In honor of his birthday today, here are a few celebratory GIFs of Adam Levine in his birthday suit (and varying states of shirtlessness). Mr. Levine hasn’t been featured here in a while, but he has a storied tradition of disrobing in cheeky form as can be seen in posts like this, or this, or this, or this, or this, or this, or this, or this, or his very first Hunk of the Day crowning.
As top secret work continues on a new project, you may notice that posts are lighter and more scant than usual. I make no apologies for this. We each must do what feeds the heart. At the brutal end of a winter that sees no end in sight, a new project has become my lifeblood and purpose, and I’m thrilled at this one. Because of such work, however, I will not be able to post as much as I usually do.
Here, you can see what a project takes out of me, and when you peruse the few that are currently up here, may you find it in your own heart to forgive my absences.
Verdant slopes stretched out for as far as the eye could see, dotted with lakes and streams and all sorts of natural sparkle. Winds careened through the high perch on which I found myself, lying upside down and kissing the Blarney Stone as some Irish brogue held onto my legs so I didn’t tumble to the ground far below. A quick peck, that’s all I gave, but it was enough. The gift of eloquence had been bestowed.
I stood up, righting my vision and stance, and looked back over the land. Lush and green, it calmed and quieted the most tumultuous heart. My coat flew around me – long, black and flowing, it shrouded and cloaked like a living shadow. I walked down the tiny spiraling staircase etched roughly in stone. Peace and paradise.
A song comes to mind, one that would have done well for that moment so many years ago. Can one insert a song into a memory that has already been made? I’m not sure. We shall attempt it.
I’m told that corned beef and cabbage is a traditional St. Patrick’s Day dish, but I don’t like being traditional so I had this a few weeks ahead of schedule. (People scoffed at the notion of having it outside the safe window of St. Paddy’s Day because no one likes anyone to move into uncharted territory. Not even by a few days.) Too damn bad, I say. And I ate this like a beast. (Extra flavor bonus courtesy of this insanely-good Maine Crafty Ale Mustard, courtesy of Stonewall Kitchen.)
A few mistakes were made in this virgin voyage into corned beef territory. The first and most important lesson I learned, sadly a little too late, was that there’s no need for additional salt in a corned beef dish. Whoopsie daisy. (I’m still bloated.) The second, not as egregious mistake, was adding all the cabbage and potatoes and carrots into the slow cooker at the same time. According to the Martha Stewart recipe I used, the cabbage should be save for the latter part of the cooking process. This was not so bad – I cooked it all to the point that it all kind of blended together in the end. This is not a terribly-refined sort of dish. There’s room for roughness, space for spillover.
There was barely enough for a sandwich the next day – which is the third lesson I learned: the original size is going to shrink down quite a bit, so err on the side of more rather than less when picking out a cut (and go for the flat cut instead of the point – unless you like things really fatty). A next-day sandwich is the best part of this whole deal. The meat is tender enough to melt into whatever you use it for – added to some rye bread, a healthy layer of Thousand Island dressing, and some sauerkraut (used sparingly), it made for a fantastic meal.
Even at this late stage of my gardening game, there are still ample opportunities for surprises. It’s what keeps gardening so interesting for me. After three decades of my hands in the dirt, there is still so much more to learn and discover. Take this weeping larch, for instance. I thought for sure it had three seasons of beauty to offer (and that in itself is two seasons more than most plants) but it turns out it has a full four, as evidenced here.
In the spring, it is a gorgeous bright green, its leaves (deceptively shaped and structured like an evergreen tree) are soft and supple, and as its foliage fills out, the radial form bursts like verdant fire blossoms. By summer, it matures into a slightly deeper green with a tinge of silver to lend it coolness on the hottest days, and by fall it sets itself on fire in a rich amber glow that ripens to the edge of rust.
Somehow, in all this time, I’ve managed to miss the magic of a sticky snowfall that clings to its architectural form, clumping like Christmas ornaments on the weeping strands of bark and stem. I stumbled upon it the other day when taking pictures of the latest storm in the backyard.
I live for beauty that takes one by surprise – an unexpected delight at the end of winter.
I love seeing the world come together like this, and with our own country temporarily rudderless, we look to the cute reps for Canada and England to lead us into hunkdom, and a happier day. Justin Trudeau and Prince Harry make a very fetching couple of blokes. I’m assuming that Mr. Trudeau will be granted an invitation to Harry’s upcoming nuptials. (Still awaiting my invite… ahem.)
