Is This The Trashiest Thing I’ve Ever Worn?

In public, perhaps. In private, far from it. Yet for all the nudity I post here, in person and in public I’m usually rather demure, or at the very least fully-clothed. This was the most exposed I’ve ever been, but for an event like The Gay Soiree, where gender-bending and over-the-top decadence were the order of the evening, I felt the need to step-up and represent. Hence the fishnets and the lace, the corset and the guy-liner, and, of course, the butt-for-lace glimpse of my derriere.

While not the most ideal ensemble for a chilly night in February, it was fun as hell (if a little tight – that corset is over ten years old, and unlike my waist it has not expanded over time). And the stockings? They don’t stay up without garters, which, hard to believe, I did not have on hand. No matter, the motion of having to constantly pull them up all night added to the sleazy look.

Accompanied by my friend Josie (who donned a wig, and that amazing coat from my own private collection – later given to her because she looked so much better in it than me), we made a somewhat amusing scene to Andy, who’s used to such shenanigans.

By the way, while I’ve always appreciated women, and what society demands of them, I have even more empathy now. Having seen the cost of eyeliner ($10 for a pencil? I can get two hundred #2’s for that!) having felt the tight tug of a corset (there’s a bugle bead still embedded in my back, I just know it) and having wobbled around in high heels (there’s a bloody toe somewhere in one of those shoes) my hat (clipped torturously into my hair) goes off to the ladies, and anyone who has the balls to dress like a lady. That takes a lot of work, a lot of time, and a lot of money. Here’s to the ladies!

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Schenectady Adores Kristin Chenoweth (But Who Doesn’t?)

She first caught my eye scrambling to the top of a human pyramid in ‘Steel Pier’. She then cast a spell over us as she descended in a bubble for the opening of ‘Wicked’. But last night, Kristin Chenoweth captured my heart just by being herself, in her solo show at Proctors Theatre, where she brought her music and magic to an adoring crowd.

A Broadway baby who’s made a mastery of the star-turn on television and in movies, Ms. Chenoweth is perhaps best-known and most-beloved for originating the role of Galinda in ‘Wicked,’ yet she was treading the boards for years before that. I remember her fondly in a smaller, scene-stealing role in one of her first Broadway shows: John Kander and Fred Ebb’s under-appreciated ‘Steel Pier’ from 1997. I sat in the third row for that show, and every time Ms. Chenoweth came onstage, she drew the attention and energy of the entire theater with her exquisite, heart-stopping coloratura. That such a petite pixie could produce such a powerful sound was a stunning and unexpected thrill, and I found myself standing at the end of the performance just for her.

She referenced that show before launching into one of Kander and Ebb’s better-known ballads ‘Maybe This Time’ from ‘Cabaret’ – capturing the brittle crux of desperation and hope that makes Sally Bowles such a transfixing and tremulous character. Chenoweth knows her way around the dramatic rendering of a story-song, both in poignant form (‘Coloring Book’) and lighter fare (‘Taylor the Latte Boy.’)

Her background in musicals made this a gratifyingly-Broadway-focused evening, even though she has several pop/country albums under her belt. After ‘Steel Pier’ she went on to win a Tony in ‘You’re A Good Man, Charlie Brown’ and a couple of years later she returned to reclaim her Broadway crown in ‘Wicked’. The only issue I’ve had with all of her shows was that she wasn’t in every scene, which makes a solo performance such a supreme joy.

Chenoweth sprinkled self-deprecating interludes and anecdotes throughout the night (including a sweet shout-out to Schenectady’s own Ambition Cafe, where she’d gone earlier in the day) but it was her pure musical talent and artistry that reigned supreme, and the audience loved every pristine note, erupting in a couple of standing ovations.

A centerpiece of ‘Wicked’ tunes provided a contemplative gaze back over the last ten years. After performing ‘Popular’ for over a decade, she said she needed to do something to keep it interesting – in this instance that meant singing some of the verses in Japanese and German (she’s working on her Norwegian). From that touchstone song she moved into a touching audience participation moment in a duet with local eight-year-old Olivia, who held her own in ‘For Good’. Chenoweth said that Oz would always be a part of her, and proved it with a powerhouse version of ‘Over the Rainbow’ more than a little inspired by its originator Judy Garland.

