“It was not as if I was not myself – oh no, I was myself, I was my other self, the self that wishes to carry on a secret dialogue with all that is evil in human nature. Some men do not struggle with this in themselves. They seem to have a certain grace. They are happy – or rather, they are content. They swing tennis rackets in the sunlight and get the oil checked regularly and laugh when the audience laughs. They accept limits. They are not interested in what might come up from the dark, cold hole of human possibility.” – Colin Harrison

There comes a time in every troubled or unloved boy’s life when he is faced with the choice to become the hero or the villain of his story. It actually happens quite a few times, and such junctures will haunt him throughout his journey into adulthood. They’re not always presented as binary and simple choices, and they rarely result in one final decision that veers him irrevocably into good or evil – instead, they are small and little choices along the path of growing up and then living in the world.  If the boy has had a few people who were there at pivotal moments to support him when he needed it most, if he’s known unconditional love and been made to feel like he belonged, he stands a chance at endeavoring upon the hero route. 

If there have been moments when he’s found himself alone or without support, if he has made himself different or other to a point where those who were supposed to love him hesitate or pause, or if he has been subject to moments where the bedrock of what should have been unwavering, unconditional love has shifted or cracked or otherwise revealed itself to be possibly transient, he may try out the role of villain. And if that role fits – if he might in fact be skilled at playing any role, perhaps – he may realize that the path of the villain is just the sort of misunderstood and maligned journey he was destined to make. 

This fall, after our coquette summer, the theme is fade-to-black, as much a frame of my current state of mind as it is a chic and fashionable option for the cooler season. Tom Ford has just released ‘Black Lacquer’, the Rolling Stones are singing ‘Paint It Black’, and this blog is about to descend into the sort of darkness I’ve protected its readers from in an effort to make things prettier than they ever were. Play our opening theme song below and settle in for how I am setting the scene…

Sometimes, its takes almost half a century before some of us recognize and make sudden sense of the patterns and repeated offenses that have occurred – especially if they have happened within one’s own family. Part of it is because you don’t want to believe it, that your own family would ever do such things, and sometimes you are able to see the patterns, and the traps that everyone has fallen into, and it’s not too late to find ways of forgiveness. Sometimes, you’re just too tired to forgive, too exhausted to care, or you understand that it will be this way forever and there really is no point in fighting it anymore. 

This fall, I have no idea what’s going to come up here on this blog. I know I need to share some things that I’ve been holding back for fear it may hurt or upset some people, and if that turns me into a villain, so be it. I’ve felt alone my entire life, and at key moments when I’ve needed people to be there they haven’t been. That might all be in my head, and the only way to make that determination is to put it all out there. Well, here. 

That may likely vilify me, and though that has happened countless times in the past, it’s never been something that I have welcomed or wanted, but in the way the universe sometimes works, that which we fight is that which we ultimately become. 

“In my experience, men and women who have a kind of brutal fortitude have been made that by a sequence of events, until the person passes beyond a point of no return. They learn that life requires the ability to coldly stand pain of one kind or another… They will do what is necessary to survive; they will conceal and protect their vulnerabilities, except from those who cannot hurt them. Above all, they will press their advantage when it presents itself.” ~ Colin Harrison

Being the villain is actually quite a freeing role. It not only rids one of great, or just basically decent, expectations, it also removes any pesky sense of a morale compass, which far too often only seeks to slow or hinder the difficult decisions we must make on any given day. When you’re the villain, you have nothing left to lose, so the terror of losing nonsense such as being well-liked or loved is automatically removed. There is only one thing that usually scares a villain: loneliness. It’s the one secret they don’t want getting out. A villain does not exist if there isn’t someone more virtuous beside whom to stand. More importantly, a villain is nothing without a victim. And so, the biggest fear of most villains is the loneliness that might leave them without purpose or patrol. 

