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An April Showers Recap

Somewhere a drag queen named ‘April Showers’ is basking in her time of the year. For the rest of us, we’re just scrambling to clean up the yard after a late start to spring. At last count, I’d filled 47 lawn bags with winter debris – about par for the clean-up course. There is still some more to go – a long-neglected bit of side-yard that never gets the care it so badly needs, for example. But I won’t bore you with that – drudgery is never very sexy. On with the last week…

It began with a pair of shoes by Tom Ford that were absolutely exquisite. I would sell my soul for shoes like that.

Beauty was apparent on more than feet, though, as proven by this bouquet of tulips.

 Scratch and sniff, without the scratch.

A poem.

Stuck in the past, frozen in my underwear.

The Minneapolis adventures began (and will continue soon enough), with the Mall of America and its accompanying aquarium. And the popping of my Minnesota cherry.

Are gay men just plain slutty?

Insecure… Alone…The human touch…

A different sort of April Shower may have been produced by a glimpse at the Hunks of the Day, thanks to Miguel Ortiz, Jose Parra, Andre Mull, Andrew Hayden-Smith, Karan Oberoi, Pedro Andrade and Matthew Terry.

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What I Need…

It was one of the albums that shaped my life. There are just a few that have done that ~ Shirley Horn’s ‘Here’s to Life’, Madonna’s ‘Ray of Light’, and REM’s ‘Automatic for the People’ come to mind – and to that ‘Laid’ by James must be added. Nowhere is that more evident than in the opening track, a quiet beginning to the maelstrom of emotions that the rest of the album would release. I like quiet beginnings.

I’m so alone tonight
My bed feels larger than when I was small
Lost in memories
Lost in all the sheets and old pillows
So alone tonight
Miss you more than I will let you know
Miss the outline of your back
Miss you breathing down my neck
They’re all out to get you
Once again they’re all out to get you
Once again…

As 1993 turned into 1994, and winter turned into spring, and my first year at Brandeis turned into something that was coming to a close, I sat up in my small twin bed, sheets twisted around my legs, the gray light from an outside lamp spilling in like some lame approximation of moonlight, and wondered at the predicament of being alone.

My roommate was gone. I felt relieved, but alone – always alone. Yet not lonely – not yet.

The red numerals of an alarm clock took rigid stock of the passing minutes. Spring rustled at the window. A restless longing was being tapped out by my heart. What did this life have in store? What message might I be missing? Do you hear me? Do you understand what I’m saying?

Insecure, whatcha gonna do?
Feel so small they could step on you
Called you up, answering machine
When the human touch
Is what I need
What I need, what I need, what I need, what I need…
Is you
I need you.

A bottle of urine stood beside the bed (the college guy’s method of avoiding fluorescent hallway walks past midnight.) My backpack slumped on the chair, filled with the books I’d need for the next morning’s classes. Looking back, I’m glad I never realized how alone I was. It would have broken me.

That night, I did not know. Or, rather, it was all I knew, and it was how I survived. Shadows and muffled laughter of passing students floated in from the hallway. I watched the shifting shaft of light beneath the door and bristled at the fading voices. There was no laughter inside my room.

Looked in the mirror, I don’t know who I am anymore
The face is familiar
But the eyes, the eyes give it all away
They’re all out to get you
Once again they’re all out to get you
Here they come again, here they come again, here they come again, here they come again, here they come again, here they come again, here they come again, here they come again, here they come again…

A bit of paranoia creeps into the song. It builds slowly, like an incoming tide, gently but insistently growing louder, and soon, too soon, it is a roar. Static in the head. A feverish state. I kick off the sheets and blankets, as a cold sweat soaks through my t-shirt. On the verge of crying, I wonder why they never loved me. Somehow, I don’t cry. It isn’t sadness that I feel, or even loss. Merely a sense of wonder, at the world, at the human condition, at what it was all supposed to mean. I made a tender reconciliation with the night then.

