Even if you know it’s fake, it’s still pretty hot. Here is that Chris Hemsworth bulge that everyone is talking about from the new ‘Vacation’ reboot (I didn’t see the original, so I won’t be seeing this one, even if Mr. Hemsworth‘s impressively enormous dick is dangling on display.) I do prefer this look to his longer-haired Thor shirtlessness, so at least he’s headed in the right direction. Just watch where he points that big long thing – and check it out in full motion thanks to carey579.
It’s always risky committing one’s “favorite†status to anything, particularly when it comes to seasons, but I’m going out on a limb (and qualifying it with a location) by saying that spring in Boston is one of mine. Fall and summer have their own enchantments (winter doesn’t even rate anything other than derision at this point) but spring carries within it an inherent sense of hope and happiness. Everything is fresh and vibrant and new, nothing has been spoiled by excessive heat or summer storms, and there’s a Gatsby-esque belief that anything is possible.
It helps when there are such pretty accessories as these blooms, which feel brighter after a lengthy season of grays and browns. Hell, they’re splendiferous – and I don’t say that about many things.
No stranger to shirtlessness, David Beckham opened his Instagram account with a shirtless selfie from his boudoir. Clearly, he understands the importance of beginning things with a bang. James Franco, in a similar vein, has been taking shirtless selfies for years, as seen below. The differences are interesting: Beckham’s is studied, poised, and polished. A lot of thought went into it, surely a good amount of calculation, all with the intended result of producing a benign, if still sexy, introduction to the world of Instagram.
Franco’s is more raw, more off-the-cuff, more honest, even if his gaze doesn’t directly confront or engage with the viewer. It’s a more telling shot, more revealing in every way. Slightly out of focus and less perfectly composed, it still manages to have a truer ring to it.
I’m not sure which one I like better. How about you?
Though Andy and I have been together for almost fifteen years, today only marks our fifth wedding anniversary. (Such is the intricate math necessary from the days leading up to the beginning of marriage equality.) On this date five years ago, Andy and I made our commitment official in a simple but beautiful ceremony in the Boston Public Garden. A recap of links follows for those who haven’t heard about that magical time, and for those of us who want to revisit the happy event:
3. Â Last Bachelor Night
The SoWa Market recently moved across the way into its new digs, and I was saddened to see that they were much smaller and sadder than the endless row of warehouse rooms that previously constituted the scene. It always felt like a magical line of rooms that kept opening up, one after another as in some never-ending nesting doll, but now it’s been reduced to a single expansive basement space. A bit of the magic has gone. Even so, there were objects of enchantment to be unearthed if one looked closely enough, little jewels that sparkled in the right light and the proper angle.
On a Sunday morning, browsing the well-used wares and meandering among the forgotten once-treasures is a happy way to spend the time.
Though I like the way they look, and the order of a full-set (my Virgo tendencies will always trump my Leo cusp) I’ve never remotely wanted to purchase or utilize a second-hand set of glasses or dishes or foodware of any kind. No matter how beautiful or valuable they may be, that holds no appeal.
Most of the time the market is filled with junk, but it’s still fun to look, and I can imagine this as a treasure trove for the young and the imaginative, as junk has a way of casting its own spell. One man’s trash is another man’s treasure. (Just don’t bring it into my house. I’m terrified of bed-bugs.)
Up until now, every year Madonna has appeared at the Met Gala she has been an absolute arresting vision. From her kick-ass punk spin to her demure ‘I’m a director’ mode, she’s always managed to rise above the already-upper-echelon of the highest night of fashion. This year, though, she wasn’t as spectacular as she usually is. An admission upfront: I absolutely loathe writing on dresses. It looks cheap and haphazard and has no place at the Met Gala. I don’t care if you’re SJP and Oscar de la Renta. I HATE IT. So I can’t get behind Madonna’s Rebel Heart get-up. The hair and make-up are flawless, and the woman looks like a miracle at 56 years of age, but the dress is just a downer for me.
Step aside – everyone, because it’s not gonna fit otherwise – for Rihanna. Now THIS is how to capture the red carpet. Spinning in that thing would prove impossible (if highly entertaining to watch) but that’s totally beside the gorgeous point. This stunner is a showpiece designed to be seen and admired and worn for a dramatic entrance and staircase. Rihanna took the moment and ran (slowly and carefully) with it.
Don’t count Madonna out just yet though. Her group photo with Katy Perry and, wait for it, Lady Gaga, will put her ahead of all the dresses. That’s just the way it is. Bow down, bow down, bow down.
As so often happens with the Northeast, we seem to have gone directly from winter into summer. That worked well for us this weekend, as the pool was opened and heated, and the patio suddenly sprung to summer life with container and hanging plants (and a new canopy assembled with life-saving help from my brother and his girlfriend). Given that spring was so late, I have a lot to do and very little time in which to do it, so the beautiful weather allowed me to work my ass off and get the yard in somewhat presentable shape. Not that any of this behind-the-scenes work had an effect here, as he blog rolled on with its usual decadence and depravity.
