A Boston Test

Making use of the free wifi at Copley Place, I’m testing out whether this blog can be done by satellite, so bear with me if the format is slightly screwy or the usual perfection is in short supply. At the time of this writing I’m still in Boston. It’s a sunny but brisk Sunday morning, and the sky is a very deep and brilliant blue. I’m patiently awaiting the noon opening of retail stores – particularly John Fluevog, which has a pair of wingtips that caught my eye in the ‘Improper Bostonian.’

While I’m not exactly in need of new shoes, I’ve been saving a bit of money, and it may be time for a little reward. I did splurge on a scarf earlier, and a silk pocket square, but I put back an Armani coat (even though it was half off!) and declined a leather Coach tote that screamed my name. More difficult was saying no to a new Tom Ford Private Blend – ‘Oud Fleur’ – and a long line of Byredo Parfums at Barneys. Yet somehow I did it. That’s will power.

This concludes my test of the blog’s satellite capability. I’ll attempt to put up a Boston pic to see how that works, or doesn’t work, but for the most part it seems to be possible. This is a very good sign.

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When the Light is Soft

Morning first creeps into the Boston condo through the front rooms. The sun manages to spill directly into the space, especially when the trees are bare, as they are now. But that’s not usually where I am when I first wake in the morning. For that, you must step further into the condo, past the small marble wet bar and mirror, and into the sanctuary of the bedroom.

The light here is different. It is diffused, softer, less focused. The sun won’t shine directly in until later in the afternoon. For now, it is merely the light of the sky – no unexceptional light to be sure, but quieter in its way, more subdued and less glaring.

It fills the space slowly, beginning as the faintest glow, in shades of gray and mauve and slate. It doesn’t march in like the sun in the front room, it insinuates itself more subtly, delicately, gently.

It doesn’t jar anyone awake, it doesn’t rile with the screech of a rooster. Its nudge is careful, more of a caress or a kiss. The slightest of touches to wake a slumbering beast.

There is no alarm clock here. There is no shrill ring-tone. There is only the slowly-growing glow of light.

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Showdown at Starbucks

The first thing I heard was a man yelling on his cel phone. In a raspy, gravelly voice that boomed through the lobby, he slurred words of love and anger to whomever was on the other end. The second thing I noticed was the rancid scent of stale beer, which I then saw originated in a garbage bag spilling forth beer cans and bottles, and a puddle of beer wherever he set it down. (This isn’t one of the cool Seattle Starbucks that serves beer, and being that it doubled as the lobby to a bank and a law firm, beer is not something that is usually on hand.) I sighed and went back to my book, trying vainly to block the obnoxious conversation out of my brief lunch break. [This wasn’t my first incident at the downtown Albany location, nor is it likely to be my last.]

The phone call completed, the man stood, a bit wobbly, and proceeded to go around asking people for money, saying he got his GED and was not going to do cocaine anymore or steal anything. He tapped every patron on the shoulder, leaned in to them with the warning, “Don’t be afraid,” and asked brazenly for change. Shifting my shoes before he dripped beer on them, I shook my head and said I didn’t have anything. He moved on to the next person.

A few seats down, the “security guard” for the bank sat at a table having a conversation with a parking meter attendant – or, as I like to call them, the two most useless people on the planet. As the beer man continued pestering people, I went up and asked if the guy dressed like a security guard, with the security emblem on his shoulder, was, in fact, some sort of, like, security. He said yes hesitantly, and I asked if he might be able to do something about this guy spilling beer everywhere and begging for money. After a meek attempt at asking the guy to leave people alone, he went and sat back down. Ten minutes and more harassment later, the security guy asked me if the other guy had left. Based on the yelling that was still going on I said no, he was still there. Mr. Security then loudly told his conversation partner that he only worked for the bank and Starbucks was responsible for their side. He also went on to say that if someone was robbing the bank, he wouldn’t try to stop that either. Mainly, in his words, he was there to sit and be a presence. A big, useless presence. (Attention would-be-robbers: have I got a job for you!)