Even with weaker material such as Andrew Lloyd Webber’s treacle (‘Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again’) she managed to make something transcendent, and while she impressively showed off her belting prowess at several points, it was the quieter moments that were more emotionally devastating. Her touching, delicate rendition of ‘Bring Him Home’ from ‘Les Miserables’ became a literal prayer, a song of faith, and an exhibit of finding the universal meaning in a lyric, turning it into something both intensely personal and utterly relatable. The high she gets off that sort of connection was exuberantly apparent.

The finale of the evening was her self-proclaimed anthem ‘I Was Here’ – a rousing and inspiring song in which she extols the importance of doing something that matters, and making your presence felt. In the hands of a lesser, less-genuine performer, the platitudes might have rung hollow, but in the care of such an impassioned and earnest master, it was nothing short of breathtaking. The crowd stood, demanding an encore, and Chenoweth delivered with an acoustic version of ‘I Will Always Love You’ done in original Dolly Parton fashion. It was the perfect ending to a perfect show.

Displaying genuine warmth, gratitude, grace, and a seemingly-effortless gift that soared beyond the rafters of Proctors and into the hearts of all in attendance, Chenoweth delivered a performance that cemented her status as one of the finest vocalists and song interpreters out there, as well as one of the most charismatic and enthralling stars to grace any stage.

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A Shirtless and Hairy Ben Cohen

Because some Mondays are so tough you need a little man candy.

There is none sweeter than Ben Cohen.

Especially without a shirt.

And in his wet underwear.

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Wintry Rehash

It seems like I’ve written about snowstorms enough for this year, and I’m really quite done with them. We’re just over the winter hump, however, and the days are slowly getting longer. Even in the midst of such snow, I detected a small sliver of spring when the sun came out this past Friday. We’re headed in the right direction – the only direction. Onward to a new week, but not before one quick glance back…

David Beckham was supposed to get uncovered and naked, and purportedly did as his Super Bowl commercial would have one believe, but I didn’t buy it.

We opened up the new kitchen to our first dinner guests – my family – and the twins made themselves right at home. It was a simple, but fun dinner, and the start of a new chapter.

What dreams… and nightmaresmay come.

The Winter Olympics, hosted by a rather inhospitable (if not downright dangerous) Sochi kicked off, and in honor of that I kicked off our gayest-of-gay coverage with a scintillating, shirtless, and sometimes-naked post featuring lots of male Olympian skin. Suck on that, Putin.

There was no shortage of Hunks to heat things up, which is a good thing at any time of the year, but especially in the doldrums of winter. Many thanks to Cole Horibe, Greg Rutherford, David Mcintosh, Matteo Guarise, Mark Wright, and Darren Criss.

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A Night to Remember in Albany

Red spotlights lit the sky-high columns of The State Room, while candles glowed intimately among the cozy vermilion-accented tables. A bar in the corner served wine and cocktails, while sharply decked-out servers whirled hot appetizers ranging from Beef Wellington to bacon-wrapped scallops around the space. A virgin bar for the non-boozers among us (of which I counted myself last night) was located in another corner, offering several scintillating concoctions, including the ‘Mommie Dearest’ (served with a wielding of a wire hanger – for real!) It was The Gay Soirée, and I was sitting and watching it all unfold with my friend JoAnn who drove in from Cape Cod to be part of the spectacle.

As the guests arrived, in one fabulous outfit after another, the room filled with a collection of Albany’s finest in their most fashionable get-ups. After seeing such a wonderful and diverse group of people enjoying themselves on the dance floor, JoAnn remarked that the night gave her hope. It was such a simple statement, but so powerful, and an indication that the evening was accomplishing much more than a presentation of pretty people.

As Honorary Chair of this party, I didn’t do much other than lend my name and some FaceBook and website promotion to the event, so I want to thank all the people who did most of the work that resulted in such a fabulous party. First and foremost is everyone at the Capital Pride Center – especially Executive Director Curran Streett and Deputy Director Michael Weidrich, as well as the burgeoning staff of that great organization. As the oldest continually-operating Pride Center in the country, they have a legacy that they continue to nurture and embolden, and this event was further proof that they are at the top of their game.

