Category Archives: General

This is in no way serving to throw the rest of this summer away so soon – we have until at least October for some sunny hot weather – but it’s clear that fall is quickly approaching. It’s in the Sweet Autumn Clematis and goldenrod gone to bloom, and the grasses gone to seed. It’s in the morning chill, and the faster fall of dusk. Mostly, it’s in the sky, and the sun, and the way they are both so different at the end of summer as opposed to the beginning.

I don’t like looking back, but if I have to do it, I’d rather look back a few years than a few months. To that end, I’m not going to do a summer recap of 2013 just yet, but rather a list of summer memories that go further into the past. Here are some favorite memories of sunny seasons gone by:

June of 2010 brought this post about me catching creatures in the creek. Yes, I was a boy once – snails and puppy dog tails et. al. I also loved Reading Rainbow, but not hot subways in Boston.

July of 2010 brought about my first meeting with a childhood hero, as well as hints of my wedding coat, and the big reveal itself. A heatwave in Chicago was less exciting, and a one-night-stand in Provincetown proved more sad than salacious.

In August of 2010, memories of the delicious pull of Ogunquit Beach were strong, and by September 2010 I was ready to tell the tale of the first time I kissed a man, and to get naked (not at all the same thing – oh wait…) Of course, I offered my own kind of repentance for all of it.

The summer of 2011, starting in June, began with the gay pride parade in Boston, and this pride post. July 2011 hasn’t been fully updated in the archives, but there’s a Madonna Timeline for one of her summer hits, ‘This Used to Be My Playground‘ that might be worth a look (fun for its recollection of a psycho-roommate and trips to Russia and Finland). The entries for August of 2011 are slightly fuller, starting with a CYO Camp Crush, and another memory of the first man in my life, continuing with this magical book-seller, and ending up at an old bank, following a trail of sidewalk talk, but ultimately winding up empty.

The summer of 2011 closed out in September, with a wedding trip to Washington, DC, where I discovered the wonders of the Spa at the Mandarin Oriental, as well as the upsetting (at least to a full bladder) news that there’s no public restroom at the White House. Still, it was worth it for a family reunion of sorts.

Last summer began with the first time-out I ever gave my nephew (and also, incidentally, the last one – thus far, Noah Thomas). It also featured the king of summer programming, Bravo’s Andy Cohen, who had just written his first book, and memories of my first night dancing at Chaps.

Beneath a starry sky, amid a cacophony of crickets and the clicking of katydids, I swim to the end of August and the start of September. The branches of the seven sons’ flower tree are filled with their late-season blooms – small and unassuming, but packing a potently perfumed punch. On these muggy nights, the pool water has remained warm, a quasi-amniotic fluid in which I float, looking up at the light blanket of clouds, re-born at the end of summer, and trying valiantly to hang on, to hold tight to a season that must soon end. The last full month of summer has gone. September is not coming soon – it’s already here. And so, a poem, for knowing when to let go:

In Blackwater Woods

By Mary Oliver

Look, the trees

are turning

their own bodies

into pillars

of light,

are giving off the rich

fragrance of cinnamon

and fulfillment,

the long tapers

of cattails

are bursting and floating away over

the blue shoulders

of the ponds,

and every pond,

no matter what its

name is, is

nameless now.

Every year

everything

I have ever learned

in my lifetime

leads back to this: the fires

and the black river of loss

whose other side

is salvation,

whose meaning

none of us will ever know.

To live in this world

you must be able

to do three things:

to love what is mortal;

to hold it

against your bones knowing

your own life depends on it;

and, when the time comes to let it go,

to let it go.

He stands alone in the window, seeing the vague outline of what someone else might see. The luxury of being home in the middle of the day does not escape him, the illicit thrill of being unknown is an added spark. Slowly, the sunlight moves through the room, passing deeper into the sky, climbing up and over the bed.

These are his favorite hours to be there: from about three o’clock to six o’clock ~ the last stretch of sunlight in the bedroom. It is a quiet time. He honors that. No music, no talking, no phone. It takes a while to embrace that stillness, to calm the racing mind and quell the rushing heart. Eventually, though, if he can be patient, if he can let the thoughts come and go, everything settles down. A peace appears, not so much deliberately or with any sort of announcement, but more in the absence of chaos, in the removal of accustomed agitation. The relief of that is the closest thing to religion.

Now here’s a pouch I prefer fried. (Spicy avocado version.)

Having no control over everything, I turned 38 this past week on a quiet low-key sunny day in upstate New York (more on that later). We spent the day at Edith Wharton’s estate and garden, The Mount, which was amazing – did a little shopping at the Lee outlets, and returned home to have dinner with my parents. All in all, it was a very good day for this birthday boy. But since marking the passage of time is not my favorite thing to do, let’s take a quick look back and be done with it.