Finally, after the beer guy approached a table of two young women and asked for money, one of the Starbucks baristas – a female (because the three hulking males working there proved as hapless as the security guard) told the drunk guy he couldn’t do that and asked him to leave. Instead of going on his merry way, he said the following, which I happened to get on video because I knew he would not go quietly or without a fight. It’s the final part of their exchange, word for upsetting word:

Beer Guy: I’m asking everybody. I ain’t stealing, I ain’t robbing nobody no more.

Barista Girl: Sorry sir, you can’t do that in here.

Beer Guy: I do what I want in here. Get your fat ass back there.

Barista Girl: All right, that’s nice. Get to stepping.

Beer Guy: Who the fuck is you? I only like white girls.

Barista Girl: Get out. Get out. Go ahead.

Beer Guy: Treat me like I’m white, bitch! Get on your knees!

Barista Girl: Go. Get out. I’m going to call the police.

At that point he left. And the rest of us sat there, quietly stunned. Near the end, the security guard shows up on the video, tentatively approaching the scene, watching but not doing a thing. As race played a rather ugly part at the end of the confrontation, I will disclose that both parties involved were African-American. (The useless security person was white.)

I can’t say I was much more than useless myself, too scared to confront the guy myself (and two feet shorter than him too.)

There’s no happy ending to this post, only the uncomfortable words hanging in the air, and the memory of it all lingering in a disturbingly stubborn way. Even when not directly involved in incidents like that, I’m left feeling icky. Disappointed in humans ~ haunted by all our demons.

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The Ass Menagerie

If you’ve been coming here for any length of time, you’ve have noticed that there is never any full-frontal male nudity on this site. Mainly because I don’t want this to turn into a porny free-for-all, and full-frontal shots can be found any other number of places. As compensation, however, I have offered ample ass shots – my own and others. For some reason rear nudity is not as frowned-upon as cock shots. It’s a fine line. Very fine. And we each have to draw it where we feel most comfortable. In my own life, I’m pretty free-for-all. For public consumption, however, I put the penis away.

To that end, we focus on the other end. The tight end. The perky end. The happy end. Notable butts featured here have included the following:

Christian Bale and his bounteous maximus on shower display in ‘American Psycho.’ If it takes turning into a psychotic to get a body like that, I don’t ever want to be sane.

Ryan Phillippe has come a long way from his ‘Studio 54’ days, and I’d say his butt has markedly improved.

Another Ryan – Ryan Reynolds – just edges out Mr. Phillippe in the hot ass department.

A whole slew of bottoms stripping in ‘Magic Mike’ – and this beautiful Battle of the Butts. (I’m still partial to Matt Bomer’s epic ass work in that Oscar-robbed film.)

The magnificent backside of Nick Youngquest in all its glory.

Rhymes with man-candy, male model David Gandy.

Royalty, okay? Prince Harry’s fine ass.

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The Power of the Flower

Every year at about this time (especially this year given the winter we’ve had) I seek out flower shows or other signs of spring to help me get through the finals days of this dismal season. Years ago, my Mom took my brother and me to the Philadelphia Flower Show, my first brush with this sublime experience. It was dazzling. It was beautiful. It was life-altering. It wasn’t usual for a ten-year-old boy to take such an active interest in flowers, but I’d been that way since I was even younger. I knew the scientific names of most houseplants and perennials, and the flower show was an almost-overwhelming opportunity to see things that I’d previously only been able to view in books. From the opening display of spring-blooming narcissus and azaleas, I was taken over by the whole experience, transported to another realm of beauty and all things sublime.

The greenery and blossoms stretched onward, and I excitedly named and examined each recognizable species. Back then, I wasn’t as interested in escaping winter, I was more concerned with seeing all the plants and flowers. As the years passed, however, I remembered that trip to the flower show, and when I found myself at Brandeis University, bemoaning an endless Boston winter, I sought out the New England Flower Show and boarded the commuter rail early on a Saturday morning in March.