That makes this current state of mind, and everything I’m about to write on this blog for the fall season, doubly diabolical, in that there’s only one thing that has never scared me: loneliness. A villain unafraid to be alone is a villain without redemption. Perhaps it’s been beaten out of him over the years, perhaps they’ve been slowly inflicted in complicated and complex patterns that it takes a lifetime to figure out, or perhaps the simple drudgery of living in a world where the only constant is pain – dull or sharp but always there, never fully eradicated – is finally enough to push him into such a villainous turn. 

A warning before we begin: this fall it may appear that I’m throwing one big tantrum on this blog. I’m aware that most people think I throw tantrums all the time, but if you really think about it, that’s not at all true. When a tantrum is the result of years of debilitating family patterns finally coming to light in a way only afforded by time and distance and the repetition of said patterns, it’s not so much a tantrum as a reckoning – and most reckonings happen only when they are absolutely necessary. For my own mental state, for my own emotional well-being, and for the sake of simply telling the truth honestly and openly to free my own guilt and shame, this looks to be a difficult fall.

Yet in such an acknowledgment, and in such freedom as being the villain so wondrously affords, there may be a way out – the only way out – and if we walk through the woods together we may discover that escape. 

I’m not promising that. As the world slips and tips ever deeper into madness, maybe being the villain is the safest way to make it through the wilderness. I’ll do what I need to do to protect my heart. If I’ve learned anything in the past few years, it’s that nothing is stable. Nothing is forever. And sometimes letting go is the only way not to lose yourself. 

“I thought I recognized in him a certain kind of man, a man who is damaged and yet unflinching. I’ve met a few. Because he has taken pain, such a man knows he can take more. In fact, he expects it; suffering, so far as he sees, is in the order of things, the logic of the universe. Usually such men are hard, even self-punishing workers, capable of long periods of isolation or aloneness, and suffer bouts of crippling melancholy. They refuse to take antidepressants, they refuse to talk too much; instead they wait and wait, with the patience of a cat, for the mood to turn. They drink coffee alone in the morning, they smoke cigarettes on the porch… Such men believe in luck, they watch for signs, and they conduct private rituals that structure their despair and mark their waiting. They are relatively easy to recognize but hard to know, especially during the years when a man is most dangerous to himself, which begins at about age thirty-five, when he starts to tally his losses as well as his wins, and ends at about fifty, when, if he has not destroyed himself, he has learned that the force of time is better caught softly, and in small pieces. Between those points, however, he’d better watch out, better guard against the dangerous journey that beckons to him – the siege, the quest, the grandiosity, the dream. Yes, let me say it again. Quiet men with dreams can be dangerous.” ~ Colin Harrison 

Summer is dead.

Summer is over.

Summer is gone.

“I have done nothing all summer but wait for myself to be myself again.” ~ Georgia O’Keeffe

Reinvigorating this blog with an inspired summer theme, the sunny season revolved around everything coquette. With its palette of soft pinks, visions of delicate lace, and sumptuous sweets of cherries and strawberries, the coquette summer was a charming excuse to indulge in frills and frivolity  following the heartache of last year. And in true coquette fashion, there was an underlying thread of golden melancholy that ran through even the prettiest of days… cue the music by Laufey –  a nocturne of ‘Bewitched’ beauty, echoing the moment it all began.

We started things extra early, because no one wanted to wait for summer to arrive. On June 1st, the coquette theme was revealed, and this site donned pink gingham and lace, while dreamy and moody music filled the lazy air. My first Stevie Nicks concert was so amazing, I promptly got tickets for a second show. (More from Stevie to come this fall.)

The muted color palette of a wildflower patch. Meanwhile, the gentle soundtrack of coquette music sounded like wind chimes in the distance. There were saucy moments too (just wait for the Olympic bulge links coming up) and first up is Orville Peck naked. (If you didn’t quite get enough, click on this pretty echo.)

And still there was melancholy, the way summer works its overheated restlessness on the soul. My heart was still broken, and when you lose your Dad it’s not a break that ever quite heals. 

Life steps in to laugh at you when you veer into too much seriousness, and to that end I got my first colonoscopy. Spoiler alert: I fucking loved it. Well, I loved those drugs they gave me to go into sedation. And when all was said and done, my pink starfish was like brand new. That was all before summer even officially began. 

