From his television work on ‘Kingdom’ comes Nick Jonas and his first sex scene. I’m not sure how much this one will appeal to his ever-growing gay fan base, but whatevs. It’s Nick banging a hot woman in flattering lighting. He will no doubt be revealing more, because all these hints have got to lead somewhere. (And I’m guessing the purity ring is now off for good.)
Like many recipes, this approximation of guacamole came about as a happy accident. A few months ago, I wanted a couple of slices of avocado to go with an egg sandwich I was planning on assembling. A neophyte to the world of cooking, and the supermarket in general, I did a giddy dance when I saw ripe avocados on a super sale – four for five dollars or something. I scooped up four and let my mind run free with visions of perfectly sliced avocado slivers in shades of lime and chartreuse.
When I got them home and sliced them open, my dismay was instant. Far from fresh and bright green, they were mottled with bits of brown, streaked with veins of gray. Even worse, they were so soft that they fell apart before I could even get them out of their skin, much less separated from their hard pit. Completely unacceptable for a breakfast that I wanted to photograph and post to my obnoxious Instagram feed. I’m all about occasional #foodporn and the oft-sought-but-seldom-achieved #foodgasm. Each of the avocados were in this over-ripe state, but rather than toss them into the trash, I took the lemons that life gave me and made lemonade. Or guacamole, as the case was.
I found a few stray limes, a small chopped onion, a lot of leftover cilantro from a Mexican dip the night before, then added some salt and pepper, and a diced tomato at the end. Served with some pita chips, it was a happy alternative to the sliced avocado I’d originally craved.
This past weekend, I saw avocados on sale again, but this time I went in with the intent to craft a batch of guacamole, using a trick that a friend taught me: save the pits and keep them in the final product in order to keep the guacamole from turning grey and brown. Previously, that’s always been the problem – any time that green flush gets in contact with air, it’s only a matter of moments before it starts to turn. Keeping the pit as part of the mix prevents it from turning. I don’t know the scientific explanation for it, and I don’t care, I’m just thrilled it works. (The same tip can be used if you want to save half of an avocado that you’ve cut – save the part with the pit still attached and it will remain fresher for longer.)
I love when science meets culinary craft to prolong the life of something like guacamole.
A few additional tips that made this batch superior to that first raw attempt: add some cumin to the mix. It’s that missing element that gives it a more authentic taste. I used a couple of green onions (scallions) in place of their larger cousin – I like the sweeter, less sharp flavor. Also, a finely chopped jalapeño pepper can be used for those who like things with a bit of heat.
While it may be tempting to eat the whole batch at once, after you’ve tasted for flavoring, let it sit (covered) at room temperature for an hour stirring once or twice, to allow all the flavors to  meld. (This is when the pit-trick really comes in handy.)
It was the mid-late 1990’s. Armed only with the light of a bedside lamp, and the questionable, haunting thoughts that come to the insomnia-racked night bloomers, I turned the pages of ‘xy’ magazine. It wasn’t naked men I was after, or titillating underwear pics, it was something deeper. The glossy rag, intended for young gay men (and perhaps those who admired them) was a lifesaver for me, someone on the verge of coming out, on the verge of becoming myself, or becoming nothing. On the page that featured letters and photos from readers, I saw a guy in a Structure sweater proudly standing in his store, with a subtitled phrase that he had written: Why should I be hated for my love?
It was a simple statement, and stirred something in my heart that has never gone away. A shared connection. A longing. A desire to feel that I was not alone.
I thumbed through more pages. A colorful riot of guys having fun, enjoying each others’ company, laughing and doing the little things that friends and lovers do. Sharing an ice cream. Walking down the beach. Holding hands. Kissing. It was another world – a world which looked too fantastical to be true, a world that seemed so far from this dark night in upstate New York, a world filled with fun and fabulousness and light. It was the world of Joe Phillips, and as I reflected mournfully on the question of why we should be so hated for loving, I found a hopeful escape in the cartoon giddiness of what life might be. Maybe not for me, but for others. At that point, it was enough.