Insecure whatcha gonna do?
Feel so small they could step on you
Called you up, answering machine
When the human touch
Is what I need
What I need, what I need, what I need, what I need, what I need, what I need, what I need, what I need, what I need…
Is you, is you, is you, is you, is you, is you, is you…
If you let me breathe…

I call friends and lovers at strange hours. I need to talk, and listen, and hear from people I know. They buffer the fear. I ask them to listen to this song, to the whole album. They promise to try, but I know they don’t. I make mix tapes for them instead, counting on the effort to get them to hear it. They don’t respond or say they like it. I have no way of knowing if they hear it too, if they hear the loneliness.

I have never heard voices in the night. Not in the crazy way that would make it easier to make sense of who I am, the way they want so badly to make sense of me. Instead, I hear James. If they heard it – if they only listened – they would know too.

They’re all out to get you
Once again
To get you
Once again.
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Those Promiscuous Gays

Sometimes it seems we need a Visio Organizational Chart to keep track of the gay-listers and their dating histories. Politically-incorrect title of this post aside, and stereotypical characterizations of gay men as sex-obsessed bed-hoppers suspended, it’s interesting to note how we navigate the tumultuous waters of dating – particularly when the spotlight of this online-age sees almost all.

Let’s take, for instance, the tangled web of the men featured in this post. We begin with Reichen Lehmkuhl, who started off, if I remember correctly, as a model gracing the cover of Instinct. From there, his star rose in ‘The Amazing Race’ and then the gay-themed soap ‘Dante’s Cove’. He capped off the last decade with a stint on the gay reality series ‘The A-List.’ (And let’s not forget his Hunk of the Day honor.) He first dated Chip Arndt, then moved on to Lance Bass. And Rodiney Santiago (seen above.) And Ryan Barry (seen below.)

As for Lance Bass, he moved on to Pedro Andrade. And Ben Thigpen. And Michal Turchin, to whom he is now engaged. Let’s end on that happy note, because pretty soon the exes may start dating each other, and that’s going to make heads explode.

(Actually, maybe it’s just two guys who dated a lot of other guys…)

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Popping A Very Large Cherry

For my first dose of Minneapolis culture, I took a walk through the sculpture garden leading to the Walker Arts Center. It appeared that Minnesota had as late a start to spring as we’ve had in upstate New York. The walk that led to the sculpture garden, normally a garden itself, was brown and dried, waiting for the warmth and the wet that was nowhere in evidence. Beauty was about, even in the dead stand of cat-tails by the water, or in the solitary ginger-bread-like styled cottage along the way.

A bridge was decorated by a poem that ran its entire length. It’s a thrill seeing words and poetry utilized in such a manner. I’d like to see a poem on every walking bridge. Here, one could read and walk and contemplate the bridge at hand, and the bridges that came before and after.

A ghostly sculpture of an empty coat sat defying the wind, while a barren arbor lent architectural structure to the sky. Withered vines of sweet autumn clematis lay fallen at the arbor’s columns, but soon they would begin their return skyward, covering up to forty feet in a single summer season.

But that work was weeks away. For now, in the few days between an old job and a new one, the only signs of something stirring were in the brave and courageous Scilla that were just starting to poke through the ground.

Even the bright metallic jumble of red steel and a crimson cherry paled in comparison to the coming spring.

Nature trumps garish human creation every time.

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Sharks in the Mall!

The single redeeming feature of the Mall of America may have been its aquarium. Not the rainforest portion populated by plastic trees (!!!) but the aquarium itself, with a neat shark tank and some artistically-lit jellyfish that provided ample photo ops that the Mall simply didn’t have. Like a museum or art gallery, aquariums have always provided a sense of peace, in their tranquil dim waters where light didn’t always reach, or the rocky lair where the intelligence of the octopus laid in patient wait for the smallest crack of escape. I could spend hours watching the undulating wings of the sting rays gliding elegantly by, or the sleek torpedo form of a shark slicing seamlessly through the water.

Beneath the dismal never-ending Mall, the lionfish roared and the seahorses galloped. A pair of green moray eels greeted visitors with unrelenting stares and open mouths, while a colorful coral reef display found Nemo and Dory in close confined proximity.

Yet even here, the hokiness of the Mall pervaded, from the aforementioned plastic trees of the rainforest to the false ruin of some fictional Atlantis-like civilization. Fortunately, underwater scenes can look quite magical in a photo, as hopefully evidenced by these shots.

Even the surroundings could not take away from the majesty of these sea creatures, and my fascination with ocean life always stirs in the company of salt-water inhabitants.

