There are those who would argue, and not wholly without merit, that absolutely everything here is an exercise in exhibitionism, but there are other things at work. Well, maybe not today, as this post is nothing but a gratuitous grab at lazy weekend viewers. As promised, I’m taking it easy this summer, as attention turns outside, to a real life at which these photos only hint. Tip of the iceberg…
Some posts tell their own stories with very little promoting from this exhausted writer. Let that happen right now.
It was a cold, late-winter night in Boston. Piles of dirty snow stubbornly refused to yield to overcast days, and all color had long since drained from the city in its barren winter state. Beneath a street lamp, however, a shade of hope glowed like a beacon in the night. As I approached, I made out a Mini Cooper, in a hue somewhere between Robin’s egg and Tiffany blue. A Mini Cooper was about the only car I could easily recognize (up until that time the only two cars I could accurately identify were a taxi and a limo, and even that was sketchy.)
Thanks to its color and design, however, this Mini Cooper immediately stole my heart, and the guy who swore he would never go crazy over an automobile fell hard and fast in love. I took a photo and sent it to Andy to confirm proper identification. He quickly discovered the official color was ‘Ice Blue’ and from that moment it was the only car I ever truly wanted. After some negotiating, and a generous loan from my parents, we were able to order my first car in over ten years.
This past weekend, we picked it up, decked out with some lime green stripes (‘Iguana Green’ if we’re going for technical accuracy). Thanks to Andy, it was outfitted with some chrome, a set of fancier wheels, and a Harman Kardon stereo that plays Madonna in the manner to which she should be accustomed. We had decided on the Clubman for its extended space, and it still manages to clock in at 22 inches shorter than the Blazin’ Blue Boy Racer (Mazda) that had served me so well. I think Andy misses that car more than I do, but the Ice Blue Show Queen is all that matters now.
As we sat at the dealer signing papers, Andy smiled. “It’s a cult,” he said, as another couple sat down to begin their consultation. I glanced through the reading material at hand and searched for any murder/suicide pact or a poisonous Kool Aid recipe that might give any indication of cult-status, but found none.
Our excellent salesman Ron went through the features and a basic how-to of the car (mood lighting in every color of the rainbow!) and then we were off. For the first time, I found myself excited to be behind the wheel of a car. Usually I’m content to let Andy or anyone else drive, but this car, in its color and design, was only for me.
The next day I experienced another first: I was looking forward to driving in it, just for the sake of driving. I’d often shaken my head in disbelief at those who would waste precious time driving around aimlessly, to no purpose. Now, suddenly, I found myself doing the same. The ultimate lesson in the journey being the destination.
Though it’s too soon to say whether I’ll be a complete car convert, I did find myself noticing other automobiles for the first time – their design, their accessories, their tires. I took pride in the vehicle I was driving, suddenly careful not to park under any bird-crapping trees or wires and avoiding tight parking spaces where I might get dinged. It was, in its way, like having a kid after all, and as most parents would claim, mine is the prettiest girl in the world.
Yes, I have tasted the Kool Aid… and it tastes good.
Commonly called “Creeping Jenny†this is Lysimachia nummularia. A groundcover or hanging plant often used as a trailing bit of vertical power in mixed pots, it’s also a perennial, which I discovered haphazardly a few years ago. Though this specimen covers the ground beneath a weeping cherry, it originated in one of our potted plantings. It trailed low enough to the ground to take a foot hold and send down roots into the neighboring soil, resulting in an unplanned but not unwelcome patch of chartreuse green. Happy accidents like that are some of the best parts of gardening.
Another unexpected surprise was when it started flowering. Accustomed to its foliage only, I did not expect the sunny yellow blooms that highlighted the bright leaves. I’m guessing that only when left to run freely in soil do the blooms materialize – further proof that when you give plants what they want (freedom and good soil in this instance) they perform far better than when confined to pots or other unnatural conditions.
