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Dappled Sunlight in Boston

Cities often suffer in the summer. Once that heat gets into the concrete and the subways, it’s there until October. Still, there are spaces and moments of reprieve, such as in the dappled shade afforded by street trees, or the increasingly-landscaped stretches of the Southwest Corridor Park, where these photos were taken.

Here, some snowdrop anemones and blue flags find comfort beneath the filtered sunlight before the heat becomes unbearable.

At this early stage of the season, everything is still fresh, everything is still cool. The greens are softer, the edges pristine, and the blossoms unripped by hot winds.

It’s the secret side of Boston, unknown to tourists, and often unnoticed by locals, and I hold it more dear because of that.

The lips of an iris are sealed, the petals of an anemone silent.

Sometimes summer doesn’t shout – sometimes it whispers.

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Vacation’s Over

“No man needs a vacation so much as the man who has just had one.” ― Elbert Hubbard

Truer words were never spoken. Having just returned from a family vacation in Cape Cod, I am in no mood to start cranking out blog posts. It was a grand time, including a number of fun moments with the family, and some relaxing days on the beach. We could have done with a few more, but alas, there is work to be done, and parties for which to prepare, and the incessant parade of the internet marches onward with little room for slowing.

Fortunately, this is all by choice, and my website is done mostly for myself. The moment it becomes less than enjoyable is the moment it goes dark. I haven’t gotten there yet, but after being away from a computer and this blog for five days, I’ve realized that the best part of life goes on off-screen. So, for a while, the summer perhaps, I’m taking a bit of the vacation mentality back with me and employing it here in the form of two posts a day versus three. Trust me, you won’t miss that third one – and if you do, then you’re doing something wrong with your life too. Let’s live a little… in the real world… just for a summer.

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The First Summer Recap

Barely a couple of days into the summer season and we’re already recapping. Well, that’s what Mondays are for, so let’s dive in and get it done. My first family vacation in two decades comes to a close today, so you have those posts to look forward to, but in the meantime, things stayed relatively steady here, with a week of events that included the following:

The Albany Gay Pride Parade and Festival, to which I wore sequins – lots of sequins – and in which I wasn’t alone, came and went in a sparkling flash.

We attended one very long dance recital for my four-year-old niece. As antsy as we may have been, it was nothing compared to the behavior of my four-year-old nephew.

Haunted by a ruthless rhododendron.

It’s always hot when Harry Judd takes his clothes off, as he did here.

No summer start would be complete without Tom Daley in his Speedo.

There were a couple of Hunks who kept things as hot as the weather, like the unconventionally-attractive Adam Driver, the more conventionally-pretty Torben King, British swimmer Mark Foster, Danish model Ken Bek, the commonly-monikered Kevin Smith and, last but certainly not least, my pal and webmaster Skip Montross.

Here’s to the start of summer – let’s rock!

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Soft as an Evergreen

Only the first flush of foliage in the first few days of growth on an evergreen is soft to the touch. Soon enough, it will harden and darken and become the prickly but hardy form that will see it through the coldest winter. Of course, I like its fleeting form the best, when the colors are the brightest, the texture is still pliable, and the coarseness is not yet in evidence.

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A Family Vacation

Our family vacations were not for the relaxation or refreshment that most people think of when they plan a vacation. Our parents saw to it that we were up by 7:30 most mornings, seeing the local sights, traipsing through the museums and historical locations before there was beach time or pool fun. It was a regimented routine that I still find myself recreating on trips.

The first thing my Mom would do, much to our impatient chagrin, was unpack the luggage and put the clothes away in the chest and closet. While we were antsy, she methodically unpacked everything. We would whine and run around the room hoping to go anywhere or do anything other than such mundane housekeeping. These days, I rarely unload a thing from the luggage, aside from hanging some shirts of jackets to undo any wrinkling.

As for the early alarm, I realize now that she probably didn’t want to waste a moment, and I get that. I am the same way when it comes to seeing a new place for the first time. The best time of the day in many places is first thing in the morning. THat’s when the air is fresh, the light is good, and the crowds are still asleep.

For our upcoming family vacation, however, I’m going to do things a little differently. I’m not going to rush myself up in the morning. I’m not going to jam a few days of nonstop events into the itinerary. In fact, there will be no itinerary. I will make no plans. I will make no commitments. I will do as I feel, when I feel like doing it.

With a new job that has its own non-stop schedule, I want to refresh and replenish and relax. I don’t think I’ve ever truly done that before. Now is the time.

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Unconditional Parental Love

I’ve been avoiding YouTube tearjerkers like they were flash mobs, but every now and then someone I admire and respect shares something like this, and I take the time to watch. It’s a little long for the usual YouTube clip, but more than worth it. This is a family that could teach many other families some wonderful lessons.

