Category Archives: General

Having spent a spur-of-the-moment weekend in New York (more on that later), I am in no way ready for monday to come this soon. Powerless over such matters, however, we must press onward, but before delving into everything this soon in the day, let’s take the usual quick look back at the week before.

It continued in the stressful vein that’s marked this political season, as a dangerous, con artist named Donald Trump fell down in the first debate, and then went on to have a disastrous week as a year of his tax returns turned up and revealed he lost over $900 million in a single year (great business skill, just what we need as a leader).

Tom Brady went nude to save the day.

Tom Ford went leather.

Boston went soft and beautiful.

Pop-up maki at the MO.

Build me up Buttery.

A naked Pietro Boselli.

My complete (as of today) Tom Ford Private Blend collection.

Justin Timberlake gets great direction.

When calm gathers.

A peek at the tail-end.

Harvest fruit.

Hunks of the Day included Wesley Woods, Glen Powell, Kyle Krueger & Ben Baur.

And a naked Nick Jonas sex scene.

The title and presentation are both slightly misleading, as the bulk of cherries from this shoot were procured in the summer, and the citrus platter shot was from the dead of winter. Together, though, they provide a colorful reminder of culinary sweetness, so that’s why I posted them today. At some point we will live in a world where part of our recreational viewing will include scent (and for the sake of Tom Ford and my love of his Private Blends, I hope that’s sooner rather than later). Think about how would cool it would be if in addition to seeing these delectable images, you could smell the tart refreshing spray of a lime or grapefruit being sliced open, or tickle your nose with the latest cologne from Hermès. Obviously there are logistical concerns that get in the way, but if you don’t dream it first, it will never happen.

As for this fruity scene, despite its seasonal anachronisms, I find something soothing about it. A bowl of cherries, like some gently-painted still-life, stands in a dignified jumble. Containers of grapefruit, a plate of grapes, and a long silver platter lined with limes give stately assembly. Ordered yet haphazard. Perhaps it was by design, perhaps by happy accident.

Nature usually puts her best foot forward. Her beauty is not hidden, for the most part. Brightly colored feathers or warmly saturated fruits are designed to be noticed, for purposes of mating and propagation. If no one fucks the peacock, those gorgeous feathers will fly away. If no one disperses the fruit seed, the last of the trees will be the last of the trees.

The harvest is but part of the circle. It never began, and it will never end, with us.

A new month is at hand, and the final chapter of The Delusional Grandeur Tour: Last Stand of a Rock Star is about to begin. I’ve been a little lax of late as to keeping the tour posting schedule up to date, but that’s been intentional. I’m vamping. I’m stalling. I’m extending for as long as possible because once this is over, it’s over. The end date is tentatively scheduled for November – though I may just call the finish at our holiday party in December.

From the start, it’s all been in my head, and that finds its final resolution, such as it is, in the very title of this tour: Delusional Grandeur.

Back in 1995, when I embarked upon my very first jaunt – Chameleon in Motion: The Friendship Tour – it was very much the same scenario. Traveling was my means of escape, while serving simultaneously as a way of connecting to my friends who had scattered upon our matriculation at various universities. At the time, it was just me in my parents’ car, mostly shuttling between Boston and Rochester, living out of suitcases and dorm rooms, gleefully nomadic and avoiding all real-world responsibility.

We were so young then – all of two short decades – and we knew so little of the world. That didn’t matter – we thought we knew it all, and that innocent, exuberant, indefatigable attitude carried us through any happy ignorance.

That may be the most remarkable change – the shift in the way we view the world. Essentially, we remain very much the same people we were in our 20’s. Circumstances and situations may have changed, but once you hit 25 or so, most of us are pretty solid in the people we are going to become. Personally, I feel the same as I did as when I was fifteen – in the best, and mostly worst, ways that you can imagine.

Having said that, some things have changed. Almost all of my friends from that time – who fortunately remain my friends at this time – have had children and grown families, settled down and bought homes, and we now see them on vacations or when traveling through their necks of the woods. It’s been a while since I tore through their towns with feathered robes hanging from a wardrobe rack in the back, a silk scarf flailing wildly in the wind from the end of an antenna (NOT a good idea). But somewhere I still feel the same excitement and anticipation, even as we near the end of it all.