The infuriatingly tricky way to navigate through this site was only partially-successfully explained here. I recommend just typing words into the ‘Search’ feature at the bottom of the page and praying to get lucky.

Nothing inspires me more than a good song, which were in plentiful supply with the likes of Verdi Cries, Already Gone, Misty, and Darling Be Home Soon…

Unless it’s a new Tom Ford Private Blend, like this Rive d’Ambre. Now that is inspiring.

The amazing Ben Cohen tweeted me a Happy Birthday message, which just goes to show he’s not just beautiful on the outside, but on the inside as well. (Not that there was ever any doubt.)

Boston was filled with flowers, many flowers, on the way to Charlestown.

Because of the blue full moon, I took it all off and jumped in the pool on a steamy summer night. (That’s right, naked shots here and here.)

Finally, I said good-bye to not knowing when the truth in my whole life began. (Further proof that I can turn any post or conversation into a Madonna lyric.)

Sometimes I go to great lengths explaining what I post on this blog.

But sometimes I don’t want to do that.

These are my friends – old and young.

That’s all anyone needs to know.

I should have simply entitled this post “Things At Which I Totally Suck” and been done with it. Saying good-bye and letting go – especially of friends and family – is just not one of my favorite things to do. And I tend to be bad at it – at least emotionally – so my good-byes are short, and hopefully sweet, so I can get the hell out and try to move on without too much damage. Not for wanting to leave, but for not wanting to prolong the pain.

It usually happens on a Sunday morning, and no matter how sunny or nice the day, it might as well be pouring rain and drizzling unhappiness. Often, it will be JoAnn leaving our home in upstate New York, or Kira saying goodbye in Boston – but no matter what, the same heartsick feeling results – even when I know I’m going to see them again. It’s the loss of proximity, the lost of camaraderie, the loss of the comfort of being near a loved one. That can never be matched or even very much mitigated by texting or Skyping or anything else. Sometimes you just have to be close to someone to feel better.

Liza Minnelli had one of the greatest good-byes as Sally Bowles at the end of ‘Cabaret’. As she bids her lover farewell, she turns and walks away. He watches her go, and with a little backward wave of her hand without looking back, she acknowledges the moment and continues on her way. I always thought she was crying a little when she did that – mostly because that’s what I tend to do. So if we say good-bye, chances are I won’t look back, but it’s not because I don’t want to – I just don’t want anyone to see me crying.

The same feeling settles over me whenever it comes time to leave Boston. I usually depart early, to get it over with, and to get back into the mindset of the daily grind, mentally forcing myself back to work, back to home, back to husband. I do not look in the rearview mirror, I look straight ahead – West to upstate New York, yonder to Albany. Boston is behind me, to be revisited at another time. The good thing is that only a chapter is done. There will be more to come.

If ever there was a day for me to strip naked on this site, my birthday is it. Though it seems odd to give so much on one’s own birthday, there’s no more fitting time. Besides, think of this as a thank you for all the birthday wishes I’ve gotten so far.

More to come…

Thirty-eight years ago I was born in Amsterdam, NY. According to records, it was a little after 3 PM, but I was too young to remember. A few years later that would be my favorite time of the day (as that is when R.J. McNulty Elementary School let out for the afternoon).

This is a quiet birthday year. No trips to Boston or Provincetown (and no cool art installations like this and this), and though I toyed with the idea of San Francisco or Seattle, neither was quite in the financial cards (which are largely in the red). It’s all right – some years aren’t big banner years. Better to welcome them quietly, without pomp and pizzazz, and be grateful simply to be alive. That will be the goal for the ensuing year. Gratefulness. Appreciation. Kindness. Love. On the day that’s supposed to be all about me, I tend to remember how small my life is in the world, and how someone’s birthday is just another day for everyone else.

(For the remaining 364 days, however, we’ll return to me, so enjoy this one-day respite and prepare to pay homage again tomorrow.)

“Late in the night we enjoy a misty moon.

There is nothing misty about the bond between

us.”

~ Murasaki Shikibu, The Tale of Genji

Full Moons have not always been my friend, as evidenced here and here. But a Blue Moon – that is a bit of a gift. Usually these lunar events have a difficult influence, bringing out the beast not only in me but in all those surrounding me, leading to some fierce clashes. This time around it was a calming moon. It rose in the sky as the night grew long, and the weather stayed warm and fine. I ventured back into the pool, taking leisurely laps as the moonlight sparkled on the water.