I transferred to the Red Line and got off at the JFK stop, taking a bus to the large convention center than then housed it. I was struck first by the greenhouse scent. The same sense of wonder and awe filled me, and I was instantly brought back to that first Philadelphia experience. A glass-enclosed sitting room was set up in the center of it all, with arching Kentia palms and the floating blooms of Phalaenopsis orchids. A simple chaise lounge on dark mahogany legs like polished tree trunks stood slightly off-center, and it looked like the most paradisiacal place to read a book or spend a lazy afternoon. It formed the inspiration for the renovation of my parents’ attic that I was designing at the time, and offered hope for what that space might become. (It would eventually come to fruition, complete with a chaise lounge by the window, framed by two graceful palms, and softened by a curtain of fine netting.)

On that day, the flower show was the perfect antidote for all the stubborn dirty snow that adamantly refused to depart, a cure for the wailing wind and the continual threat of icy weather. It was almost as good as a vacation to some tropical climate where orchids bloomed from above and calla lilies rose from warm, wet beds. The smell of earth was in the air – that glorious fragrance of peat and moss and life – the wondrous stuff of primal existence, of the most basic of nature’s substance. It filled me with hope, and the outside pain of cold and concrete fell away, the winter receded, and the world blossomed again.

This year the New England Flower Show begins next week, so I may end up missing it, but in my living room there is a Norfolk Island pine, and several rabbit’s foot ferns to ease the chill of these remaining winter days. Mind over matter, beneath the fronds of a few ferns

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The Beantown Express

This weekend I hope to find myself back in Boston, where I’ll be meeting my friend Alissa and her daughter for a catch-up dinner. There is much to tell – we only see each other every few months, and these last few months have been action-packed to say the least. Along with this recent lifting of a haze, I feel a renewed desire to reconnect with those people who matter the most to me – the friends who have been in my life for a decade and a half, some even longer.

These are the ones who know me inside and out, and are able to see certain patterns and changes that sometimes not even I have been able to discern. They’re often better than a mirror or a counselor, and they offer honest insight and tough truths, because that’s what good friends do. They will also be there for me no matter what may come. We will be there for each other. That sense of comfort confounds any sense of loneliness.

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Flowers & Underwear

There are little moments of happy coincidence, bits of providence and luck that tickle this winding life, and that serve to remind me nothing is ever to be taken too seriously. Or isn’t it? Case in point was this accidental color pairing of Andrew Christian underwear and a stalk of freesia from the supermarket. It happened the last time I was in Boston, and I didn’t make the connection until I returned to upstate New York and downloaded these photos. These are the seemingly insignificant sign-posts that direct us on our way, that let us know we are where we’re supposed to be, or at least on the right path. Little is simple coincidence. It all means something.

As to what my underwear matching the spray of flowers in the local market might signify is anyone’s guess. I just know that it felt good, it felt right, and that night in the supermarket, as Kira and I were picking up food for breakfast the next morning in the Boston condo, I was right where I belonged. It wasn’t a big fancy sign – there wasn’t glitter or sparkle or fireworks – there was simply a feeling of calm and contentment.

The signs can be subtle, and easily missed, but as much as I play the ostrich with his head in the sand (feathers included), I’m rarely that bird. I’ve always been aware.

As for these comfy Andrew Christian trunks, I like the color as much as I like how they feel. They fit as finely as these Hanro briefs, but come with a brighter palette.

And since I’m not Miranda Priestley, I have no problem with the freesia either.

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The Frozen Winter

Yes, I am still obsessed by the song ‘Let It Go‘, finding in its message a way out, an escape, an empowerment that I thought I had given up years and years ago. It turns out I haven’t. I can recall a cold winter morning filled with snow almost a decade and a half ago, when I was supposed to go to Boston but didn’t. This weekend I’m going back, because sometimes you can go back, no matter what anyone says.