Each of these gentlemen has been featured here previously: Justin in this Hunk of the Day honor, and Harry in spreads like this one. Together, they create one uber-bromance.
…of snow there lies
cradled in the crunchy crystals of water
frozen for the moment but waiting for the warmth
sprouts of green,
slightly tattered and torn
slightly battered and born
perhaps too soon
but when those days of warmth
sneak into February and turn the world upside down
one must jump at the chance
and if it’s too early
and they give up their first leaves to the inevitable crown of snow
such valor has not gone unnoticed
as far removed from the natural state
and here
may it remain.
Turning 40 is a big deal for most people (present company excluded), but I have a feeling that my friend Skip is going to sail through it without issue, as he tends to be more pragmatic and sensible about such arbitrary matters. Since today is his 40th birthday, I’m breaking with the usual black-out posting schedule for Tuesday and putting this up so he gets the honor that he is due.
To the best of my memory skills (which deteriorate by the minute) the first time we met was at my Venetian Vanity Ball – the holiday party we were throwing that year. I’d only heard about him from his then-girlfriend Sherri, but I trusted her judgment implicitly and figured he was a good guy. (Good people bring other good people into our lives.) Most of our co-workers who knew him said the same thing.
I greeted many friends that night, old and new, but only Skip’s introduction sticks out in my memory, which is slightly strange because it was so long ago – 2005 to be exact. At the time I had dark red hair (to match a dark-red Venetian-inspired ensemble) and Skip had, well, more hair (which he mostly kept hidden under a dapper cap). I sensed he had done his best to dress for the occasion, and anyone who makes such an effort gets my respect. We spoke a bit, but like so many other things I can’t recall anything earth-shattering or specific. It would take a while before we became friends, which is usually how the best friendships come to be.
Over a dozen years have passed since that first meeting, and in the way that destiny often designs it our friendship grew organically. He completely set up and designed this website as it now stands, bringing his web-building expertise to my utter lack of HTML knowledge, and after a few power meetings at our respective houses, one of us suggested we check out a movie at some point. The rest is happy history. By now, I’ve probably gone on more movie man-dates with Skip than with my own husband, and while it began with a shared love of cinema, it’s turned into something more.
I’ve never had many straight-guy friends, and at that point in my life I didn’t have the energy or desire to make new ones, but once in a while someone comes along who is supposed to be part of your journey, and if they seem to value you in return, so much the better. Soon our movies included a pre-game cocktail (and my introduction to the World of Beer) over which we’d discuss what had been happening in our lives since the last night out.
Far more than flattery or awe or simple admiration, Skip offered something that I don’t often feel I get from many people, friends and family included: a complete lack of judgment and an apparent enjoyment of my company. You cannot know the relief and exultant joy it is to be around that when the entire world seems hellbent on judging and appraising your every single move, to say nothing of how badly we judge and appraise ourselves. He also liked to talk, which is a nice break when you spend most days explaining things twenty thousand times to the same few people. Skip offered wisdom and a philosophical slant on life as it should be, and he showed me new ways of looking at things that I never would have considered otherwise. We were a good sounding board for each other, and on those movie nights we could escape from our daily lives and be, for a few hours at least, completely free of baggage, of worrying about whether what we say might be misconstrued. I could even wear sweatpants and he wouldn’t even notice.
Since that holiday party evening when we met almost thirteen years ago, we’ve expanded our hang-out time to include an annual outing to see the Boston Red Sox (check out last year’s side-spitting event here and here) and there are persistent, dogged and wildly-unfounded rumors of a possible podcast for some vaguely uncertain future date. In all our time together, there are a few things that have never changed, and I hope they never do: I’ll always ask if there is a new decaf soda at the concessions stand, Skip will always offer to play his memorization game with any game bartender, and we will always recount the tale of Thor to anyone who will listen.
There’s not much we can count on in these dark days, but the safety and comfort of true friendship continues to give me hope.
Happy birthday Skip – and many happy returns of the day!
We mourn the loss of an hour this past weekend, but we are picking up the pieces and moving on with some extra light later in the day. The ‘one to grow on’ portion of this post refers to a bonus post coming tomorrow – so be sure to come back for that, especially if your name is Skip and you’re turning 40. Onto the last week…
It began with a reminder that winter is still in full-effect.