It began with a male model brought to the forefront of pop culture by an Instagram shout-out from Madonna – and soon enough Andrea Denver was named Hunk of the Day.
The search for a spring scent was on, and it came down to a heavyweight battle between Diana Vreeland and Tom Ford. (It’s also a bit of perfect timing, as our anniversary is this week ~ 5 years of officially-married life!) At the time of this writing, I thought the edge was going to Tom Ford’s ‘Fleur de Portofino’ but Vreeland’s ‘Smashingly Brilliant’ has its merits. I think, however, the dark horse of Hermes, and an old classic, may steal ahead of the whole pack.
Forget the Scottish kilt, Sam Callahan is better off without a stitch of clothing whatsoever.
Zac Efron got almost-nude, which was good enough for most people. And then he did it again.
A little bit of grace.
Stephen ‘Twitch’ Boss proves that twitching trumps twerking any day.
My new favorite song on an old favorite theme.
Far more than a triple threat, Jerry Mitchell is now also a Hunk of the Day.
Having had a sneak sniff of the new Hermes fragrance, courtesy of my brother’s gal, I’m pulling the latest (and last) from Jean Claude Ellena out of anniversary gift running, as it’s a gorgeous scent more suited for the deep of summer.
The first Saturday of May is World Naked Gardening Day, so I did it.
I wonder if the sexiest math teacher in the world teaches math in these briefs.
Next Sunday you can finally get a glimpse of the Super Jocks show if you’re in the Chicago area.
And the man behind those super jocks, Andy Boyer, has also been named a Hunk of the Day.
A lot of people coming to this site enjoy a jockstrap. If you add a few hot male models to that minimal clothing piece, and a worthy cause on top of that, you have the makings of a grand event. In this instance it’s a jockstrap fashion show hosted by none other than Bianca Del Rio and benefiting TPAN and Chicago House. Give me a guy in a jockstrap and I’ll totally get behind that.
Aside from the great cause, this looks to be a stellar show featuring the artistic works of jockstrap art by The Crochet Empire, previously chronicled here. These designs are bound to look incredible in person, and with the entertaining hostessing hijinks of Ms. Del Rio, it looks to be an amazing evening. Those in the Chicago area should check it out on May 10 (I’ll be plotting next year’s visit accordingly).
As for the fashion to be displayed, you can get your very own custom jockstrap from The Crochet Empire here. Painstakingly hand-crafted and designed to your specifications, each is a unique work of art, functional yet fashionable (for those who dare to bare). Where art and fashion meet is where inspiration and excitement intersect – and when it’s between the legs of a hot guy, so much the better.
Pietro Boselli has already been named a Hunk of the Day, but these new photos merit a separate post entirely. I like the glasses and the apple motif, as if we needed reminding of his profession. I also like the white briefs. What’s simple is true. An apple a day…
How such a thing as ‘World Naked Gardening Day‘ came into existence is baffling to me (dirt and thorns and ticks don’t seem like a natural match for nakedness) but given what I’ve done thus far on this website, how could I not participate? Before I get nude and start pushing around a wheelbarrow, however, I’d like to point out that gardening is a lifelong passion of mine that I take very seriously.
This week began my spring-time clean-up and garden prep. It’s an arduous process that takes several days, and it takes a lot of physical exertion (as my back will attest) and ruthless mental dedication, as it’s basically just hours of raking up debris and getting it into about 50 large lawn bags then hauling them out to the curb. After that, hundreds of pounds of manure need to be added to the soil around the plants who need a little boost. All of that then must be covered with healthy few inches of mulch. Then there’s the ruthless pruning of trees and shrubs, and the thinning out of overgrown patches of plants, or the replanting of those items that got lost in this wild winter. In other words, gardening is serious work. It’s peaceful work too, and a Zen-like calm settles on me every time I’m in that zone.
The results are more than worth it, and by results I don’t just mean the beauty of the garden, but the peace and contentment the whole process bestows upon those who appreciate it. Such peace may be found in the cultivation of an ostrich fern, or the maintenance of a sweet woodruff patch. Contentment can be culled from the premiere of the peony parade and the delicate shading of the celadon poppy. The subtle shifting hues of a hydrangea and the hot fiery blooms of a prickly pear contrast nicely, while some foliage is just as fine as a fancy butterfly-luring flower. Despite all of that, and my self-taught wealth of gardening knowledge, you probably just came to see some nude gardening, so in the name of World Naked Gardening Day, have at it (you twisted perverted fucks).
PS – How many double-entendres can you dig up in honor of the day? Plow this!