Summer wouldn’t be summer without a few pool dips, and they were absolutely heavenly. Even the occasional rainy day didn’t dampen the power of the season – or the power of coquette.

Tom Daley hinted at the impending arrival of the Summer Olympics, and did it all in a Speedo. 

Summer Sunsetz.

Summer stranger.

Summer candy.

Summer music.

“And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer.” ~ F. Scott Fitzgerald

July dawned as summer climbed to its glorious apex. There was no beach vacation sadly, so we found solace by the pool. A few shirtless male celebrities worked their pectoral magic. Still, summer burned with its coquette charm. All the while, my give-a-fucks were on vacation. 

Summer was sometimes about the night.

Summer was sometimes without a shirt.

Summer was sometimes meditative.

Summer was sometimes sweetly-scented.

Summer was never this boy.

My friends Ann and Missy stopped by for a summertime reunion – and it was the best kind of reunion. Meanwhile, my Godson Jaxon turned two. And Andy and I celebrated our 24th year together. 

By the end of July, the Paris Olympic Games arrived, with ample bulges in tow. I gave in to the spirit and did my best to keep it kinky. 

Better than my aging naked ass were all the Olympians on display, including Léon Marchand, Aya Nakamura, Caeleb Dressel, Torri Huske, Jules Bouyer, Carlos Alcaraz, Anthony Harding, Stephen Nedoroscik, Carlos Yulo, Anthony Ammirati, Rhys McClenaghan, Bobby Finke, Noah Lyles, Mondo Duplantis, Rebeca Andrade, Gabby Thomas, Cole Hocker, Jack Laugher, Asher Hong and Paul Juda. At the end of it, Tom Daley retired, and Bob the Cap Catcher was crowned Dazzler of the Day. 

Floral visitors brought some sort of message, a sweet scent by Creed brought fragrant coolness, and then July ended. But not before the final summer playlist dropped. 

Summer brought sharp memories of a year ago, and the room where my father died was not as much haunted as it was a lonely comfort. Finding the beauty and grace in loss is a lesson that I’ll likely be learning for the rest of whatever remains of my own life. 

The coquette summer continued…

A poignant summer fragrance memory courtesy of Tom Ford’s ‘Azure Lime’. 

When the morning glories began their late season bloom the blush was definitely off the rose. Chip agreed.

The Paris Olympics concluded, and it was pretty much a tale of two penises. 

Our BroSox Adventure took place in August, and despite a torrential, hurricane-induced ride into Boston, Skip and I had another banner baseball game, even if the Red Sox lost. 

The demure and mindful coquette.

The coquette cradle song. 

The pink pony club.

The coquette birthday on the cusp.

Feeling all of 49.

Boston birthday love.

“September tries its best to have us forget summer.” ~ Bern Williams

September swimming in a cherry-popping suit.

Keep on coquetting.

The battle of pink and green.

A hanging rope of pearls.

Coquette Madonna.

Golden September.

Dad’s second heavenly birthday.

Keep calm and coquette on – Part One.

Keep calm and coquette on – Part Two.

Preparing the way for the moon and the harvest.

Nakedly harnessing the energy of the Harvest Supermoon amid a lunar eclipse.

A plaid pink Speedo.

And so does summer end, with the panache of pink plaid, and a running undercurrent of sadness – the perfect personification of a coquette moment. Best of times, worst of times, and all of it leading up to the arrival of fall tomorrow. Ready or not, here it comes.