This instrumental mash-up of ‘Let It Go’ and Vivaldi’s ‘Winter’ movement is pretty inspiring. I’m keeping it in my head when I need a little jolt, when I start to doubt myself. These days, that’s happening less and less. On the verge of spring…

Let it go, let it go… Can’t hold it back anymore…

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One Man’s Trash is Another Man’s Treasure

The first full sentence I ever uttered, according to a baby book kept for a couple of years by my mother, was, “I like to watch.” It was indicative of a lifetime of observation, which is what I’ve always done best. Though I tend to pretend otherwise, there is little that gets by me. That which does escape my notice tends to be the things I’d rather not see. That doesn’t mean I don’t notice the supposedly-bad and presumably-ugly. In fact, those are the objects that appear on my radar first. Like the junk that shows up on the street in the dying days of a snowy winter. All the dirty ice melts away to reveal the objects that once were hidden in a world of white. The usual suspects are all in evidence – tiny bottles, sticks and stones, fast food cartons and containers, ratty straws, cigarette butts, and shreds of discarded paper.

Yet it’s the more unusual objects that grab my attention and regale my interest. To them I attribute all sorts of fantastical back-stories and likely-untrue tales, letting my imagination rove free and wild, and taking flights of fancy along the few blocks around my Boston home. Take the orange peel below, for instance. Who was eating it? And why were they eating it on the street? Was it a grandfather awaiting the arrival of his grandchildren? Was it someone who just couldn’t wait for dinner? Or were these the scraps of citrus intended to keep away peeing dogs?

A single stalk of eucalyptus, either from a happy delivery of fresh flowers, or the opposite spectrum of that process – a bit of a discarded floral arrangement when all the beauty has faded. Was this dropped at the beginning or the end? At the time when all was hope, or when all hope was gone?

A striped paper clip. Not simply silver, not a single color, but a paper clip in stripes.

One open highlighter, embedded in a bank of dirty snow. Did someone drop it accidentally? Was it thrown in frustration? Is this the work of a careless worker, a thoughtful student, an angry professor giving up? Maybe it was the final act of a survey-taker who had enough of being treated like shit by smart-ass guys like me.

A belt. How do you lose a belt on the street? I’ll never understand how some things can go missing without immediate notice. Like a shoe. Or a belt. I’ve never been that drunk in my life.

A knife just starting to creep with rust. It’s not that unusual, but the way this was positioned spoke to my eye. The texture of asphalt, bordering stone, and a once shiny metallic luster dulled by the elements – and the parallel design, as it placed there for this very photograph to be taken – all pulled my focus from the walk at hand, but I was rounding the corner for my street, and the adventure was coming to a close.

Finally, a Kidde battery. 9 Volt. For smoke detectors. Hope this one got replaced, instead of thrown out in a rage when it wouldn’t stop beeping.

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Hunky Henry Cavill, Shirtless & Wet

Just because Mr. Cavill looks even better in motion, I present to you the glorious GIFs seen below. He’s been here naked before as one of the more hotter Hunks of the Day (that one’s always worth a revisit) and hopefully he’ll do something to put his ass back here again. In the meantime, drool and wipe, drool and wipe.

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Rose Quartz in the Light of Night and Day

Shortly after we first met, Andy gave me this rose quartz stone emblazoned with the word ‘Angel’ on it. Back then, I had little to no faith in such talismans, but something in his earnestness, and in the way he believed, set me at ease, and I accepted it graciously. When we lived apart in those early days, I’d hold the stone close to me when I was alone at night, envisioning much of the life that has unfolded since then, or at least wishing and hoping for it. He felt closer to me then.

The first two photos were taken in the evening, by the glow of candlelight. It softens the appearance of the quartz, and the polished surface of the stone is easy on the hands, comforting in the folds of a palm.

Through the years, I held onto it, keeping it in Boston, for those weekends I was away from him. It was a comfort; a little bit of Andy could be in both our homes.

In the morning it glows differently in the sunlight, with a bit more hope, a stronger radiance ~ exactly what is needed to greet another day.

