I say! In an effort to do that, let’s look back. It seems that dwelling in the past is the only way to slow the future, or something like that. Whatever, it’s Monday, and time for a recap.

A couple of Hunks were requested this week (something that is always welcomed and more often than not honored) starting with Oraine Barrett.

The closest I’ve been to a naked breast since college.

And speaking of naked breasts, I give you Madonna.

I finished decorating the house for the holidays! Just one room, but still…

The beautiful Ben Cohen shows off in a new calendar.

Remembering December once…

Twice…

Three times a lady.

More hunky goodness, in the forms of Patrick Mitchell & Bryce Thompson.

More bush.

And even more hunks than you can a bat an eye at.

Care to share a Christmas Waltz? 1-2-3…

When I was kid, I didn’t have quite the vocabulary that I have now. My ‘penis’ was my ‘thing’ and as Suzie recently brought to light, I had no word for ‘vagina’ (nor an occasion to use it.) So when I tried to convey to my parents, before I knew any words, that I wanted to watch ‘The Magic Garden’ all I could do was scream out ‘Bushens!’ Eventually, they landed on the channel where the “bushens” were, only it was more accurately known as ‘The Magic Garden.’

‘The Magic Garden’ combined my love for flowers with my love for music, and Carole and Paula would become prototypes for all the good girls I’d befriend over my life. A holiday episode of ‘The Magic Garden’ was recently unearthed, and it turns out these lovely ladies are still performing (and still alive) as seen in this promo for the show.

As a kid, I loved the show so much that one of the first records I got was the soundtrack to ‘The Magic Garden’ – on vinyl no less – and I wore it out singing and dancing in my childhood bedroom. Not unlike what goes in my adult bedroom. The lessons were ones for the ages – “You can even get mad at me, but don’t you push me down” – and the setting was the stuff of surreal fantasy. It paved the way for ‘Reading Rainbow‘ and all the other PBS shows I’d come to love.

This is such a strong memory, I can remember sitting in the family room surrounded by the wooden paneling and the plaid sofa. Dad would have been at work, or just coming home from work. Mom would have been in the kitchen or doing something with my brother. I watched Paula and Carole in their garden, singing and harmonizing, walking through the chuckle patch and listening to the flowers laugh. In the middle of a bleak winter, it was a comfort – and it was proof that I was a child once, that I had a childhood, and that it was, for the most part, pretty good.

I always get in trouble when I decry breastfeeding in certain public places. Let me preface this by saying that I don’t mind when it’s necessary, and I have nothing against the practice at all. A three-hour plane or train ride? Give the kid a drink. A trip to the grocery store to get food for the family? Pop it out and go to town. But a stop at Starbucks? That’s not necessary. And breastfeeding your child in the seat next to me when every other table and chair was open and available? That’s just rude.

My issue is not with breastfeeding in public. There are times when a woman has no other choice. But at Starbucks? No. Starbucks is a choice. Coffee is not a necessity. You can do it in the car or at home before or after your trip to the cafe. Better yet, how about simply remembering, “Oh, I have a baby to breastfeed. I’ll get this coffee to go.” Instead, as I lift a cream-topped peppermint mocha to my lips I see a saggy tit getting suckled by a slobbering baby just two feet from my face. (Hey, if you’re going to do things in public, I’m going to write about it.)

I’ve heard people say that breastfeeding is a natural and beautiful part of life. Well, for some of us masturbating is natural and beautiful. How would you like it if I whipped out my dick and shot a load in my empty Starbucks cup? Eggnog Latte, straight up and coming your way. Some things just don’t belong in Starbucks.