“What good is the warmth of summer, without the cold of winter to give it sweetness?”  ~ John Steinbeck

Perhaps this closing attire for the summer of 2024 isn’t quite as demure as recent catchphrases would beg for it to be, but it’s a fitting final wardrobe for another summer of the speedo, which was celebrated in banging fashion at this year’s Olympic Games. All of that is to come with tomorrow’s summer recap, so this is just a holding place until then, where one can wade in the still-warm water of a pool that didn’t get used as much as it deserved. Some summers start out gloriously, then ripen into something darker and heavier than what might have originally been planned. Such was the case this year, but I’m getting ahead of myself, and the purpose of this post is to pause, take in the pool, and squeeze into this silly pink plaid speedo one more time – it is, after all, our coquette summer. (Stick with me, it comes off in the end…)

I’ll save the nostalgic look-back for tomorrow’s big post – for now, let’s have a moment in the water, as the sweetly-perfumed blossoms from the seven sons’ flower tree fall charmingly into the pool – an echo of the pale pink petals of the flowering cherry that greeted the season back when it all began. It feels long ago, the way summer can be a lifetime if you know how to manage it and make it matter. I’m not sure I did that, but I’m worn down and worn out by everything this last month or so has brought, and in the words of a vapid weirdo wife, I really don’t care, do u?

What summer wrought, fall will reckon, and while there may not be any Speedo-clad clickbait – this skimpy attire not being quite conducive for autumn weather in the Capital Region – there will be secrets spilled, and things are going to get so messy you’ll want to revisit just to see how well, or unwell, I try to hang onto my sanity. I’ve given myself leeway to go a little crazy this fall, because when you’re on the cusp of 50, you’ve earned it. You also find yourself entirely out of fucks to give, and there is such glee in that it will make up for whatever other horrors may, and likely will, transpire here. 

Well, I failed in having that promised pool moment, and have instead delve into an unplanned fall preview of what’s to come. Maybe it’s for the best – the sooner we begin, the sooner it will be over. Come back for one more day of summer, and then get ready to go dark… 

Did you ever feel possessed by something so beyond your control that you found yourself simply going through motions like a puppet? On the night of the full Harvest Supermoon, just as the lunar eclipse was about to begin, I was writing a few blog posts in the attic – this being one of them – when I remembered the astrological event that was ensuing. Wearing a short white robe, and nothing else, I found myself walking past Andy into the backyard to see if I could see the moon.

Over the house, I spied her nestled in the boughs of a pine tree. She would be more visible from the front yard, so I went back inside and walked through the living room, unlocking the front door and quietly stepping outside. 

Above the trees, she shone in radiant form, picking up the haze of the night and putting forth a glow that lit the entire sky. Entranced, I stole a few grainy pictures with my phone, then rushed back inside. I paused there, and again the only word I can think of to describe my state of mind – which was really less a state and more a complete absence of any state of mind whatsoever – was ‘possessed’ – not demonically, not maniacally, not whimsically – simply possessed by some spirit or entity that was not myself. I write this now fully aware of what I had done, but at the moment I don’t recall knowing what I was doing.

Setting the phone down on the dining room table, I slowly turned around and went back to the front door, unlocking it again. The night chirped with the music of crickets and frogs, and the moon hovered over all, casting its wondrous light on the front yard. My eyes adjusted to the dim setting, while the moon’s light seemed to grow stronger. I untied the robe from around my waist and hung it on the front door handle, then walked into the moonlight completely naked. Turning around and letting it bathe all of me, I caught a glimpse of my shadow thrown upon the house. I watched to see if it would do anything that I was not doing, but it would not be tricked into revealing whether it was indeed separate from my own self, and I was content merely to let it remind me that I was still here. 

I cannot say what happened to me in those moments of nakedness beneath the full Harvest moon. Obviously, or not so obviously perhaps, I didn’t turn into a werewolf. I felt no immediate change or alteration of what I had always felt myself to be, though there was an energy and vague sense of electricity in the air when I stood there; that could have largely been imagined – the mind leading the body. But I do feel slightly different, like I’ve just crossed an abstract line of demarcation that separates what was from what will be. That too could be imagined, as well as it being any given moment on any given day. Still, that Harvest moon comes but once a year, and maybe whatever I might have harnessed or harvested will be revealed in the months to come. 

For now, I watch the minute hand of the clock, and I can see it moving, as if time is suddenly speeding up, as if it wasn’t going fast enough already…

Drops of dew dot these wildflowers at the tail-end of summer. Nights and mornings are just starting to feel a bit like fall. Not mad about it. Not thrilled about it either. The general mood of ennui at this particular moment. Desperately seeking inspiration. 

