Immersing myself in new project work means less time for blogging. To throw you a bone, here are some out-takes from the new work-in-progress. The art of creation can often feel like a battle. The artist has to slay, so it helps to carry a sword. The artist must sometimes conceal, so it helps to don a mask. The artist must always be fierce, so it helps to wear a cape. The artist must also find time to create, so it helps to have a back-up post like this.
Being a parent is the most difficult job in the world. I don’t have the selflessness, time or money that go into raising a child, and I always knew that. It helped that I never had the desire, but more people need to make that choice based on their circumstances. Fortunately, my Mom and Dad planned for my brother and myself. We never wanted for anything because they had the foresight and love to make sure we were set to attend college, see a bit of the world, and never go to bed hungry. That was my Mom’s big thing: she never wanted us to go to bed hungry, because when she was little she sometimes did. Those are the things that I remember.
On this Mother’s Day, I honor the woman who gave up so much because she had grown up with so little. We didn’t get a chance to do our annual Broadway trip yet, but hopefully we’ll schedule something for late summer or early fall to make up for it. Happy Mother’s Day, Mom!
Long before I met Andy, I was a bit of a slut. Well, not exactly a slut, but my lips slid against more men than I care to remember. The spring of 2000 was an emotionally perilous period, rife with anger and hurt and sorrow. I tried to put it all together with torrid affairs and messy hook-ups, seeking to further wreck a ruined trust in the world. I’d had my heart broken a fair share of times, and I felt on the verge of losing all feeling. Yet physical intimacy was still a form of intimacy, and I craved it to a desperate extent. In many ways, all I wanted was a kiss – a marathon kiss – one that went on for days and left my lips swollen and happily sore. A kiss would always mean more than a fuck.
Marianne Faithfull wailed plaintively on the stereo on a misty late morning. A young man no older than myself pulled his socks and shoes on before somewhat hastily bounding down the stairs onto the gray street below. I listened to him go, feeling both regret and relief at once, then turned over and closed my eyes. I’d like to say I forgot his name in all the years that have past, but the truth is that I forgot it before he closed the door. Such was the state of affairs in those days.
There was a sad and lonely beauty to that time in my life. In hindsight it appears a lot rosier than it ever really was, and sometimes I look back on it with a romantic fondness that isn’t quite deserved. Spring brings me back to the headiness of it all, when the beauty of the world sang softly as each day’s sun set.
Late in the evening I walked beneath cherry trees that dropped their pink petals like ballerinas being stripped of their ruffled tulle. Warm night winds brought the promise of summer in through the darkness, while lights of homes filled with laughter and happiness and enviable otherness twinkled all around me. I peered surreptitiously into the windows of strangers, seeking out some semblance of a scene of stability. The rooms of others always felt warmer, happier and fuller than mine. I would sometimes gaze up at my own window, dark more often than not, and wonder what others saw. It was my belief that no one bothered to look.
On some nights a stranger would become less of a stranger, with a smile and flirtatious dance around pleasantries before tripping over frantically-discarded clothes. In the dim gray light of the bedroom I could hide my timidity and my tears, and even if the saltiness seeped into a kiss, no one ever cared enough to comment or question.
When the unsaid and mutually-agreed-upon exchange of physical pleasure was symbolically signed by a second glance or a hand upon the knee you jostled against him, there was no promise of anything more. In fact, the additional preponderance always felt like a hindrance to most guys. I learned to sense that, to pull away. Having jumped into love, or what I thought was love, too quickly and too many times, I understood the game even as I fought against its silly rules. Still, there was good reason to keep an aloof distance.
It was far easier to shield the heart than to repair it.
Tomorrow is the epic ‘Super Jocks in Super Jocks’ show in Chicago, IL, so if you’re in the vicinity give it a look-see. I wish I’d had the foresight to plan a trip there, but hopefully this will be an annual event so I can make a proper pilgrimage next year. As previously reported here, this is a benefit for TPAN and Chicago House. Hosted by Bianca Del Rio, it features the stunning hand-crocheted jock-straps of The Crochet Empire, as helmed by Andy Boyer. Works of art in their own right, you should see them when they’re filled out by the collection of hunky studs who will be parading down the runway. The Art of the Jockstrap indeed.
Here are a few promo photos provided by The Crochet Empire for this red-hot event. Tickets can be purchased at http://www.brownpapertickets.com/event/1387444
There’s a story to every picture, but it doesn’t always need to be told. The tales attached to these photos likely wouldn’t interest you much, and to be honest most of them are of little interest to me. (Trifles of anecdotes, and more a moment of memory than any substantial dramatic narrative, they are fragments of the in-between.) Rather than fill the viewer in on the mundane trappings of what the surrounding circumstances were for each of these photos, I’m inviting those who so wish to choose their own adventure and make up their own back-story for the images here.
Of course, I’m also lazy as hell this week, after a weekend of working my ass off. At last tally:
-Â Â Â Â Â Â Â 23 lawn bags filled and dragged to curb
-Â Â Â Â Â Â Â 14 blog posts written
-Â Â Â Â Â Â Â 9 patio containers planted
-Â Â Â Â Â Â Â 7 hanging planters filled
-Â Â Â Â Â Â Â 6 nursery runs made (to procure said plants and potting materials in tiny Mini Cooper)
-Â Â Â Â Â Â Â 3 cologne samples tested
-Â Â Â Â Â Â Â 3 sandwiches (and 1 salad) made for canopy assembly assistants
-Â Â Â Â Â Â Â 1 canopy assembled (with help from said assistants)
Now I’m distracting you with other thoughts and things which is the anti-thesis of what I was hoping to accomplish with this post. Apologies.
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…