When people really matter to me, I tend to not make a big deal of them, holding them closer to my heart, and much more quietly. I can make a big hubbub and stink about those who don’t matter, but the ones that do I trust to know enough and not feel slighted. Andy and I have that sort of relationship. It’s not a big bombastic in-your-face show, because it means more than hype and hoopla to us. However, he does have his own category on this site, and I’ve referenced him hundreds of times because he’s a main part of my life, even if I don’t always make a fuss.
Within his category are  number of stories that I’ve written and posted over the years. From the obtaining of a wedding license to a rumination on all that’s happened since the day we met ~ from the wedding ceremony to what being married might really mean ~ from ensuing anniversaries to birthdays in Maine, it’s been a wild and wonderful ride. Here’s to us.
Today marks the day when I met Andy for the first time, fourteen years ago. I’ve recounted that enchanted evening in the past, so I won’t reiterate, but it merits repeating that he is the foundation of my world. I thought about it again as I woke from a nightmare the other morning. Like most nightmares, this one was indistinct and confusing, but the one constant was fear. Someone was trying to break into our home, I think, and I went around attempting to determine where the assailant was entering. I couldn’t find any evidence of a break-in, and then a new dreadful possibility settled in: the person was already in the house. I froze, then began frantically searching for Andy, trying to warn him and tell him to leave. At that point I woke up, in a panicked state, feeling around in the dark. It took a moment – one of those terrifying moments where reality hesitated to return, and the dark nightmare lingered a little longer – but then I felt Andy next to me. I was safely in bed, next to my husband. The same relief I’ve felt after awakening from every nightmare washed over me. My breathing slowed. Beside me, Andy’s breathing was steady, calm. (And just to reassure myself, I woke him gently and asked that he check all the locks the next day.)
That’s what Andy has always been to me: safety and sanctuary. At my darkest moments of despair, when I’m feeling most alone and frightened, he is there, and in that refuge there is love. It’s the one thing that has sustained me over the years – and that love is the thing that has sustained us. Every relationship has its trials and tribulations, and with someone like myself they can be dramatic and difficult, but credit must be given to having withstood the rockier times, and hanging in long enough to establish a deeper resonance, one that grows and feeds itself.
It’s rare to find such a good man, and though I don’t often show it, I’ve come to realize how fortunate I am to have Andy in my life. There aren’t many people I can so completely and wholly trust. There aren’t many people who would so fiercely protect and care for me. There aren’t many people who would so love me. I’m a very lucky guy.
Happy Anniversary, Drew.
Some days, especially hot ones, should require no more than a quick glance at the computer screen. I’ll make it easy for you – and for me – and just supply this summery Enya song. It was used in an Iced Tea commercial I think, and Iced Tea always reminds me of summer days spent in air-conditioned quiet, watching the NBC soap operas and lazily waiting for the night to come.
Our anniversary snuck up on us this year, so I barely have time to make a last-minute gift idea, but if my husband is reading this I’d like to direct his attention to a reasonable request found in the local Sephora. This is ‘L’Eau d’ Issey Pour Homme Yuzu’ by Issey Miyake. About a third the price of a Tom Ford Private Blend, this is more in keeping with our budget these days, and more in line with an anniversary that falls in a quieter way.
I tried it on a few weeks ago, and was going to pick up a bottle when I was in Boston last, but the Prudential Center Sephora was sold out of it. I’m not saying that folks in Boston have better taste than those in the Capital District, but Colonie Center still has it in supply. Just saying.
As for its scent, this one owes its origins and opening notes to the yuzu – an Asian citrus that formed the basis of a summer party we threw a couple of years ago. It’s the perfect accompaniment for a summer that’s still fresh.
Let the temperatures soar and the recap begin! We’re gearing up for some summer traditions – such as our anniversary this week – and some new twists as well, like my new baby (news and pics of that coming shortly). In the meantime, a look back at an average, and therefore perfect, week in mid-summer.