There’s a show yet to be seen…

This blanket is everything. It will see me through the fall and winter at the Boston condo, no matter how the wind or snow may rage outside. It’s soft and fluffy, but heavy and warm. I used to be able to find similar blankets in Chinatown – I even lugged one of them (at least 15 pounds) to Brandeis one winter. I haven’t seen them at any Chinatown shops in a while (and the ones I last noticed were much lighter and less substantial). Instead, I located this one online, and it’s perfect for the upcoming chill.

On good days, happiness is found in a blanket, a cup of tea, and a book.

A couple of years ago, at a job far, far away, someone remarked that they were in awe that I could remain so steadily calm in the face of what was a customary avalanche of insanity all around us. For the most part, that’s true. It takes a lot – A LOT – to truly rile me up. Especially regarding anything that has to do with a job. I just had this ability to let everything slide off of me, to not take anything very personally, to differentiate my employment from my real life. To this day, it’s one of the secrets of how I find fulfillment, and a certain joy, in an office job. My real world exists here – in writing, in creating, in finding beauty and expressing myself. I live my real life in trips to Boston, in visits to botanical gardens, in books and music and theater, in trying out new restaurants, in finding new fragrances, in attending new art exhibits, in exploring cities and places I’ve never been. Because of that, I’m able to take the rest of daily life with a grain of salt, and that enables me to find a sense of peace and calm no matter how many crises arise on any given work day.

Having said that, my calm does not always belie a tranquil heart. My calm is not often a relaxed or easy calm. It doesn’t always come from within. Sometimes, on difficult days, my calm is coiled and tightly wound. It is a calm imposed from my outer countenance, held together by the threads of Brooks Brothers, the silk of Dior, or the plaid of Burberry. On those days, it is a calm that contains the chaos of a widely beating heart, a calm that carries within its careful construct the terror and rage of betrayals past and present. My calm then is a very dangerous thing.

On the night that I write this, I’m somewhere between the two, the space where most of us reside, I imagine. I’m a little tired. My heart is slightly weary. Emboldened by fall and fatigued by it at the same time. Part of me wants to cry, and I’m not sure if it’s out of happiness or sadness, or simple relief. That we are still here. That most of us are still intact. That I am still writing this, and that someone, somewhere, might be reading it.

How cool do you have to be to have your concert film directed by Jonathan Demme? About as cool as Justin Timberlake, who scores the great director for his upcoming Netflix extravaganza, ‘Justin Timberlake + The Tennessee Kids’. That alone is impressive, but the sneak peeks of this show seem to indicate something much bigger than the usual concert capture. The trailer itself is a thing of power and impact, and one would expect no less from one of the mega-stars of the last decade. Can’t stop the feeling…

When I was in high school, part of my American History homework was watching the Presidential debates. That was mighty boring to someone who only wanted to pore over Madonna’s ‘Sex’ book and analyze her ‘Erotica’ album, but the world was a more innocent place in 1992, and a different Clinton was on the books. This time around it’s Hillary vs. Donald, and the stakes are a lot higher.

I vowed that this would never become a political blog, and I’m holding myself to that (for the moment). All I will say for now is that I cannot fathom how anyone could vote for Donald Trump, or any Republican candidate, when their official platform is one of divisiveness and hate. (Unless you’re Russia, in which case Mr. Trump has written some exceptions into the platform. Shady much?) The rest of the platform vows to end marriage equality, and proposes gay conversion therapy (read: torture) for the children of those parents who are not happy that their child was born gay. Look it up, it’s right there. The official Republican platform.

Even without those disgusting facts, Donald Trump is just bat-shit crazy, and I don’t want his fingers anywhere near a button that can start a war.

This photo gave the internet, and myself, all sort of tingles. In one fell swoop, I think we were all reminded of what greatness this country encompasses, and how important it is that we preserve such honor.

As if someone up above flipped a switch from summer to fall, in one day we went from the 80’s to the 60’s, and suddenly it was autumn. I’m not complaining, and the cooler temperatures made for much more pleasant walking in Boston, where I spent most of the weekend. Because of that, I’m easing my way into the work week, and what better way to do so than with our usual recap.

September’s sexy quotient rose a bit thanks to the likes of Sean Smith, Matt Bomer and Ollie Locke.

Keeping things light (pants down).

This summer took three posts to recap: Part One, Part Two and Part Three.

This is how we pull the pork.

Super hot.

Pants down again.

A hotel is my happy place.

Hunks of the Day included Nicolas Dalby, Mike Bissonette, Levi Casboult and Tyler Hilton.

From a distance, even the grandest of cities look small and meek.