We were all very far from our homes, and there was something rather sad about that.

The saving grace was that I could return to mine, at least for now, but they never could. Kept in an artificial environment, they would not be able to successfully return to their origins, never experience the freedom of the open ocean. They had lost the ability to survive on their own, the instinct to hunt.

I still had that hunger. No one was putting on a wet suit and jumping in to feed me.

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The Mall of America: One Big Bust

Perhaps more than anywhere else, a mall will always be my comfort zone. Not so much for enjoyment or pleasure these days but more as a way of life I’ve known since I was a toddler teetering around Buster Brown. In the 90’s, I was all about the mall. I worked in one (during summers) and played in many. There was a sense of safety and comfort in so much retail packed into one stretch of space. Some malls came and went rather sadly (the Amsterdam Mall in my hometown, for example – a poorly-planned and sorely-executed disaster that served only to divide the city and now stands mostly filled with random medical offices) while some thrived and expanded at a terrifying pace (Crossgates, which more than doubled in size from where it began). Others expired completely (Latham Circle) while some almost-expired before rebounding miraculously (Colonie Center). The point is, I know my way around the mall.

Every week, before rehearsal for the Empire State Youth Orchestra, my Mom and I would spend a couple of hours at Crossgates, shopping and eating in the food court. I’d usually begin in the bookstore (back when every mall actually had a bookstore), devouring Entertainment Weekly and People and Us and getting my weekly dose of pop culture. Then I’d meander through the department stores, studying the mannequins, looking over the newest displays, possibly sniffing a cologne or two. We exhausted the expanse of the space after a few weeks, and there was just so much of ‘Things Remembered’ that a person can take without wanting to forget, but when the Mall of America made its splashy announcement that it would house hundreds of stores, an amusement park, and an aquarium, I was as impressed as a cynical teenager could be.

I remember the story playing on the news, and one day I felt certain I would walk its hallowed halls and At one point, I actually had a tentative plan to drive all the way to Minneapolis and spend a couple of days taking my time exploring every mile of it. (That sort of solo adventure was not unprecedented – I’d driven to Florida and back by myself on one of my tours – what was a few thousand more miles West?) While that never planned out, when a deal for Minneapolis showed up on Expedia, I decided to check the Mall of America off my bucket list.

The first thing I felt upon walking into the space was… disappointment.  It looked like, well, a mall. I’d forgotten how depressing malls had become in recent years, and how I rarely frequented them for anything more than a conduit to the movie theater. I’d also failed to realize that my taste in fragrance had progressed beyond Abercrombie & Fitch and Victoria’s Secret – both of which seemed to populate vast expanses with their overpowering aromas of fetid sweetness.

I sought out the anchor department stores first, the best of which was Nordstrom, but they did not have any Tom Ford Private Blends (even Las Vegas had an extensive selection!) so the cologne pushers lined up the garishly-packaged Bond series – overloaded with their obnoxious NYC logo. Despite such resistance, I enjoyed what I was sniffing, but not enough to make a purchase. (If I thought random Minneapolis strangers on the street were overly friendly, a fragrance seller is just psychotic.)

There was a small stretch – marked by hanging decorations of crystals to signify its fanciness I suppose – of higher-end stores, like Burberry, which is where I found the only Moods of Norway retail shop outside of New York and Los Angeles – but it was only fit for browsing. I’m guessing they don’t do much business with the locals. Other than that, and a few interesting stores on the first floor, there was little all that different or exciting about it, even with the screams emanating from the central amusement park.

After all these years, I went to the Mall of America and ended up buying absolutely nothing. Not a single thing. No souvenir, no keepsake, no cologne, not even a cookie. And it made sense. The dreams I had of the Mall were from a different time, and the dreams of a child shouldn’t always come true.

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Minneapolis Escapade

Midway through her 1990 hit ‘Escapade’, Janet Jackson inexplicably shouts out, “Minneapolis!” I believe it’s a reference to the city in which she worked with producers Jimmy Jam and Terry Lewis on most of her albums, but to casual non-fans it must have sounded like a random Jackson quirk. My only desire to see said city was when the Mall of America was built. Back then, I was a fan of malls, and I made a promise to myself that before I died I would make a pilgrimage to that over-the-top riot of retail madness. It took over two decades, but I finally made it to one of the Twin Cities, the place of Prince, and a rather nifty oasis of civilization in the mid-West.