Next, thanks to the amazing musical performers of the evening. Sonny and Perley opened the night with their cabaret act of romantic standards, sultry torch songs, and velvety smooth vocal performances that warmed the winter night. It was followed by the bass-pumping mastery of DJ Robb Penders, who set the dance floor on fire with an evolving mix of music that ran from classic tracks (‘Lady Marmalade’) to the most recent crowd-pleasing hits (‘Get Lucky’). He and his dancing dynamo of a husband Jason (who showed off moves I never dreamed existed) kept the evening on a high-octane shuffle.

Finally, my most important bit of thanks goes to everyone who came out and made the evening what it was. I can’t list everyone, but it’s you who made this matter. I loved seeing friends from FaceBook and real life collide and meet – and it was wonderful meeting and talking to some of my favorite people – Jeze Bel, Gloria, Peter, Ken, Lauren, Gene & Jeff, Rosy, Curran and Corbin, David, Scott, Pilar, Jim, Rick, Janet, Jim, Michael, Eric, Joe, Steven, Vinny, and Ulysses.

Let’s do it all again next year.

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A Poem & A Dream of Summer

The Summer Day

By Mary Oliver

 

Who made the world?

Who made the swan, and the black bear?

Who made the grasshopper?

The grasshopper, I mean-

the one who has flung herself out of the grass,

the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,

who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-

who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.

Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.

Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.

I don’t know exactly what a prayer is.

I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down

into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,

how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,

which is what I have been doing all day.

Tell me, what else should I have done?

Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?

Tell me, what is it you plan to do

with your one wild and precious life?

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Hunk of the Day: Matteo Guarise

Italian figure skater Matteo Guarise continues our line of sexy Olympians as the Hunk of the Day. Signore Guarise has also done some modeling, as so perfectly exhibited in these photos.

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Gratuitous Tom Daley Speedo Post

As if this sexy Olympics post wasn’t enough, here are a few more photos of a Speedo-clad Tom Daley for your weekend viewing pleasure. You’re welcome.

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Tonight’s the Night…

Hopefully I’ll be seeing you (and you and you) at The Gay Soirée this evening. I’ll be in something lacy and frilly as befits the gender-bending atmosphere, and if we’re lucky we’ll heat things up so the cold air won’t make a dip in our nip. From its 1930’s cabaret setting to its high-fashon gender-bending ambience, this looks to be a spectacular evening of entertainment, enchantment, and divine decadence. Please join me for all the fabulous fun at the hottest event of the winter season!

WHAT: The Gay Soirée

WHEN: Tonight, Saturday, February 8, 2014 – 7 PM (with VIP Reception at 6 PM)

WHERE: 142 State Street, Albany, NY

DRESS CODE: Funky-formal, but all are welcome and anything goes.

VIP Tickets are available for an additional cost and include a VIP Wine Reception from 6 to 7 PM. 

All ticket proceeds go directly to the Capital Pride Center.

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You Are Most Cordially Invited

Invitation

by Mary Oliver

 

Oh do you have time

to linger

for just a little while

out of your busy

 

and very important day

for the goldfinches

that have gathered

in a field of thistles

 

for a musical battle,

to see who can sing

the highest note,

or the lowest,

 

or the most expressive of mirth,

or the most tender?

Their strong, blunt beaks

drink the air

 

as they strive

melodiously

not for your sake

and not for mine

 

and not for the sake of winning

but for sheer delight and gratitude –

believe us, they say,

it is a serious thing

 

just to be alive

on this fresh morning

in this broken world.

I beg of you,

 

do not walk by

without pausing

to attend to this

rather ridiculous performance.

 

It could mean something.

It could mean everything.

It could be what Rilke meant, when he wrote:

You must change your life.

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Rude Awakening

Last night I meditated and went to sleep with a sphere of rose quartz in my hands, but nothing helped…

The man stands at our front door, silhouetted by the brightness of the surrounding snow. I peek around the corner, sensing danger, and hoping that the lock stays. I see the door knob begin to turn. Someone has left it unlocked. I scramble to the door and hold it tightly against the man, trying to turn the lock. Usually I fail at such attempts. In most of my dreams the simple act of turning a lock turns into an elaborate and complicated process that involves far too much coordination and time to ever accomplish with ease, but for this one moment it works. He grows more frustrated, and begins shaking with rage. It is then that I see the knife in his hand, not shiny or gleaming, but dark and cloaked by his sleeve. A sharpness concealed in the folds of fabric. He pounds on the glass pane of the outer door.