A reunion with my pal Kira made for a fine weekend in Boston, highlighted by her very first performance of ‘The Phantom of the Opera’ (whose reinvention was reason alone for me to attend too.)
As had happened with George Michael, Ricky Martin, and Anderson Cooper, I was the last one to believe that Ian Thorpe was gay (and, quite frankly, I’d never even heard those rumors.) Well, it turned out he was playing for my team all this time, and recently came out, so he was honored with the ultimate glory – a crowning as Hunk of the Day.
The unheralded yet stalwart hosta was a reminder that consistent perfection is rarely if ever honored.
My turn as a spandex-bound gay disco hero, which is all I’ve ever wanted to be.
Grilling something that apparently serves as a home under the sea.
The Madonna Timeline will be back, and until then we wait in joyful suspense.
The Hunks were hotter than ever, thanks to the likes of Todd Finlay (who is one of the three colorfully-clad SPeedo guys in the featured pics here), current touring Phantom Cooper Grodin, writer J.W. Harvey, and male models Sung Jin Park, Bryan Thomas, and Andre Hamann.
One more naked Michael Phelps shot.
Finally, how’s this for homoerotic: Zac Efron and Bear Grylls, going down together. Literally – and on video.
As if getting naked here a few days ago wasn’t enough, here is one more gratuitous shot of Michael Phelps nude. It’s a lazy summer Sunday, so take a look-see at when Mr. Phelps went bulge-to-bulge with Ryan Lochte, or took a shower in his Speedo, or just removed his clothes and got naked altogether. God save the Olympian.
As if doffing his shirt and riding a majestic steed through water wasn’t fantasy-island enough, here we have Zac Efron getting his shirt off with Bear Grylls, and repelling down a cliff to get even wetter. Say what you may about Mr. Efron, he knows his freaking audience. Horses, water, shirtless Bears… oh my.
And just to make things easier for you, here is a naked Zac Efron, and a naked Bear Grylls. Double your pleasure, double your fun.
It is a moment pregnant with possibility. She stands on the precipice of something great, and almost every time this has happened in the past (and there have been many such times), she’s jumped off and soared. That anticipation is in the air again, but still I find myself wanting something more. She is, after all, Madonna.
Despite playing on Instagram and teasing bits of what may musically come, she’s been largely quiet of late. A pristinely-photo-shopped romp with Katy Perry on the cover of a magazine gave fans a slight bone, but we’re salivating for more. Traditionally she averages about two years between albums, bridged with soundtracks and other projects, so we’re almost due for a new one – the first since 2012’s powerful if slightly-unappreciated ‘MDNA’. That colorful record was a driving, if at times dark, exercise in exorcism, dwelling on her divorce (‘Love Spent‘, ‘Gang Bang‘) and balanced by fluffier fare (‘Girl Gone Wild‘, ‘Gimme All Your Luvin‘, ‘Turn Up the Radio‘) but it wasn’t the miraculous pop moment she’s conjured in the past (‘Ray of Light‘, ‘Like A Prayer‘). The world awaits a proper return to form, but this world is drastically different from the world in which she rose to prominence three decades ago. Can she still cut it? Yes, but only if she goes back to her roots.
For the past several years, Madonna has, quite shockingly to some of us, kept largely to the same hairstyle. While this may seem trivial and off-focus, I bring it up because it’s a key feature to her career, and the point of this post. “Everyone always says, ‘Oh, she reinvented herself,’ but the thing is, I just get a new haircut every year, which everyone should do,” she once said. This was powerful, even if you think it’s frivolous. When was the last time you got a new haircut? Not any haircut – not the one you usually get, not the one your stylist lovingly knows so well – but a brand new color, a brand new length, a brand new look. I’m guessing most of us haven’t done that in years – if ever. Madonna used to do that with charming regularity, and drastically different results each time. It was a part of her success, and part of the unexpected thrill we got when each new image morphed into the Madonna canon.