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Summer Arrives, Shirtlessness Abounds

The first day of summer is here at last, and the promise of the happiest season of the year finds fulfillment. While it’s the hope of all to come that fuels these glorious early days, here’s a brief look back at a summer that came before. Only by acknowledging the past can we move gaily toward the future… or some bullshit like that – it’s summer, who gives a fuck?

It wouldn’t be pool season without a few gratuitous Speedo posts, like this one featuring Tom Daley.

My reign-of-terror on Instagram began last June, and since that time far fewer photos than expected have been taken down for objectionable content. I’ve disappointed myself, and no doubt a few of you. Those who follow, however, had a chance to see the banned pics before they get pulled, so what are you waiting for? Follow.

How long will it take to get used to me? Don’t wait that long.

This year was all about Tiffany’s, but last year it was Gatsby’s party.

The tea-scented tree peony in all its fragrant splendor.

A winter Olympian in the summer has no choice but to get naked.

What’s simple is true, and beautiful.

Eat me, I’m juicy.

Not clitoris, clematis.

Last year at this time Ian Ziering was stripping for the Chippendales. I hear he’s doing the same thing this summer.

The babies, the babies!

A tale of tomatoes.

Go Doogie.

A look-back within a look-back.

Lovely ladies – two of them.

Cruise this JP.

It’s always summer where Madonna is concerned.

The pool. Nothing matters but the pool.

And the Speedo.

And the skinny dip.

And the sun.

And Tom Daley in a Speedo.

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Boston Street Views, Game in Sight

There haven’t been as many Boston trips of late, but a few are coming up, with a possible game at Fenway in the works with a certain webmaster. I haven’t been to a baseball game since 1993, when the Red Sox were down by 11 in the 7th inning and I left to go shopping on Newbury Street. It was the best decision – and they did not make any sort of miraculous comeback.

This summer, guided by my brother and his methods of procuring tickets, we may check out a game, as long as it’s not against the Yankees. Cooler heads must prevail.

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The Replacement of a Rhody

Certain people loathe hydrangeas, others loathe rhododendrons. I’m in the latter camp. When we bought our home, a gigantic rhododendron stood in front of the large window of the living room. It blocked the light and the view year-round, with its evergreen foliage and enormous stature. In late spring, it bloomed in the traditional bright magenta – a color I usually love, except in the ubiquitous form of the rhododendron. The trouble was, I had no clear idea of what to do in its stead, so it stayed in its spot, growing larger and larger from year to year, despite my futile pruning attempts.

Eventually I couldn’t take it anymore, and early one spring I chopped it down. This was a difficult endeavor. The trunks were thick and gnarled, and the roots had twisted in on themselves. It was a stubborn thing that initially refused to budge. I let it go for a few days before hacking away at it with a hatchet. Finally, it released its hold, and I fell backward in a shower of dirt and sweat.

I amended the soil and planted a double-file viburnum where the rhody used to be, in a poorly-thought-out moment of viburnum obsession. I hadn’t realized the importance of the former’s evergreen nature, and when winter came the bare branches made me question my decision. In another year, the fast-growing branches of the viburnum had reached the same proportion of the rhody that I’d taken down, leaving me with the same predicament.

Once again, I got out the saw and hatchet, and chopped away at another overgrown specimen. This was the ruthless part of gardening that, once I made up my mind to do it, I executed with cruel deliberation. Even in its relatively short time, it had somehow burrowed deeper than the relatively-shallow-rooted rhododendron, its long tap root extending beyond comprehension. I had to dig an enormous well around it just in order to get deep enough. For having such a delicate flower form, the viburnum is a hardy wench, but I fought until its death, because a gardener doesn’t give up. In the end, a bare patch of ground remained.

I didn’t move hastily to fill in the spot, enjoying the expanse for a bit and carefully contemplating what to do. The answer presented itself when an umbrella pine in the background outgrew its space beside and beneath a weeping cherry. On a rainy afternoon, I dug it gently out of the only home it had ever known and put it into the empty space that always seem to fill too quickly. The slow-growing nature of the umbrella pine was perfect for the spot, and we would have years before it would even need to be pruned.

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Best Commercial Ever

For All State Insurance no less, and bloody brilliant.

(Yes, I teared up, as I tend to do these days.)

The song is by singer-songwriter Eli Lieb, who will no doubt be featured quite a bit more here – in a couple of short hours in fact…

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Family Vacation

Every summer our parents would take us on a family vacation. These were usually about a week in duration (it was the most my Dad would take off from work) but they seemed much longer, in the way that childhood has of stretching out time, especially during spells of grand adventure. We’d pack up the big station wagon, load a cooler with ice and sandwiches and soda (a treat, as we never got to drink much soda as kids) and head out on a carefully-plotted excursion. Sometimes we went South – to Florida or South Carolina – and sometimes we’d head North – to Montreal or Toronto. It didn’t really matter to us – we just loved the thrill of getting out of town for a while, and the excitement of hotel stays and new places to see.