This snowy owl found a perch on which to roll with the winter storms.
Our annual Mother’s Day weekend in New York is coming together nicely.
Chinatown, at night.
A big-ass collection of salacious and gratuitous links with lots of male nudity.
Adam Rippon began to bare his ripped body.
Baring just the most tantalizing glimpse of his booty for Attitude magazine, Adam Rippon seems to be on the crest of his post-Olympics fabulosity tour. (I just saw him make a spectacular appearance on ‘Watch What Happens Live’ with Andy Cohen and revisited his epic ‘Ellen’ visit.) Rippon is a natural for entertaining quips and witty bon mots, and like so many others I am waiting with baited breath to see what he does next. In the meantime, here’s hoping he loses the sport-shorts next.
Earlier this morning, at around 2 AM, we moved the clocks forward. In the fall, when we move them back an hour, there’s a silly Cher meme that makes the rounds with the iconic song title ‘IF I COULD TURN BACK TIME’ in that obnoxious meme font. People have been posting that again now that it’s time to move ahead, to what end or purpose I have no idea. To act like a trickster? Amateurs. To be stupid? Success.
Anyway, if you haven’t yet done so, say goodbye to that hour, but say hello to sunlight. It’s always worth it. And for all the Cher-lovers (of which I happily count myself) here’s to the search she espouses so well (and it’s not for an extra hour).
Capitalizing on all things Stormy of late, this is a counter-programming post of psychedelic summer shenanigans, the likes of which would likely not be allowed on FaceBook or Instagram or Twitter, given those social media platforms’ insistence on prudish behavior. But you know you can always find the scandalous and salacious right here, where we drop trou and shake our noses and butts at the proverbial staid and stalwart. A quick search through the categories here will give you instance access to all sort of shameless tomfoolery:
To say nothing of David Beckham, Ben Cohen and Tom Daley…
It used to be our last-resort for late-night feeding when everything else had closed down (and before we stumbled back upon this long-lost 24-hour diner). A last stop because Boston rolled up the sidewalks so early, and it was more or less close to some of the clubs people used to frequent. This was Chinatown, and in the ensuing years it’s become a dining destination of its own that forms the first stop more often than not. It’s especially helpful for when Kira and I need soup at the start or end of a wretched winter’s day.
On a recent trip, it also formed the backdrop (or foreground as the case may be) for my new project. Hush-hush on that top-secret endeavor for now – but it’s getting exciting. Just like walking through Chinatown in the middle of the night can be. There was only one sketchy section; chasing a shadowy shot, I took us down a narrow alleyway, which opened up into an enclosed little section of garbage and stair grates. A pair of men stood in the center, and the only way to the other side was to walk by them. Normally we’d have turned around, but then I saw that they were filming, hunched over a camera on a tripod, so unless it was some sort of snuff film I figured we would be ok. Kira struck up a conversation and they said they were working on a student project. We scooted by and found our way out.
We would return the next morning, in the rain, to enjoy a bowl of noodles at Pho Pasteur. There’s no better way to slide into a late-winter late-morning Sunday.
In the midst of all this snow and winter, I’ve been slowly and steadily making plans for our annual Mother’s Day weekend in New York. An old-school hotel – the Warwick – has been reserved (I splurged on a larger room in the hopes of counteracting the traditionally-smaller older rooms of the city) and two shows have already been planned – ‘Dear Evan Hansen’ and ‘The Boys in the Band’. There is still an open slot for one more, however, though I’m uncharacteristically indecisive about which one it should be. And so I look to you…
Any recommendations on some must-see productions? I’d love to take my Mom to see ‘Hamilton’ but tickets are still starting at the $800 range which is way too much for a history lesson, no matter how amazing. I was leaning toward ‘Once On This Island’ – and it’s still at the top of my list, but perhaps something else has snuck under the radar, or is about to do so? Andy and I are seeing the new Harry Potter plays next month so that’s out, and I had the fortune to catch ‘The Band’s Visit’ and ‘M. Butterfly’ shortly after they opened last year. I need some more ideas!
An absolutely mesmerizing video of a snowy owl riding out the winter on the rolling ice seems a fitting way to pass this evening. If I had a coat of feathers like that, I’d perch myself in a similar place of peace and meditation.