Yet since 2005’s ‘Confessions on a Dancefloor’, she’s kept mostly to the reddish-blonde soft-frame of curls she still sports – it’s the look she wore for her H&M ads, the Reinvention/Confessions/Sticky and Sweet tours, and her impressive appearance at the Superbowl. It works for her, but to me it’s starting to feel, dare I say it, stagnant. That’s the one thing Madonna is not. Shape-shifting, jumping, and executing hairpin turns at a breakneck pace, she has never stood still or waited for very long. But her reliance on the tried and true, as well as her work with of-the-moment hit-makers, points to a recent tendency to play it safe.
What I want from Madonna is for her to go back to the beginning – to go back to being brave. I want her to age with dignity and defiance. I want the perennial ‘Fuck you’ attitude to re-surface and carry her into maturity in a way that once again redefines and challenges the ways in which society has slowly and predictably been trying to trap her. She falls prey to that with every round of face-filler, with every photo-shopped worry-line. Rather than skirting those issues or chasing the elusive quest for eternal youth (and there’s a good chance that some of us worry about that more than Madonna does), she would be the best one to champion a graceful yet empowering way of aging.
I’m not saying she needs to tone anything down – if anything, I’m suggesting the opposite. And in simply continuing to do what she does, she’s already, in a sense, defied a bunch of rules. Though the rebel in me secretly hopes for an earth-rattling ‘Sex‘ or ‘American Life‘ moment that pisses off more people than it pleases, she’s probably wise not to go for simple shock value. There have been delicious glimpses of it – her nipple-baring antics and butt-cheek peep-shows, which excited and thrilled even this staunchly gay character – and she still gets pages of press for something as small and silly as popping in a set of gold grillz. But I want her, more than anything, to be real. That was the real power of Madonna in my formative years. She glammed it up as her fame and money increased, but you always got the sense – and the photos to prove it – that she was willing to get down and sweaty on the dance floor with the gay boys. She didn’t isolate herself from humanity, she reveled in it, taking it in and transforming it into something else, something more.
In the writing of this, I’ve once again confirmed her power. She is more than pop star or show-off, she is a mistress of mirrors, reflecting back whatever ailments, shortcomings, failings, powers, magics, darkness, and light we each project. Madonna has, strangely, not always been about Madonna, but about what we think about Madonna, what Madonna makes us feel. It’s the key, and often-overlooked, component in why she remains such a fascinating creature, and why she will continue to remain so.
If her long and storied past is proof of anything, it’s that we should never count her out. In fact, such moments of doubt and wonder usually portend something miraculous in the offing. After thirty years, we know her better than she thinks we do. (And when she proves us wrong – again – it will be even better.)
Pineapple. Grilled pineapple. A few years ago it would have been unthinkable, but having finally come around to the beauty and deliciousness of properly grilled foods, I’m a convert, and a grilling fiend. If it can be eaten, it can be grilled. (We’ve even done an excellent grilled cabbage – a whole head cut into wedges and coated in butter, salt and pepper – that fell apart in the mouth and tantalized in a way that no other method of preparation could have produced.)
In this instance, we have a few rings of pineapple, seared for the sweet finale following a grilled dinner of chicken, until the caramelization has begun, and the fruit has slightly broken down, leaving a soft and juicy body with only the merest accents of smokiness. It was heavenly, and the perfect ending to a grilled meal, when I’m often puzzled as to a seamless conclusion (grilled ice cream has proven impossible.)
What is it about homos and superheroes? Ever since I was a young boy, I’ve had an affinity to them. Granted, at first it was Wonder Woman, but I was also enchanted by Spiderman and Batman. It’s not just me – many gay guys and gals are enamored of those with special powers. Like the mutants of the X-Men, we have long been outsiders. Those who are different, even in ways not always outwardly seen, often have a bigger cross to bear, and perhaps we recognize in others who struggle with such difference a resonant thread of loneliness.