The world is vast, and we are small.

Shifting perspectives.

Fading views.

Everything, no matter how big, can be made to disappear.

Is there comfort or solace in that? I’m not sure.

In my perfect fantasy world, life would take place in a hotel lounge. Preferably one run by the Mandarin Oriental or a fancy Fairmont property as seen here. I love the idea of glamorous transiency, of people in flux and in travel status, going or coming hither and yon. There’s a pleasure and comfort in having a cocktail in such environs when your room is just upstairs, a sense of being at home even when away from home. And while I don’t usually have the luxury of a room in such establishments, itâ’s still a thrill to inhabit those spaces, even if I’m only borrowing them for a bit.

The art of a dramatic backdrop seems to be a lost one.

The grand lobbies with sky-high ceilings and elaborately ornate wood carvings are going by the wayside.

I mourn the loss of it all.

We need the space and time to breathe.

We need the moments to collect ourselves.

We need a bit of beauty to ease the weight of the world.

The title of this post says it all. Come back later for a Saturday night Hunk.

… and better than ever! Currently looking to shake things up on this blog, as always. Hoping for something inspirational. Trying to find a new obsession. Waiting for the fall to chill out and take off.

Every year it brings an ending and a beginning.

A musing on the unstoppable advance of time.

The harvest of beauty and farmers’ good stuff.

It’s about rejuvenation, brought on by brisk nights and bold days.

While most people consider this the time to put certain things to bed (like the garden) it’s always been more of a rebirth for me. Let’s baptize this bastard and send it off into the world, wet and a glorious mess.

The last few days of summer sometimes hold the most exquisite charms, and September casts a spell that few months can match. This year it was no different, as the sun continued to shine, the warmth continued to resonate, and the summer did not want to leave. We didn’t want it to go either.

A September song.

A birthday run-in with the police.

A look-back at Rehoboth Beach, where I found my sea legs again, lulled by the waves, or knocked down by the ocean.

Summer sea creature.

Like sands through the hourglass…

Dancing with Whitney.

Sweet September.

Back to school.

Return to delusions.

Brunch with a baby, park with a dog.

Dinner with an old friend.

Washington monuments and Smithsonian solitude.

Porn Again.

A Donald Trump supporter called me a faggot (after telling me to die).

My Gay Roommate.

September morning glory.

A gratuitous Nyle DiMarco post.

Tom Ford releases a perfect Vert fragrance for September.

The Justin Timberlake spread.

Match made in heaven: Tom Ford & Jake Gyllenhaal.

Madonna makes the Devil Pray.

September Hunks included Jon Pastor, Jack Whitehall, Danny Mac, Ashley Cain, Conor Fay, Billy Gilman, Max George, Cheyenne Jackson, Christopher Gotham and Sean Smith.

Oh August, how I once loved thee. I still do – birthday months are hard to come by. This year especially, August was a balm after the early days of darkness. The weather remained striking, the days held onto their warmth, and the Summer Olympics brought a stabilizing Zen-like tradition to our evenings. And a heavy/healthy dose of skin.

August in the attic, after I worked my ass off to clean it all up.

Super butt.

Nick Jonas in wet underwear.

Orlando Bloom completely nude.

The penultimate chapter of The Delusional Grandeur Tour finished up here, and here, and here.

Summer fragrance by Tom Ford.

Sexy Olympic team.

Sexy Olympic team times two.

Nude dudes. (Including a naked Justin Bieber.)

A dope named Ryan. (And his bulge.)

A Queen’s birthday, fit for a fever.

A Madonna Timeline, fall-like in flavor, debuts in summer.

My favorite person at the Summer Olympics was not a Hunk at all.

How to get Tom Daley’s butt.

Get in the garden for a second wind.

The world’s greatest athlete: Ashton Eaton.

A Zac-Efron-look-alike in a Speedo: Michael Hixon.

Tom Ford goes green.

Chapter 41…

Getting into my birthday suit…. and again.

A grand ginger: Greg Rutherford.

Fading like a flower, but not done yet.

Reading this summer.

Crux of sea and sand.

August hunks included Hugo Parisi, Ning Zetao, Race Imboden, Adam Peaty, Marcel Nguyen, Devon Allen, Chen Aisen, Ryan Murphy, Dan Goodfellow, LaShawn Merritt, Bruno Fratus, Shawn Barber, Danell Leyva, Kyle Snyder,

The end of August.