Apparently this was also where Mary Tyler Moore’s fictional television life took place. Having never seen any of her shows (bad gay!) it didn’t mean much to me, but the opening, where she throws her hat in the air, is so iconic that even I recognized the pose in the sculpture seen here. Currently it stands before a rather lackluster Macy’s, in the downtown area that bustled a bit on the first weekdays I was there, then immediately fizzled out come Saturday and Sunday.

As for Minneapolis, there were glimmers of greatness – in the museums, the galleries, and the music (Hello Dakota) – and there was beauty too if you knew where to look, but for the most part, one visit in a lifetime proved enough. As with most things, it’s not the destination that matters, but the journey – and the journey of Minneapolis was largely a good one, one that will be told mostly through a few photos rather than a lengthy narrative.

I will say this about the people I encountered in Minneapolis: they were unbelievably, almost uncomfortably, friendly. I enjoy my emotional distance from strangers and appreciate a cold shoulder from those I’ve never met and care not to meet again, but that went against everything around me. Random strangers on the street stopped and said hello. The person taking my order in a café (for a simple cranberry orange scone) went on a ten-minute diatribe about every single other offering in the store, while a line formed behind me. I began to wonder how anything got done with all the friendly chit-chat, and also whether or not there was some sort of pod-people invasion.

Whether or not it was genuine, I didn’t stay long enough to find out, but by the end of my stay I’d come around – as much as I was going to come around – and if I learned anything on this trip it was that a little friendliness can go a long way.

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Vintage Underwear (On & Off)

Just in case you haven’t seen enough of me in my underwear, a brief post culled from shots rediscovered while on the hunt for something else. A happy accident, as I was lacking for a post tonight. These also feature my supposed “favorite” Madonna t-shirt.

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Greeting the Day With A Poem

Trilliums
By Mary Oliver

 

Every spring

among

the ambiguities

of childhood

 

the hillsides grew white

with the wild trilliums.

I believed in the world.

Oh, I wanted

 

to be easy

in the peopled kingdoms,

to take my place there,

but there was none

 

that I could find

shaped like me.

So I entered

through the tender buds,

 

I crossed the cold creek,

my backbone

and my thin white shoulders

unfolding and stretching.

 

From the time of snow-melt,

when the creek roared

and the mud slid

and the seeds cracked,

 

I listened to the earth-talk,

the root-wrangle,

the arguments of energy,

the dreams lying

 

just under the surface,

then rising,

becoming

at the last moment

 

flaring and luminous –

the patient parable

of every spring and hillside

year after difficult year.

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Just a Pair

This is a filler post. I haven’t made one of these in a while, trying valiantly to give more content to this blog, but I may go back to filling in the blanks with photos. Spring is a busy time…

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Aromatic Indulgence

It’s not something I usually do. Only on certain nights, when I need an extra boost, or have had a tough day, do I indulge in such fragrant indulgence. My gateway into this world of naughty nose-tickling was a bottle of Hermes, used on an evening following a steamy but rainy summer day. It was so exquisite, I sprayed a little on before going to bed one night. It wasn’t to entice or impress, it wasn’t to turn on or turn out – it was a simple act of solitary enjoyment, a self-celebratory act of pampering that, contrary to wide-held belief, I don’t often allow myself. (This blog is a repository of all the times that I do, so it may seem that way.)

The other night, after a weekend of Easter activities and family gatherings, I wanted to mark the occasion and extend the moment a bit, so I looked through my collection of Tom Ford Private Blend samples and dabbed a little ‘Black Violet’ on my wrists. It’s a fragrance I wouldn’t purchase or request in a full bottle – far too sweet for everyday use, and not really my style  – but perfect for a special spring night. Remembering the joy Andy and I found in our family was a special-enough moment to merit Mr. Ford’s handiwork, and the vision of great swaths of sweet violets in sun-dappled light sent me off to a dreamy slumber.