It was just me and the moon, tossing it back and forth, two drifters – only one of which could see the world as a whole, the other flailing a bit, like he always does, but calm tonight, even beneath the surface.

“I had not known the sudden loneliness

Of having it vanish, the moon in the sky of dawn.”

~ Murasaki Shikibu, The Tale of Genii

Summer had returned. The night was warm and for the most part still, with just the slightest breeze that didn’t so much blow as slowly move the air around, gently shifting the atmosphere, transferring a pocket of summer-sweet perfume here, the cologne of the butterfly bush there. Above it all, the blue moon, traveling in a slow arc across the sky, watching and illuminating with its ghostly reflection of sunlight.

The best part of the moon is that we all see it. No matter how far apart we might be, no matter how much time passes, we can look up on certain nights and be sure of each other, sure that we are seeing the same thing. There is solace in that, in something that can be so shared. It’s impossible to feel too lonely with the moon as your companion.

“So long as I look upon it I find comfort,

The moon which comes again to the distant city.”

~ Murasaki Shikibu, The Tale of Genji

This same moon will fly over all of our cities, sometimes hidden by clouds, sometimes barely breaking the horizon, sometimes rising out of the ocean – and each of us at some point will see it.

Everyone will get their turn – separate, but together.

Apart, but connected.

Lunar consolation.

Someone recently asked where they could find a post I wrote a few days ago. Initially I told them to scroll down to the bottom of the page and enter some keywords into the ‘Search’ box and see if the post came up. Then I realized that for anyone coming back here after some time away (you know you all need it) it’s rather difficult to find things from just two or three days ago (given the fact that the blog gets updated three times a day and only the four most recent posts get displayed on the front page). So for those who are good enough to not want to miss out on a moment of the madness, there is a way to slowly scroll back, post by painful post, if you follow these difficult directions. (This is the hard part of the post title.)

If you’ve reached the last featured post, go to the bottom left of the post and click on the ‘Continue reading’ option. It will bring you to what looks like the same page you were on, but if you scroll down on this page you should see another option for ‘Older posts’. I’m not sure why there’s that middle-man moment, but I’m too lazy to try to figure it out or change it up. Besides, only a select few will really feel the need to go scrolling back like that, but every once in a while a new visitor will come along, and want to see a bit more. If that’s you, welcome aboard, and scroll away! (And please don’t be a stranger.)

We are sailing all-too-quickly through this month, and I want only to slow things down, to savor the moment, to be present for the light when it is this beautiful. Looking back can do that, somewhat. It can stall, or at least prolong, if only in our heads, what has just come before. While it’s never safe to look back too often, once in a while I’ll indulge, as we do on Monday mornings, especially after weekends you wish didn’t have to come to an end. It’s a coping mechanism. So let’s cope, together.

Much of last week was spent in Boston, where beauty reigned, gardens glowed, and we said good-bye… for now.

Last week proved slim pickings on the Hunk of the Day front, but to male models maintained the sizzle factor of this site, so many thanks to Allen Clippinger and Elijah Johnston for taking their shirts off and keeping things hot.

We battled the groundhog, with no clear-cut winner (only clear-cut sweet potato vines).

August is proving a good month for birthdays, as evidenced by Madonna, and myself.

There is nothing better than a poem to ward off insomnia or heal heartache.

My soon-to-be-no-longer-under-the-radar-project had its latest unheralded installment.

And, finally, if you’ve never been slapped by a brownie, you need to be.

Make all the ‘Needless Mark-up’ jokes you want – if it costs a little extra to get impeccable customer service, I’d rather drop it at Neiman Marcus than anywhere else. Though I’ve occasionally gotten the wary eye when I haven’t been decked out, it’s nowhere near the bitchy third-degree I get at the Barneys at Copley Place. The fragrance reps at Neiman Marcus are also the best in the business, particularly when it comes to representing Tom Ford. When I wanted to sample his new Private Blends, I wrote to the fragrance counter and soon received several vials of the intoxicating elixirs, with personal hand-written notes recommending favorites. That’s the sort of customer service you don’t often see today.

I know I tend to complain about poor service and shoddy customer treatment (hello Starbucks), and the truth is we really only hear about the bad experiences instead of the good, so I’m making an effort to balance things out. To that end, this is a little shout-out to those folks who make shopping a joyful experience, to those who go out of their way to personally respond to queries, and to those who make the effort to be friendly. Having worked in retail for a few years, I understand that it’s not always easy when the customer is always right (especially when they’re dead-wrong), so for those who still put on a smile and help out the hapless public, I offer this small bit of gratitude. When shopping is a favorite past-time, it makes all the difference.