I would hold it in my hand. Closing my fingers around it and feeling its calming influence stilled the chaos of the world. Eventually the heat from my body warmed the stone itself, and soon it seemed to emanate its own warmth, pulsating with energy and life, returning some mystical mirth to my heart.

I didn’t realize it when I started doing this that it was a form of meditation. In those moments of quiet and stillness, I allowed my head to clear itself of whatever was ailing it. I inspected each thought as it came across my mind, then let it go. I examined every nagging concern, turning them around in my head, then let them drift off. It was all right to acknowledge them. It was ok. After some time, the thoughts and worries came less and less frequently. Soon, there was an expanse of clarity, a vast plane of clear thought. It didn’t happen instantly, and some nights it didn’t happen at all. At those times there was simply too much, and too little time.

Eventually, though, I found the clarity again. It is always there, waiting to be accessed when we have the time and effort, when we can let certain things go, release resentments, set free our judgments, and accept what has come to be. Those are all easier said than done, but with work and perseverance it is possible.

That possibility greets us every morning. It’s in the cup of tea streaming tiny particles of water above its surface, waving and undulating in the morning sunlight. A new day begins. Every morning is another chance.

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Back Alleys in Boston

Given their respective size, it’s strange that I should feel so much safer in Boston than in Downtown Albany, but such is the case. Even on dark evenings, passing by alleyways like this, I feel a greater comfort and security than if I were to pass similar spots in upstate New York. Of course it’s all in my head, but sometimes that’s where the power of safety resides. It helps too that the Back Bay/South End area of Boston is relatively benign when it comes to crime, at least in the hours that I frequent the surrounding streets. (No more 2 AM strolls for me.)

Far from being spooky or haunting, these scenes delight with their subtle air of mystery and timelessness. Echoes of Europe, for which I’ve always loved Boston, sound off the cobblestone walks, whispers of a past life sharing secrets shrouded in a dusty veil. No more than a whisper can be heard tonight, not above the rising wind and a growing chill. Shadows fix themselves in place beneath street lamps, where they will remain until the first light of day washes them away. In the summer, a stray skunk might be seen waddling amid the garbage, seeking out sustenance, or a raccoon, that pesky night bandit, bold in its natural mask. Tonight, however, in the dead middle of winter, there is nothing to be seen.

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The Light in Boston, From Both Sides

In the morning, the sun streams in through the front windows of the Boston condo. By afternoon, it has shifted to the bedroom bay window, but thanks to the gigantic mirror of the John Hancock Tower, it also pours in through the front windows again, until the leaves of Braddock Park fill in come the spring. This has always been a favorite, and fleeting, space to be – in that zone where sun pours in from both sides. Along the Southwest corridor you can actually step into spots where it feels like two suns are shining upon you at once. It’s nothing short of magical, and I’ve often stopped still in my tracks when I realize I’ve stepped into those ethereal pools of shifting light.

The photos here play with the fading light of a winter’s day, and its reflections. As the sun slowly descended, a chill crept in with the dusk. The wind picked up a bit and I pulled my coat more tightly around my chest. A dinner of pho had momentarily warmed me, but it drained quickly as I hurried along Massachusetts Avenue down to Columbus, catching the last of the day’s sunlight on the dome of the Christian Science Center.

This isn’t an area I typically traverse. Most errands or walks take me in the opposite direction, so it’s been at least a year -“ probably more – since I’ve been this far down Columbus. At the dimming of the day, there was something sad about it, about how much I had been missing.

Luke Adams Gifting Co., a new shop on that stretch of Columbus that I rarely frequent, had opened up in the last few months. They had a neat selection of unique gifts, and a nice assortment of letterpress cards. I spoke with the shop owner who said they’d only recently had a soft opening, and were offering some glass-blowing classes to get word out that they were there. I purchased a few cards and went back into the quickly-darkening afternoon.