As with most of the Private Blends, the floral aspect is imbued with a darker edge, something a little sexier and more mysterious than the delicate violet would deign to reveal on her own. Such shyness, when removed, is an integral part of its eventual enjoyment. The most flagrant exhibitionists are only successful when aware of the anti-thesis of their showmanship.

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The Dream is Alive

A few days ago Andy posted a photo of Ogunquit, taken on the Marginal Way, that immediately set my heart to missing that gorgeous seaside town. We’ll be there in a few weeks, and I cannot wait. Nowhere else is there such a sense of peace and calm such as we have found in Ogunquit. Our May stay also marks the start to our summer season, and there are traditionally lilacs in bloom (or slightly before or after that glorious spell). In all respects, even in years when it’s done nothing but rain, Ogunquit has offered us respite and relaxation, as well as some badly-needed, and increasingly rare, time together, as husband and husband. In fact, it’s a toss-up as to what I love best about it – the sea, the seafood, or the time with Andy.

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Tulip Titillation

Their color spoke to me first – the scarlets and salmons, the serpent-like tongues of yellow lapping toward the edges – and then the softest gentlest green of the silver-tinged leaves. They were the ultimate antidote to the longest winter. They pushed all thoughts of that season far away, clearing the way for summer. It was the only outcome. How happy that the tulip heralded such a direction.

Second was their fragrance. Nothing overpowering, nothing too cloying or sweet. In fact, nothing to write much about at all, but it was the scent of spring, the scent of pure joy. It was not something that Tom Ford would try to bottle, it was not going to multiply by waves of bath gel or body lotion, it was a subtle smell, with just the slightest bit of spice to work its trance-like effect.

Finally, there was their history. I love a flower with a tale to tell. Especially one as twisted and tumultuous as the tulip’s. People paid fortunes for a single tulip bulb. A bit of feverish supply-and-demand madness, a crippling inflation, and a blight or two along the way – and all in the name of a single beautiful bloom. The power of the flower.

Some beautiful things defy logic and reason. Some things cannot be priced or valued in any such hum-drum manner. How to monetize the sublime? And why would you bother?

The moment you sully something so pure is the moment it starts to deteriorate.

Such prettiness demands a lighter touch, an effortless brushing by the merest of breaths. It is meant to be inhaled, like the purest of perfume, in ethereal fashion, unfettered by clumsy hands or the clutch of a greedy child.

I didn’t always understand this. My hands picked them from the garden – to covet, to cherish, to hold close. They fought back with their pollen, committing suicide with their fallen petals, or simply expiring in a wilted, lamentable heap of decomposing tissue. I too fell prey to the tulip craze – and I’d do it all over again to come so close to beauty.

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A Sigh That Only Tom Ford Could Elicit

These are Tom Ford‘s Chesterfield Floral Embroidered Silk Tassel Jacquard Evening Slippers. They merit such a lengthy moniker because they are priced at $4120. [Gulp.] That’s a bit much for evening slippers, even if you are Tom Ford. But if I had that kind of money, I’d totally get them because they are, quite simply, perfection.

And even if I didn’t have the money, I would toy with the idea of finding a way to get them (selling an organ?) because they are so pretty it would be like investing in a work of art.

PS – They also come in blue, for a fraction of the price of the pink ($3770.) But I do prefer pink…

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Put A Recap on It

Having finished off the final days of Lent with a Good Friday flourish and an Easter Bunny Sunday, the week in which I started a new job came to a rather quiet close. We finally had a spell of sunny, decent weather, whereby I could finally begin work on the winter clean-up. Thus far I’ve loaded 25 lawn bags of debris and leaves from the backyard, and I’m only about halfway there. My back will verify, but it will be worth it. Onto the week behind…

Shifting gears from the sexy to the sweet, a pair of posts featuring the Ilagan twins set the cute dial to high, with this tease, and this delivery. The kiddie hi-jinks continued here and here, because with twins it’s always double the fun.

A Trojan Experience.

Music, man flesh, and memories, accompanied by the magnificent Ella Fitzgerald and Norah Jones. Oversexed again

An incredibly shirtless set of Zac Efron GIFs that set fantasies on fire.

Dreaming Until

Giving rise to things other than Jesus, the Hunks of the Day included Nick Kenkel, Gerrad Bohl, Matt Cardle, Noah Wright and CJ Richards.

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