Whispers of the full Harvest Supermoon had grown over the days leading up to it. I actually avoided much of the talk until the insanity of work and the idiocy of the drivers on the road made me wonder whether something was astrologically afoot, at which point I asked Andy and he confirmed that a supermoon was on the way. 

I’ve never done well with super moons. They’ve resulted in some vicious arguments, some semi-intentional accidents, and some dastardly set-backs over the years. Only recently have I begun to embrace them, turning that lunar insanity from chaotic lunacy into focused moon energy, trying to harness the power and the pull of our nearest heavenly body. Tonight’s blog post will reveal how I literally did that.

For now, these blurry shots of the moon were taken the night before it went full and super and eclipsed. There is often magic and madness in the lead-up and lead-out of a full moon moment. Such energy is too great to be contained in a single night, and the universe doesn’t like to put too fine a point on such things.  Come back tonight to see how the actual Harvest Moon played out…

Clouds gather in the sky between Vermont and New York – a visually-arresting crux affording only a glimpse of the blue sky that spread across most of the day. Troubling clouds, perhaps, more for the spirit than any following rain – for the rain stays away. The sunlight seems to be drawing it up into the sky, and still nothing comes of it. Tease. Portending preview. Harbinger of hell…

A certain femininergy is coming to the blog this fall, as we look to right the world with the hope of women, because men seem to do most of the fucking up these past few centuries. To that end, look for a celebration of the female here, and a celebration of everything divine. That began in no small way with my friend Suzie who was kind enough to drive me out to Vermont for this rollercoaster of a day trip. She reminded me of the difficult balancing act of being a mother. That’s never been lost on me, as complicated as things may occasionally be. Yet let us also remember the words of Leo Tolstoy in the epic ‘Anna Karenina’: “Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.”

I would go further to say that every family has their secrets, even and especially the happy ones.

But that’s all for fall – we are still in the throes of the final days of summer, so we take it all with a laugh and lilt and a humorous peek at some of the ladies we happened across during our day in Vermont. A little spooky, a little kooky, and maybe just a little bit coquette. Summer exits with dramatic flair and ghostly sighs. 

It was slated to be our pre-fall pow-wow to welcome the upcoming season, but summer decided to stick around in full-sun force, so our recent day-trip to Vermont turned into a celebration of this last week of the sunny season. A simple folding fan in my hand was enough as Suzie was kind enough to drive us into Manchester, where we’ve started a little fall/almost-fall tradition of a Vermont day-trip get-away. Both of us seemed to be in need of escapism, and so we made our way over the rolling hills of New York and into the instantly-more-picturesque environs of Vermont. 

We got some serious family talk out of the way first – Suzie is always a safe sounding board, and she knows me and my family better than just about anyone. She also just sent her first-born off to college and had her own stories to tell; there’s no better way to get through a moment of melancholy than with an old friend. We’ve been doing this for decades, and it’s one of life’s greatest comforts. 

We made our usual stops at favored haunts, pausing for a lunch of crab toast and pizza before finding our way to an ice cream store that had the best thing we have tasted in years: the maple creamee. It’s a soft-serve version of a twist on maple syrup ice cream. I should have prefaced this proclamation with the fact that I don’t typically like maple candy – it’s usually too sweet for me – but for whatever reason this hit us as incredibly delicious. I’d even gone the extra step of ordering mine in a root beer float, completely at odds with someone who doesn’t like things too sweet – and yet this was insanely good. We are going back this fall just to eat it again. 

Stuffed with all the sweet goodness Vermont had to offer – forget warm apple cider on a day soaring into the 80’s – we packed it back in the car and made our winding way back home. It wasn’t the quaint entry into fall I’d originally planned and anticipated – it was instead a hot and happy ending of summer, the way life can sometimes reward us when we let our stubborn notions go and follow its gentle guidance. 

Procured from the internet:

Dear people who type in all lowercase,

We are the difference between helping your Uncle Jack off a horse and helping your uncle jack off a horse. 

Sincerely,

Capital Letters