For one of these vacations, a friend of my Mom gave her a journal to keep track of everything we did. She made a few entries before this final one:

The kids are miserable.

Emil – generally miserable.

Me – wondering why the hell I plan these vacations…

Looking back, we laugh at it. At the time, I’m sure there was hell to pay. Now, as we are about to embark on our first family vacation in over two decades, I hope the twins don’t volley my karma back at me. We’ll be on the Cape, where a couple of four-year-olds can get very tiresome if there’s not fun and sun and a lot to do. Wish me luck.

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A Word on Dance Recitals

Can we talk about dance recitals for a moment? Not in a politically-correct and kind way, but in a blunt, honest, hard-truth kind of way? I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings, but some things need to be said. I just attended my first, and very possibly last, dance recital for my four-year-old niece. Let me say upfront that she was great – I have to say that as her Uncle, and as someone who loves her dearly. She executed her dances well – all two that were in the early part of the program – and finished in relative unison in the finale. It was the intervening couple of hours that had me questioning my sanity, and the very existence of humanity.

First of all, two and a half hours is a long time for any production – but I’ve been told that this is relatively short for this sort of thing. All I can say to that is that if I have to sit through a recital longer than this, I’m taking a hostage or calling in a bomb threat. Either way, there will be people thanking me for it.

Second, there’s a rule against leaving once the kids you are there to see are finished, right? I’m certain that this is a rule, or at least polite protocol. I’m also guessing that this is why every single person, no matter how briefly or how early they appear in the program, is in the final number. As Madonna once remarked, “That’s one of life’s little fuck-overs.”

By the time we reached the Justin Bieber medley, my patience was tried, my brain was fried, but I still hadn’t died. FaceBook friends had told me to pray for death at the start but I didn’t listen. Now it was too late, and no one was going to smite me.

And yet… and yet… watching my little niece doing her toe taps and singing the final song of the evening, I was almost moved to forgive all that came before. Almost.

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The Sparkling Personalities of Gay Pride Albany

You know we live in topsy-turvy times when Andy’s yellow pants trump my greatest sequin efforts, but that’s exactly the reaction we got from those who know us best. Of course, I made a valiant effort and good showing even if his buttercup butt stole the day. I’m ok with that, as long as he doesn’t make it a regular occurrence. (And I’ve got a few tricks in my closet that should insure it won’t be.)

This year Albany’s Gay Pride Parade and Festival took place on a nearly perfect day. Usually, this day is sweltering hot or pouring rain. We lucked out for once, and the sequins could shine in all their glory – especially when given a double-jolt by my brilliant Sparkle Queen counterpoint, the ever-fabulous Duchess Ivanna.

Bea Arthur at her solid-gold-dancer’s-mother finest couldn’t hold a candle to the two of us, even if she was trying to bag a priest. Looks like this lady got the sequin memo too.

The day brought out some of my favorite people in Albany – old and new friends alike – as seen in this contingent of happy faces from the Capital Pride Center.

The HomoRadio crew was headed up by Sean and Ulysses.

I have mercifully cropped out the shoes of this otherwise-beautiful shot with Brenda and Marline (you’re welcome).

The ladies and gentlemen of the Rocks float, waving to the adoring throngs.

It was also a day of meeting FaceBook friends like Jai in person for the first time. (And I daresay he may have managed to out-sassy me in this pose – no mean feat.)

Oh look, it’s Oh Bar!

On our way out, we ran into two very dear friends we’ve known for over thirteen years ~ Bob and Jeff.

It was the perfect end to a perfect day of Pride.

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All That Glitters: A Gay Pride Outfit

It seems like this past week has been about one outfit after another in a quick-change game of outrageous wardrobe switch-ups, culminating with the featured sparkling ensemble you see before you now. This year’s Gay Pride outfit came together rather haphazardly. Unsure of which route to take ~ sequins or leopard ~ I posed the question to FaceBook and Twitter and the results were overwhelmingly in favor of sequins, with most people citing leopard’s hey-day of last year (to which I beg to differ – leopard is timeless).

In a twist veering from my modus operandi, I went with popular opinion (and what was already halfway in my wardrobe) so I purchased this pair of sequin shorts, rustled up a sequin top that had been in my attic closet for ten years, and paired it with a Deborah Harry tank top and pink necklace. The flip flops were simply a case of function over form, and an anticipated soggy field through which I’d be walking – plus I liked their color clash with the pink of Debbie’s top. A pair of aviators rounded out the insanity, because they forgive a lot of questionable shit.

I am so ready to slip into a pair of comfortable board shorts for the rest of the summer. Or nothing at all – so be prepared.

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