Right next door was a coffee shop that I didn’t stop in that moment, but I will on my next trip. The old neighborhood has come a long way, and is still evolving. I have missed that – the new stores and cafes that open up a few blocks away, the excitement of trying out new things. I don’t do it when I’m in upstate New York, and not only because there are less things happening. That just means there is more to explore whenever I get back to Boston.

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A Shirtless Oscar Winner

Last night, while watching the Oscars (but not doing a big bitchy Oscar post like last year, because I just wasn’t up for it) I asked someone to give me an idea for this post. My Twitter friend Alexander recommended Jared Leto through the years. And so, here you go. I remember when he first emoted as Jordan Catalano on ‘My So-Called Life.’ I think I might have liked him a bit more back then, when his hair was a little shorter. But there are those who like a Christ-cut, and pose, and he gives that, and more, with some help from photographer Terry Anderson.

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Recap: In Like A Lion, A Naked Lion

With this month just under way, and the old ‘In like a lion’ adage seemingly holding true, I’m doing a recap to encapsulate some highlights from all of February, for those lucky casual visitors who haven’t quite made this a daily-must-stop. (I don’t blame you in the least – on a good day I’m a lot to take. On a bad day, it’s simply too much.) Let’s get on with this wintry look back… so we can soon spring ahead. Despite swirling snow, I know it’s coming…

February was perhaps best-known, at least in these parts, for two seminal sporting events: the Super Bowl and the Winter Olympics. The former featured this supposedly-naked commercial for David Beckham, the latter featured these definitely-naked Olympians.

Along those Olympic lines (but not bound solely to winter), we featured the hunky likes of Blake Skjellerup, Greg Rutherford, Tom Daley, Matteo Guarise, Darren Criss, Andrew Christian, Christof Innerhofer, Jeremy Abbott, Louis Smith, & Gus Kenworthy.

The Gay Soiree was a smashing success, featuring a stellar atmosphere, some killer music, and the best crowd in Albany. My outfit was an intentionally over-the-top hot mess. And it showcased my ass.

Plagued by troubling dreams and meddlesome nightmares, this was not the easiest month in which to find sweet sleep, but protection was at hand, and family gatherings like this one brightened the dark days. Cooking was a comfort too, but it was the company that made the difference.

A Vietnamese dinner, half home-made (just don’t call me Sandra Lee unless you have a connection to her boyfriend, who still has yet to make equitable salary reparation to his Management Confidential employees – ahem.)

A low-key Valentine’s Day, lacking in the usual Dorothy Parker bitterness, but resonating on a deeper plane.

The adorable and amazing Kristin Chenoweth lit up Schenectady better than anything GE could ever produce.

You’ve got style, that’s what all the girls say…

A blast from the past, and the re-booting of a series that still doesn’t excite me.

Can we be brave?

All you really need to click: Dan Osborne Naked.

Wait, all you REALLY need to click: Dan Osborne & Tom Daley in Speedos.

Ok, THIS IS THE ONE.

Sucking too hard on a lollipop?

For some less-than-super-human hunks who had nothing to do with the Olympics, we showed off  David Mcintosh, Cole Horibe, Mark Wright, Marco Dapper, Pablo Hernandez, Josh Button, Ryan Steele, Perez Hilton, Lucien Laviscount, Alex Pettyfer, Jason Derulo, Nick Bateman, a naked Jake Gyllenhaal, a naked Stuart Reardon, a naked Tom Daley (!!!!) and the amazing Chris Salvatore bulging out of his own underwear line.

The meat and the motion, and a cool little side dish to quell the heat.

Cream… get on top!

Happy Birthday to my baby brother.

Why did my lover have to pick last night to get down?

Back to Boston, with more to come, home of the best scones ever.

A couple of recaps within a recap: some more gratuitously naked male celebrities, some ferociously hot (and bordering-on-obscene) bulges from these Hunks, and some ridiculously perfect male models. Plus, one hot naked ginger in delicious motion (the guy featured in the pics above).

And there’s always room for one more gratuitous Ben Cohen post.

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