With a comic book background working for DC, Marvel, Dark Horse, IDW, Image, and Wild Storm, Phillips has been a freelance commercial artist since the 80’s. Where others have struggled and failed to turn their talent into a career, Phillips has insisted on it. His signature style has catapulted him into one of the most instantly recognizable artists working today, as distinctive as Tom of Finland or Steve Walker or Herb Ritts. Each, in his own way, has done something to advance the notion of equality, but whereas Tom of Finland pushed boundaries by being brazen, Phillips breaks down barriers with humor and affection. His work hints at the happiness that comes of love and companionship, the beauty intrinsic to friendship and acceptance.
Mr. Phillips and his artwork offered a portal to possibility. For myself and countless other young gay men, it was a way out, a distant vista of paradise ~ the proverbial light at the end of our individual tunnels. It wasn’t heavy-handed, it wasn’t tortured or labored, it was the simple vision of hope, a glimpse of the way life should be. I don’t think I’ve ever thanked him for that, so this is my way of doing it, all these years later.
The happiest part of this post, however, is not in celebrating what has already happened, but what is about to happen. Mr. Phillips is currently working on a brand new book – JoeBoys – to celebrate the spirit and power of being gay, being alive, and being part of this world.
When I think back to that lonely night before I ever came out, One of the sole bright spots is the memory of Joe Phillips and his artwork. I remember seeing his signed name in the corner of his work, and wondering if this person would ever be a friend. In some ways, he already was. In the smiling faces of his subjects, and the hopeful happiness of his work, he did what most friends do: he made me feel a little bit better about the world.
The little red farmhouse in the distance faded in and out of focus. I looked straight ahead as instructed, wondering how long the wait would be once this bit of the appointment was finished. Vision check-ups have been notoriously long in the past, with lots of waiting in between each part of the process. Sitting in the quiet of the doctor’s office, after a noisy spell in the waiting room, I felt at ease and relaxed.
She put a different test in front of me, words written on a piece of paper and held up close to my face. An adjustment was made: “Better here… [pause] Or here?” I chose the latter. Again. “Better here… or here?” I chose the former. And that apparently made all the difference.
The doctor rolled her chair back to her desk and scribbled a few notes down.
“I’m going to recommend that you try bifocals,” she began. I looked around to see if there was someone else in the room to whom she was talking. “Around the age of forty, most people start to…” and it was there that I zoned out. Who the fuck was around the age of forty? Oh my God, she’s talking about me. I need fucking bifocals. I’m almost forty.
I looked at her again. Words like “line-less” and “bifocal contacts” were being uttered. Her hair was straight and shiny, and her initial ennui with the day had slowly transformed to genuine concern and engagement. I noticed then that she must have been in her early thirties. She was younger than me. The older I get, the more people seem to be younger than me.
There are some things I can take about the aging process. I don’t mind the growing battalion of gray hairs that have sprinkled the side of my head with more salt than pepper. I don’t mind the little spare tire that’s lassoed itself around my waist despite my disinvitation. I don’t even mind curbing the fried foods that make my stomach hurt the next morning. But bifocals? How far away is a cane? What’s next, a coffin?
“I’m sorry,” I stammered, “But I wouldn’t even know how to use bifocals.” She gave a small patient smile and ensued an explanation which I promptly ignored. She wasn’t hearing me. I may have gone blind, but she was clearly deaf. I returned the smile and went back into the waiting area to select the frames that would hold my new fucking bifocals.
[Incidentally, Andy had his first eye-exam in two decades a day before I had mine. He doesn’t need bifocals.]
Fan favorite Philip Fusco fills out these photos quite finely, and looks even more fit out of uniform. To that end, there are a few of him fittingly in nude form as well. Mr. Fusco has made quite a splash on this site in a short amount of time – and I’m making up for years of not featuring him with a rash of posts that started with this gratuitously grand entry here, and his initial Hunk of the Day honor here.
Thus far no one has complained about the sexy excess. Come back for more. Also, be sure to check out Mr. Fusco’s own website at PhilCity ~ where fitness, health, and lifestyle come together in one explosively sexy arena.
Another month has gone ~ farewell October – and thus we begin the quick slide into the holiday season. Woe to those of us who are not ready – time stands still for no man. November has always been about mixed emotions. The definitive end to warm weather, the arrival of early evenings and the fast fall of darkness, and only a bit of Thanks near the finish.