It wasn’t just about their bulging biceps, bulging thighs, or bulging, well, bulges, but their double identities: Batman was Bruce Wayne, Superman was Clark Kent, Spiderman was Peter Parker, and Wonder Woman was Diana Prince. They were normal working-class people except for when the situation called for something more.
In many ways, being gay is both boon and albatross. It hinders in some aspects, in its isolating way of separating us from heterosexuals – while helping in others, in the way it makes us stronger. We’re good at going to battle, and winning, because we’ve had no other choice. When you’re consistently attacked or others have tried to repeatedly make you feel less than equal, you buck up and develop whatever special powers you can, or you die. Straight people simply don’t have the same kind of struggles. (They have different ones, of course, but they don’t usually know what it’s like to walk into a room and feel like the odd man, or woman, out.)
Some of the unlikely art that managed to disguise its homoerotic undertones while putting it right in the hands of teenage boys, was to be found in superhero comic books. One such illustrator of said work is J.C. Etheredge, an artist whose virtues I extolled in this essay, and who continues to produce artwork that straddles the line between art and commerce, popularity and pornography. His focus on Superheroes has resulted in superb work, and some might say a healthy dose of magic (based on how he can make even a scrawny guy like me look big and buff and built). Etheredge understands what it’s like to be an outsider, and what it means to be different, but rather than run from it or hide, he’s put it all out there. That’s a special kind of superpower: the ability to so completely be yourself – and it’s something that eludes most of us, gay or straight or choose-your-own-adventure.
PS – I’ve achieved Cheesecake Boy status before, but I’ve never been a Superhero… until now. Thanks J.C.!
It is decidedly uncool among certain snobby circles to salivate over anything by Andrew Lloyd Webber. Over the years, I fell prey to this tendency (perhaps it was the soundtrack playing incessantly over the sound system of The Venetian in Las Vegas) but upon revisiting the reinvented touring version of ‘The Phantom of the Opera’, I’ve come around again to the music of the night. Perhaps it is the pop-opera aspirations (mostly met) of Sir Andrew’s orchestrations, or the reinvigorated energy of this new production, but as I sat in the front row of the Boston Opera House and watched the dark gorgeousness unfold again, I realized why this is the longest-running show in Broadway history.
This revamping wisely does not mess with the music, though it changes up the classic staging in ways that largely work for a touring show. What it loses on the epic scale (the endless set of steps of the original staging of ‘Masquerade’ or the expansive candlelit lake that rose out of the ground for the title track) it makes up for in intimate grandeur – an ingenious set of stairs that leads down to the Phantom’s lair and the jewel box design of interior rooms and backstage vignettes. While there are pyrotechnics and spectacular costumes, along with enough smoke to obscure the orchestra’s sheet music, it is the energy and vigor of the performers that keeps this Phantom so fresh.
The three leads are powerfully adept at helping this new production, which manages to deliver the over-the-top drama with moments of genuine wonder and tenderness. Julia Udine is the soaring soprano who brings Christine Daae to fragile yet steely life. Her voice is pristine, and she brings tremulous torment to the apex of the triangle grounded by a father-figure Phantom and childhood-love Raoul. The latter is played winningly by Ben Jacoby, with marquee handsomeness and equally-fine vocal prowess. Every production of the musical depends on the titular character, and Cooper Grodin as the Phantom lends the proper gravitas and fiery passion, tamed by a vulnerability that makes Christine’s dilemma believable. Mr. Grodin channels echoes of Lou Chaney in posture and menace, giving his portrayal a darker edge, and adding layers of complexity to a fascinatingly flawed creature.
With a solid supporting cast, this reborn Phantom is worth another look. As the chandelier rose above us, I was reminded of the first time I saw the show – the enchantment, the magic, and the promise of a journey to another world. That’s been forgotten a bit in this cynical age, and it’s easy to dismiss such histrionics as a singing masked man. Yet the heart of the angel of music still beats, and, if you allow yourself, it’s still possible to be swept away in the romance and the mystery of the Phantom.