The room was in a corner of the building, partly overlooking the water of the harbor. Two of its walls were mostly windows, allowing ample natural light to flood the space. It was an empty function room, recently occupied by a wedding reception or other festive occasion, as marked by the multitude of fancy bouquets that dotted each table. These weren’t cheap fillers overrun by Alstroemeria and carnations and mums – these were packed with orchids, gloriosa lilies, anemones and ranunculus.
The space was quiet, and I listened for echoes of parties, the remains of laughter, the spirit of happiness, lilting from the fading flower petals. These bouquets were nearing the end of their table-life, but still had beauty and color, and hadn’t begun to lose their petals just yet. A bit over-ripe perhaps, they tottered and waited just a few moments more, perhaps to pose for these very photos, in an effort to achieve immortality.
Such histrionic anthropomorphism is characteristic for this blog, and I make no apologies for it now. This is the sort of quiet beauty that demands over-the-top appreciation. I will always make a ruckus for unheralded fabulousness.
There’s less skin on display than in this previous Zac Efron post, but there’s still enough to leave most of us salivating in his wake. For a not-so-lazy Friday, feast your weary eyes upon the buff miracle that is Mr. Zac Efron.
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Just when I thought the spring fragrance election was down to two competitors, Hermès and its soon-to-retire fragrance genius Jean-Claude Ellena have thrown a sweetly-scented floral wrench into the plans, with ‘Le Jardin de Monsieur Li.’ The final planting in the Jardin series, this one reportedly opens with a subtle spray of citrus – specifically grapefruit, one of my favorite opening notes. It’s also said to be rife with jasmine, which is not one of my favorite notes, so we have a battle within a battle, and until I get a sample of it I’m not going to make any proclamations.
Of this I am certain: my anniversary wish list just got a bit more muddled, as this third entry makes for an unsteady group, even if a three-legged-stool is the most stable. Tom Ford, Diana Vreeland, or Hermès? Eenie meenie money mo…
I don’t know much about girls, but I know what it’s like to have a crush, and that’s what’s speaking to me in this song by Little Big Town. ‘Girl Crush’ is really about being envious of the girl who has everything, including the guy. More than that, though, it’s one of those spring songs that cracks through the cruelty of winter and offers a ray of hope to render the heart raw and tender.
Spring has that power, and when aided by an evocative song like this, it turns everything into emotional flotsam and mental debris. Obsession and longing, wanting and desire ~ these are themes that informed my early life, and as I ease into middle-age, I look back and remember how they changed my world, in ways both destructive and delicious.
I was never one to do something in a half-assed way. Even my crushes would be epic. Sometimes all it took was a quick throw-away smile that I caught on the fly, some small insignificant gesture of simple kindness or matter-of-fact decency. I Â collected such meaningless trifles, imbuing them with all sorts of nonsensical backstories and symbolic import, erecting the grandest sandcastles from the flimsiest shambles of carelessness.
I fell for boys who glanced over my head, but tripped over my pile of bones. I stepped in their way and refused to be ignored. I wrote them love letters and made them mix tapes and felt so strongly that they were meant to love me back that I was blind to how little I mattered. How could all that I felt for them mean so little? How could they not feel anything?
They were mad crushes. Mad in every sense of the word. Crazy, some would say. They made no sense, and for someone whose every move was intricately planned-out and deliberately choreographed, the wilderness into which my heart wandered was foreign and thrilling, and it scared the shit out of me. It made me sad too. I cried a lot, over a lot of people who never even noticed. That sort of lonely terror is something you never forget. Yet it gave me a sliver of strength, some inner-structure like the steel ribs of a corset that pained and protected. Those crushes destroyed me, but I rebuilt myself, again and again, until, phoenix-like, the burning no longer stung and the ashes were no longer bitter.
In the midst of a wild week, I received a very touching message from a FaceBook friend in Baltimore yesterday afternoon:
“Thanks for your blog and facebook page last night. I’ve been so busy lately, I haven’t been keeping up with you (sorry to admit). After 3 hours of watching unbelievable riots, fire, and human injury just outside my door on TV, I turned to you for some lusty pictures, some laughs, and even a little drama. It was a rough night here in Baltimore (and I fear it’s far from over), but thanks for lightening things up for a while. You are appreciated.”
There, suddenly and unexpectedly, was a little bit of grace, from the silly and sometimes-sordid entries conjured on this blog. It moved me in a way that people who have known me for ten years don’t always manage to do. Maybe it was more touching coming from a stranger. Maybe it was the surprise of it. Maybe it was just a human being reaching out to another human while feeling trapped in the middle of an upsetting moment.
Whatever the case, I am grateful. It reminded me to be a little kinder in my everyday life. I need those reminders from time to time, and I will do my best. This blog isn’t going to change anyone’s life, much less the world, but in its own way may it provide amusement, escape, and enjoyment in a world that’s crumbling around us.
Thank you, David, for reminding me that everyone has a voice, and a story, and a way to touch the world.