The Parade of Hunks was kicked off by the magnificent Mr. Brooks.
It continued with a pair of J’s: Jack Walton and Julian Edelman.
Get your kilt off and take life by the balls.
If it’s bitter at the start then it’s sweeter in the end.
The Madonna Timeline returned, so come on and shine your heavenly body tonight.
Cosplay extraordinaire Michael Hamm hams it up and takes it off.
Halloween has always been my day off and this year proved no exception.
The Sex Factor of Drew Chadwick, the ghostly goodness of Casper Van Dien, and the frank hotness of Kevin McDaid.
… and November arrives.
Stone Cold Steve Austin has a warm heart.
Are you just being kind?
There’s a special bit of alchemy that explodes when someone like Jeremy Jordan performs a song by Stephen Sondheim. I was lucky enough to catch Mr. Jordan in his recent creation of the J.M. Barrie in ‘Finding Neverland.’ His version is slightly more subdued than the usual female versions of this song of desperation. In that respect I tend to prefer someone like Bernadette Peters, whose histrionic tear-addled take on it tells of more heartache than any human should have to bear. Which do you like better? Both are wondrous, but everyone cottons to their own favorite for a reason.
I like the way Ms. Peters inhabits the past and present of this character. Suzie and I saw her in the revival of ‘Follies’ captured here, and she was as fantastic as expected. (Well, Suzie thought she cried too much, but Suzie’s harsh that way. She once crushed my five-year-old hand in a car window.) I found her richly dramatic and beautifully brittle. No one writes an unrequited love song like Mr. Sondheim.
I think it’s the first few lines that touch me the most:
Such stark simplicity, such naked emotions, such heartbreaking solitude. I remember mornings like that. Sometimes part of me even misses them, the passion they broke in me. As I grow out of my 30’s, I understand what they mean by ‘The Big Chill.’ This icy remoteness, the further we move from our youth, the further we seem to move from feeling. I don’t know, maybe it’s just me. The hardening of a heart finally coming years after I could have really used it. It’s so hard to get worked up about things. So difficult to find anything that really matters.
There was such longing then, but that longing inspired and drove my restless heart. Every unreturned love letter, made more vicious in its vacuous silence, singed my tattered hopes. I burned willingly, from the inside out, and I “decked myself out in every little feather that floated my way” just to hang onto something so flimsy it would not matter if it could not hold me. In fact, all the better if it didn’t. I wanted it to fall apart. I wanted to fall. And I did.
Being kind. Such a nice sentiment. Such a sweet turn of phrase. Such a fucking lie. There, in a fiery instant, the rage. The fury. The thousands of lonely nights gathered in a single black sheet of wrinkled memory, cast down and thrown up into a starless sky. What despair hides in a tear that never falls. Choke it all down. Purse the lips. Glaze the eyes. And, always, smile when you say goodbye.
I’ve forgotten what I was going to say.
Sometimes this blog is just one big nervous breakdown waiting to happen.
Or maybe it already did.
When October goes… well, it’s too late for when, as it’s already gone. In its place is November. In many ways, it is one of the cruelest months, portending the winter to come, but somewhat mollified by the arrival of Thanksgiving and the holiday season. Before that, though, the leaves must be ripped from the trees. This month marks the arrival of early nights and gray days, cold rains and colder winds. I’m not sure I’m ready for that, but there’s no choice.
One last look at what has come before, as seen in these photos, showing the spectacular foliage on a venerable maple tree. This year the trees held onto their carriage longer than usual, and for that I’m grateful. We’ve also been granted a spell of warmer days in the past month that has eased the shift deeper into fall. Of late, however, the customary rains of the season have returned, and with them the cooler temperatures. Another November is upon us. The month of gray is also the month of gratitude.
{NOTE: The song here is not the rendition that Betty Buckley sang over my sad little stereo in 1996. I couldn’t find that on YouTube. Instead, it’s Nancy Wilson, who does an equally-admirable version. It seems that for the first time one of my musical memories is too obscure even for the all-encompassing YouTube. I don’t know if I’m angry or proud about that.}
The month: October
The year: 1995
The location: Waltham, Massachusetts
The more specific location: Brandeis University, Usen Castle – the turret room
The mindset: Alone and almost lonely, a little lost
And when October goes
It would be my last year living on campus. We’d already found a family home in Boston, but I held onto a campus room since I was still a full-time student. I was also working 35 hours a week at Structure – which was practically full-time. Looking back, I don’t know how I did it, but I suppose there was no other way, or, more importantly, no other way of which I knew.