Black blood smears on the glass, black instead of red because my dreams rarely come in color, yet the inner-door remains inviolate, and I realize the blood is not mine. That is but small comfort when the man’s bloody hands continue to try to pry their way in. I call out to Andy to help, but no sound comes out. I can’t decide if I should continue holding the door shut in case he manages to work the lock, or to run to the back door and escape through the back-yard. I don’t need to debate for very long: the man lunges and breaks through everything.

It is not the attacker, it is Andy who has entered the room, which is now my bedroom, and I finally wake up with the shout I’d been trying to muster for what seems like an entire night.

“You need to get on medication,” Andy says sternly. There is no love in his voice. “I just woke you from one dream and you went into another.”

A husband who is fed up – another lonely day about to begin – and a powerlessness that is crippling.

I don’t remember the first dream…

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Naked and Shirtless Olympic Spirit

In honor of the upcoming Winter Olympics, let’s take a look back at some of the shirtless shenanigans that took place during prior Olympic Games. Figure skating and diving represent most of my interest for the Winter and Summer games respectively, and several familiar figures dominated the scene.

First up is Tom Daley, who has his own ‘Category’ here (much like David Beckham and Ben Cohen). The GIFs displayed here (in which Mr. Daley all but ogles Dan Osbourne) are a fun treat, but it’s his penchant for wearing a skimpy Speedo that forms most of his previous pictorial posts.

Second, we have Michael Phelps. A swimmer with a long, lithe torso and a command of the water that rivals most fish. Mr. Phelps used to favor the Speedo before moving into those knee-length trunks (the only saving grace of which is how low-slung they like to wear them). Thankfully, those Speedo posts live on…

Third, Michael’s team-mate, and reality ‘star’ Ryan Lochte has the beefcake looks and body that sets the mainstream to swooning, in bulging photos like the one below.

A host of other divers and swimmers rounds out the shirtless Olympic scene, including openly-gay cutie Matthew Mitcham.

During the last Summer Olympics, I watched gymnastics for the first time, which was highlighted by the muscular magnificence of the naked male forms of Epke Zonderland (here and here) and Danell Leyva.

Winter necessitates far more clothing coverage, which is unfortunate, but for racy photo shoots some of the figure skaters will take it all off. Case in point was our last Olympic figure skating champion Evan Lysacek, who got all artsy and naked here. Johnny Weir has become a bit of an embarrassment with his lackadaisical (if not outright dumb) nonchalance over Russia’s anti-gay laws, but he’s been here too, so for accuracy and full-disclosure I’ll remind you of this post.

This year will bring a new crop of figure skating gentlemen, and with any luck they’ll have bulbous bottoms, thighs of steel, and enough bedazzled lycra to inspire a whole new generation of boys to glide around on shag carpeting like it was the ice capades. Wait, was that just me?

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Nightmare Redux

The street is steep and lined with a canopy of leafy trees casting shadows and waving slightly in the breeze. A long line of hotels runs for several blocks on both sides – fancy, decent, run-of-the-mill and run-down – all sorts, but I generally stay close to the larger ones. I duck into a Sheraton and walk through the lobby and along the endless hallways of its convention space. A swirling pattern on the carpet adds to my disconcerting journey, and the hallways form a labyrinth so convoluted it is difficult to find my way out.

Eventually, I do. Back on the street the sun is trying to shine through the clouds and the trees. I walk down and pass more hotels, marveling at high high they soar on such an incline. Suddenly I see Andy ahead of me. I call to him but he starts running. I run after him, but he is too fast. He ducks into a hotel and I follow him, then he escapes. Scrambling through more hallways with more patterned carpets, I struggle to find the street again. When I do, I see him just ahead. I call to him again but he hurries away. I know something is wrong because I can usually catch him. Now, I am too slow. He turns around and looks at me, but continues on. I try screaming to no avail.

He reaches a long set of stairs that goes down and down into darkness. I get just a little closer, but he is still so far away. He turns around and looks at me. His sunglasses hide his eyes. I think of how cute it was that he always kept his Ray Bans in a holder attached to the visor of his car, pulling them out whenever the sun got to be too much in the morning on the way to work. I sit down at the top of the stairs and he pauses for a moment. I am crying because I can’t go on chasing someone who doesn’t want to be caught. I can’t see him through my tears. I do not know if he is coming back, or descending on the rest of his journey.

