Category Archives: General

To be so economical with so few words demands more discipline and care than the mass assembling of prose in which I usually cloak my written shortcomings. It’s easy to create a colloidal suspension of description to mask the absence of any real substance, swirling unnecessary adjectives and adverbs around like so many emulsifiers in this mess of similes and metaphors and incorrect scientific terms in some cacophonous run-on sentence. I work wonders with such distractions, but at what cost? No matter how glitzy the show, a vacuous core will always be forgettable.

It’s far more impressive to keep things concise and clear with a few well-chosen words. The spare and sparse beauty of a poem is something to which I aspire, but rarely achieve. One word is a razor, one is the heart, and what comes between is either protection or destruction. That’s too dangerous for me. I’d rather leave it to the experts. Like Mary Oliver in her poem ‘A Pretty Song‘ that follows:

From the complications of loving you,

I think there is no end or return.

No answer, no coming out of it.

Which is the only way to love, isn’t it?

This isn’t a playground, this is

earth, our heaven, for a while.

Therefore I have given precedence

to all my sudden, sullen, dark moods

that hold you in the center of my world.

And I say to my body: grow thinner still.

And I say to my fingers, type me a pretty song.

And I say to my heart: rave on.

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.

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…

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.

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.

You monsters love to see me in tears, so here’s the annual Easter Bunny shot, trotted out again to bring you your yearly dose of pleasure in my discomfort. It remains Suzie’s most favorite picture of me, and for years it stood framed in her house. (How and why anyone would send it to other people is beyond me. It’s a veritable photographic record of how to torture a child.)

At the mall the other night, I looked over to see a line snaking its way toward an explosion of fake flowers and plastic grass, and in the center of it all a sign that read simply, ‘THE BUNNY.” Those poor kids, I thought, with a rare moment of compassion for the little people. All they want is the chocolate non-animated version of that thing. I will say that the Easter Bunny has come a long, friendlier way from the horrifying form he or she used to take when I was peeing in my pants having my picture taken with the beast.

I’ve also come a long way in reconciling my initial traumatic experience, going so far as to approach an Easter Bunny at a Boston brunch last year and conquering the fear. Still, part of me will always recoil at this holiday, and I’m glad you get such joy out of it. Now hop along, there’s nothing more for you to see here.

DALLAS-FORT WORTH: REDBUD AND MISTLETOE

By Amy Clampitt

Terrain that from above, aboard the hurled

steel spore, appears suffused with vivid

ravelings, the highways’ mimic of veinings

underground, the fossil murk we’re all

propelled by, for whatever term: as with

magenta freshets of Texas redbud, curled

among dun oaks fed on by yellowing nuggets

of old mistletoe, the sometime passport

to sulphurous Avernus (the golden leafage

rustling in light wind), though here we hugely

deafen to the hiss of Nemesis: so turns

the wheel of change; so turns the world.

SUNRISE

By Mary Oliver

You can

die for it –

an idea,

or the world. People

have done so,

brilliantly,

letting

their small bodies be bound

to the stake,

creating

an unforgettable

fury of light. But

this morning,

climbing the familiar hills

in the familiar

fabric of dawn, I thought

of China,

and India

and Europe, and I thought

how the sun

blazes

for everyone just

so joyfully

as it rises

under the lashes

of my own eyes, and I thought

I am so many!

What is my name?

What is the name

of the deep breath I would take

over and over

for all of us? Call it

whatever you want, it is

happiness, it is another one

of the ways to enter

fire.

As the high holidays kick into gear, I’m going easy on posts for the moment, as I’m starting a new job and want to focus on that, as well as getting ready for spring and trying to be healthier and happier – both of which require effort and work and living in a world off of the computer. That doesn’t mean I won’t be checking in regularly.

The easiest way to keep abreast is by that social media triumvirate of FaceBook, Twitter, and Instagram – each of which I try to update throughout the day, no matter where I am or what I’m doing. That holy trio often gives you a better pay by play of what’s going on with me than the lengthy diatribes and hot hunks you may find here. So friend me or follow me and we’ll have a splendid time.

The first time I set foot in the Troy Music Hall was when I was rehearsing for an Empire State Repertory Orchestra performance. It is said to have some of the best acoustics in the country, but I wouldn’t have known the difference if I’d been playing underwater. It was enough just getting through the staccato sixteenth notes of Copland’s ‘Hoe Down’ on the oboe, that most unforgiving of double-reed instruments. I’d been feeling knocked down by the competitive nature of the orchestra, and the demanding discipline it required of an already-fragile fifteen-year-old, but the beauty of the surroundings entranced me, occupying my worry and setting me at ease.

A couple of weekends ago we went to see a performance of Ciaran Sheehan, and the beauty of the hall, a well as the traditional Irish music, transported us to another time. The sound of the venue remained perfect, and the musicians who played that evening wholeheartedly agreed, opting to try out part of their program without any electronic amendment so as to enjoy the acclaimed acoustics.

Some people joke about Troy, and I’ve been guilty of that in the past, but there are good things here, and the music hall is proof of that.

Switching from the salacious to the sweet, soon we herald a couple of posts returning the Ilagan twins to the fold, with a recap of their fourth birthday celebration. For now though, a hint of that, in the toys of childhood ~ colorful, innocent, and fresh as the break of dawn. Come back in a day or two when we resume the usual adult content.

Until then, welcome to the dollhouse.