In my little turret room, vaguely shaped like a piece of pie or a piece of Trivial Pursuit, the walls were made of painted cinder bricks. There had been two long twin beds taking up most of the space, so I stacked one frame on the other, and did the same with the mattresses, creating a lofty princess-and-the-pea scene that rose above the bottom ledge of one window.
On the rickety wooden dresser that stood against one wall, my stereo played ‘When October Goes’ when it wasn’t playing ‘I Want You.’ It was, after all, time for October to go.
It’s strange – I distinctly remember that fall in the dorm room, but not the following winter and spring. By then, I’d already moved much of my life into Boston. It wasn’t a huge move – my head and heart had been there for months anyway.
Still, for that one semester it was just me, on an absurdly high bed, in an absurd turret of an absurd castle, on a campus I could not wait to leave behind. The departure of October was a welcome one. I wanted out of college and into life. Out of Brandeis and into Boston. Leaving a smaller room of solitude for a larger one.
Halloween is my day off. When you’ve spent a lifetime wearing outlandish outfits on a regular basis, there’s no big thrill in doing it when everyone is trying to do the same. Let the amateurs have their hour, I say. (Don a cape at Price Chopper on a Tuesday afternoon in September then come talk to me.) That said, I once enjoyed this quasi-holiday as much as the next kid, and there were a number of notable costumes I wore that I recall to this very day.
As a younger child, I was very much into animals. Not in any twisted or sick bestiality type of way, but in a pure, innocent, adoring manner. I was a beaver one year (go ahead and make the joke, I’ll wait), a skunk another, and even a cheetah (probably my favorite, as it meant I got to wear a suit made entirely of leopard print).
As I got older, I grew out of the animal phase and into something, well, older. I was an old man one year (something I could do without much make-up today), and a devil the next (even less of a stretch). After that run, I was old enough to not care so much, and when I had to march in Halloween parades as part of the band, it lost all appeal, so I’d go to a stand-by cape and hat and call it a night. (Still my M.O. if I need to do anything on this evening.)
Today, I’m going to let the rest of you take center stage and shine with your elaborate get-ups, sexy/slutty/skin-baring strip-downs, and witty sight-gag ensembles. I’ll sit back and watch, enjoying the spectacle from afar. (Besides, I’ve got badder fish to fry and other outfits to plan for evenings far more important than tonight.)
On the eve before All Hallow’s Eve, the Hunk of the Day honor goes fittingly to shape-shifter and cosplayer extraordinaire Michael Hamm. Every now and then I think that if I’d had some sort of cosplay outlet as a kid, I wouldn’t be such a fucked-up adult – then I realize that we did have cosplay back then: it was called ‘Underoos.’ Thankfully, it’s here now as well, and if you’ve ever been to Comic-Con or one of the cosplay conventions, it’s a surreal, magical experience. Just the sort of escapism and fantasy we like to celebrate on this blog.
Mr. Hamm has an extensive arsenal of cosplay looks, and the body to back them all up. More importantly, he’s got a sense of humor, shot through with a wicked wit, and an endearingly self-deprecating attitude that makes him practically perfect. (Additional credit must also be given to Shaun Simpson, the photographer who so often manages to capture Mr. Hamm at his finest, including most of the photos seen here.)
Before I was a cosplayer, I was a fan artist. I would draw my favorite characters and sell the pieces at art auctions. But once I discovered cosplay, it was like, ‘I don’t have to draw my favorite characters, I can become my favorite characters. ~ Yaya Han
{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.}
With the last few Madonna Timeline entries – ‘Like a Virgin‘ and ‘Burning Up‘ and ‘Dress You Up‘ – we’ve delved deep into the early days of M’s musical career. We stay in the 80’s with the latest, ‘Lucky Star.’ Now brace yourself, because I have to say something rather blasphemous to die-hard fans, and many casual fans of that heady early era as well I suppose: I’m not a fan of ‘Lucky Star.’ And you know what? It’s ok to say that. If Matthew Rettenmund can have issues with ‘Take A Bow’ and ‘Crazy For You‘ then surely I can scoff at ‘Lucky Star!’