Then I hear a voice. It’s not so much a disembodied voice, but a universal one that comes both from without and within.

“It’s ok,” it says calmly. “It’s ok.” An incantation that soothes a tortured heart.

I wipe my eyes and stand up. Here, on the top of the stairs, it is sunny. I am not in the shadows. I look down for Andy one last time. He stands on the edge of darkness, near the end of the stairs. I cannot tell how far down they go, and I want to pull him back and tell him to stop before he disappears. He is looking up at me, but I can’t see his eyes through the sunglasses, and I don’t know what he is going to do. I turn around and walk back up the hill. I won’t go down with him. With a whimper, the dream ends.

——————————————————————————

I awaken and feel Andy beside me. I reach out to put my hand on his. It is still winter.

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Silent Snow, Healing Snow

It started in the night, as they said it would. Never one to predict or assume anything regarding Mother Nature, I believe it when I see it. This morning, I believed. A thick blanket of snow covered the world, and more was falling silently from the sky. In the front yard, a tall hedge of ‘Steeplechase’ Thuja stood, cradling big fluffy pockets of snow and a multitude of chirping birds. It was a wall of life – the dark green scales of the evergreen still pulsing with suspended cells, backed by the songs of tiny winged creatures. A gorgeous living panoply, buffering our home from the street.

A noisy plow, with its swirling yellow lights, barrels down the road, spraying snow and piling it high on the edge of the driveway. I will ask if Andy needs help with it as the snow-blower can only do so much. Such is winter in the Northeast – and if I were someplace where it was sunny and warm every day, I would miss it. (But I’m not.)

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Faded Roses on a Music Box

A change in the wind, one that arrived just before Thanksgiving, had taken a hold of me. Part of it was giving into the darkness, but there was some other influence I felt. It was not the usual demons that I could battle, the familiar ones I knew, but something other, an antagonistic energy that I’m only just now beginning to see, perhaps coming from within my own house. It felt like I was under attack, but I couldn’t see that then, so I acted out.

I’m a very intuitive person, but sometimes it takes me a while to see larger arcs at work, and to figure out how they are affecting me and why. I’m also quite sensitive (scoff if you must, it’s true) to such subtle pressures, and in the same way a tiny sliver can wreak havoc with an entire body, the slightest ruffle in my relationships with others can result in the biggest kerfuffle. Looking back, I see things now, and only with that awareness can I begin to protect myself.

There will always be darkness at work in the world, but there is goodness too, and if you lead a decent life I believe there are certain protections afforded you to counter any ill-will. After several disturbing dreams, I felt like a couple of protective angels in the form of Andy’s Mom and my grandmother have arrived to intercede and to protect me, no matter how hard some inevitable choices may end up being. First was a dream I had of the former, and second was this feeling I had of the latter.

A waltz was playing on the classical station that Andy always has on in the living room. My ears perked up a bit, recognizing the tune but not immediately placing it, not until a memory comes floating back to me, of my brother and I fitting snugly on my grandmother’s single bed as she sat in a wooden rocking chair, reading to us or regaling us with tales of Peter Rabbit or Greta Garbo (I was equally enthralled by both.) We’d play card games (Bust the Farmer or Snatch the Bundle) on the bed before our parents made us go to sleep, and sometimes we’d wind up the lacquered music box clock adorned with pink roses to hear it play the waltz that was now on the radio.

On the day she died, before we knew she was going to go, I’d stopped by my parents’ house after seeing her. I walked up to the attic to find some of her things, and for a moment I stood looking out over the rolling field that led down to my elementary school, and beyond that to the Mohawk River. Suddenly a few notes of my grandmother’s music box clock played. I hadn’t even noticed it there. I tried to wind it up again but it was broken. Those last few notes hung in the air and I cried.

On this day, a few years later, as the orchestra filled out the same waltz, bringing me back to my grammy and those idyllic evenings before bedtime, I felt a strength and protection that was still present, still resonant in my heart. I went up to the attic in my home, and found the clock that my Mom had given to me after Gram passed. I held it in my hands and looked over its faded roses and rusty hinges.

I’m not usually one given over to such New-Age namby-pamby talk, but once upon a time I was, and I was happy. I think I just lost my way for a while, and let others do the leading. That has never served anyone well, and it’s time to rectify things. I’m lucky to have a little help from above.

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