I also don’t have any fond or not-so-fond memories of when the song came out. My first Madonna memory was a short while later – when ‘Material Girl‘ marched onto the scene. Prior to that I was too young to listen to the radio.
That said, I understand that ‘Lucky Star’ is a highlight in her catalog, particularly to many who were bopping to the early MTV beat back then, so I will not discount its importance. For her video career, it was crucial in establishing her style (and it’s historic in the back-up dancing by her own brother, Christopher, who would prove to have a crucial presence in the first half of her career) and her soon-to-be dominance of MTV. Yet for some reason, and it’s a personal preference more than anything else, I never connected to the song or the video.
So you see, I don’t like absolutely everything Madonna does. I’m a sick fan, but I’m not a sycophant.
SONG #109 – ‘Lucky Star’ ~ 1985
My friend JoAnn/Josie/JoJo-Dancer instructed me on how to pick bittersweet – that ubiquitous fall favorite that is actually becoming a noxious invasive in many parts of the country. Despite that, it brings a fall beauty to doorways and tabletops and mantles, if picked correctly. The time to cut them is when the “berries” turn yellow, but before they burst open to reveal their inner orange. Most of us (myself included) waited until they were in full color to clip, but if you wait that long they fall apart. If picked when intact and unpopped, they will open on their own accord and hold their color – and this beauty – for much longer.
At a time of the year when most things are beginning the brown and gray march toward a certain winter, these color bursts are a welcome bit of cheer, but their name is redolent of what’s really going on, so I’m going to include the musical clip below of Me-Shell NdegeOcello’s ‘Bitter.’ Many years ago it got me through a cheerless winter in Chicago, because sometimes you have to go through the pain to get out of it.
Until the winter arrives, however, I’m taking the bitter with the sweet, and keeping the color on the vine. There is more of fall to come.
Everybody loves a guy in a kilt. Especially if it’s worn in the traditional manner. Now, you can have your very own kilt and support a couple of great guys in the process. The Kilted Bros. are currently raising funds for their kilt-making enterprise, and you can donate here if you are so inclined to help them get running. They’re already doing quite well, but their GoFundMe drive ends this week, so here’s an extra push.
As can be seen here, a kilt works in many wonderful ways, and The Kilted Bros. are big proponents for letting your balls ride the breeze. As you may know, this site celebrates those who dare to go without pants, and wearing a kilt most definitely counts.
They’re also the perfect unexpected piece for any upcoming holiday parties, which are always in need of sprucing up – and nothing spruces things up like a kilt. Go ahead, take life by the balls.
The week of Halloween dawns in cool, gray, rainy form, perfect for fall and fine for keeping rowdy costumed kids at bay. The last few days on the blog have found me in catch-up form, and we’re sell not up-to-date, but I like that. By the time this place gives hint as to where I am, I’ll already be gone. Better for would-be-burglars, and safer for safety purposes. Ho-hum, I’m boring myself… on with the weekly recap.
It was the anniversary of Madonna’s ‘Erotica’ album. I’ll give you love, I’ll hit you like a truck, I’ll give you love, I’ll teach you how to…
There was a rare second-crowning of a Hunk of the Day, with this post on Lance Parker.
It’s never too early for a Christmas gift wish list for those who like to plan ahead.
One of the more popular Hunks of the Day has got to be Philip Fusco, who will likely receive his double-crowning any day now.
There’s nothing more inspiring than an artist who is also a gentleman. Unless he is also a Hunk like THomas Wolski.
This was also the week that I finally chronicled our Columbus Day weekend in Ogunquit, such as it was. It began so well, but quickly crashed as my back went down. All because of a few flowers.
There was a last bit of beauty, though, to salvage all in a moment by the sea.
Believe it or not, it’s not always about Madonna and men.
Although, Nick Jonas got all shirtless again, talking bulges and sex scenes and further endearing himself to the gay community, so maybe it is about the men.
