Matthew Rettenmund has been featured here before, but it’s good to give people a reminder of those websites that continue to produce impeccable and substantial content, because I know how difficult that can be. Rettenmund has been sharing his witty take on the world since 2005, and continues to be an entertaining bright spot amid this online world of awfulness. Check out ‘Boy Culture’ here.

Boy Culture was born on November 6, 2005, out of a desire to say something mean about a pushy journalist its founder, editor and author Matthew Rettenmund, had encountered at a Blondie concert. Since then, Boy Culture has grown to become an influential blog covering celebrity, gay issues, music, film, theater, beautiful men, humor and politics.

Wary and suspect, I’m still unaccustomed to celebrating a full moon and attempting to harness its powers rather than cower from it and hide away until it’s passed. The most recent full moon – the Worm Moon, also known as the Lenten Moon – appeared last week, and came with its usual bit of tumult. Is there really an uptick in crazy-ass behavior during a full moon? In my experience, decidedly yes. But I can’t tell if the full moon came first, or whether in my mind I simply have it programmed that such events will occur when the moon is full, and therefore subconsciously manifest the madness into happening. 

Regardless of which it is, during a full moon I tend to be a little more careful, a little more mindful, and a little more accepting of the pratfalls that often accompany the lunar phenomenon. It’s an opportunity to practice one’s acceptance of imperfection, embracing the shit that a wayward day will throw in our way. 

Last week’s recap was all about being powerless, this week is all about pumping out at full power. It’s Full-Frontal Monday, as we recap the previous week in this April 1st post. While spring is officially here, it barely feels like it, and we’re set for more nasty weather in the next few days, so hunker down and revisit all that has come before…

It began with beautiful ice and danger.

Observation of the century: every poo-poo time is a pee-pee time, but not every pee-pee time is a poo-poo time.

When friends write a blog post.

Castles aren’t fun to live in.

Three days of powerless bliss.

In the harmonies of Wilson Phillips, “You won’t see me cry.”

A Good Friday in a baseball cap.

Sneezing while peeing.

Eliminating the fuzz and the buzz.

The Ilagan twins turn 14 years old.

Mindfulness matters.

Turning my traumatic Easter narrative on its head: he sits on my lap now.

The silly stuff of a child’s Easter.

The porcelain trappings of youth.

Dazzlers of the Day included Amelia Dimoldenberg, Theo James, Son Heung-Min, Scott Nevins, and Jared McCain.

Whenever I find myself thinking ill of someone, and it does happen as often as you may think, I imagine them at their most happy or joyous, and for some reason that resonant joy of being alive makes me feel more softly toward them, seeing them as a fellow human being and not an adversary. It usually works, even with the most heinous creatures who have done me wrong. This is a long-winded and overly-winding introduction to an old Easter decoration I loved as a child, which was one of those paper honeycomb creations that had a pale yellow Easter egg unfurl its three-dimensional tissue paper form surrounded by a playful bunny rabbit. That bunny’s expression was one of tenderness and joy, with slightly doleful eyes, and I fell instantly in love with the stupid thing, which soon became worn and ragged because I would bring it everywhere I went. 

One day around Easter I must have left it somewhere it wasn’t supposed to be as my Mom threw it out. I found it in the kitchen garbage in a frantic search after I discovered it missing. After fishing it out I ran to her with tears streaming down my face asking her why she would throw it out. Her reaction was befuddled confusion, she hadn’t known how much I loved the silly paper decoration, and I had never shared how much I adored it with anyone either. Somehow I understood then, and at such a young age, that love would prove difficult and problematic for someone who didn’t show it. 

An Easter memory that suddenly surfaced from the depths of what should likely be buried. ‘Tis the damn season!

Perhaps the only person living, dead, or resurrected who might come close to understanding my Easter time trauma is the Sweet Lord Jesus Himself. The rest of you simply take great pleasure and joy in revisiting the terrifying Easter Bunny photo shoot of me just about wetting my pants in fear of that woefully-underestimated sadist. I’ll include that favored photo below, but we open with a bit of comeuppance – a karmic twist that finds the bunny sitting on my lap now, and I’ve got no time for tulle. 

This reckoning has been a long time coming. Largely worked-out with this unexpected run-in with the furry guy himself in Boston over ten years ago, I did a few more exercises in exorcism in the ensuing decade. There was the time the twins acted as my bunny-buffer during a visit at Faddegon’s. This pair of Burberry briefs and a string of pearls went another step toward turning the bunny narrative on its cottontail. 

The most startling battle with the bunny of my mind began with this trip down the rabbit hole. It was during that Delusional Grandeur Tour when the remaining animal demons in my head wreaked their final havoc. Today, the same bunny from that shoot gets a softer go-round on my lap. After all, it’s Easter. 

Happy Easter to one and all – especially that mischievous bunny in each of us. 

Only when the power goes out does one truly hear and feel the difference modern technology has imprinted upon our senses. First and foremost, obviously, there is the question of light. Without electricity we are at the mercy of natural daylight, and when that goes, wow does it go. In the absence of the moon in the sky, the darkness is deep and impenetrable. Second, and perhaps more powerfully in this day and age of non-stop sensory overload, is the absence of noise. All television and music is instantly silenced – the difference of that alone is startling. More shocking is the absence of all the background fuzz and static – the running of the refrigerator or dishwasher or heating system – things that normally fade into the periphery, suddenly given new prominence in their noticeable absence. Even the barely-there humming of a problematic light or the never-before-noticed whirring of a humidifier make their disappearance felt. It is a profound and reverent silence, and one which I appreciated despite the annoyance of the recent power outage. 

Almost every room or space in which we find ourselves is rarely without all sources of sound. The absence of power illuminates a meditative opportunity, as the only noise eventually becomes your own breathing, or the creaking and crackling of your body, the brush of clothing or the footfalls as you walk from one silent room into another. It was a moment that begged for mindfulness, that practically demanded one stop and take notice of our suspended state. For that, I was grateful, and almost wished we could have half an hour every day of being without the usual distractions and noise. 

I’m strange that way. Most people get immediately and unbearably bothered by such silence and stillness. We are so accustomed to the noise and the stimulation. Embracing this quiet, I seek it out now that it has receded. In the reflection of a window during the recent storm, a group of candle flames looks as if it is emanating from the pine bough. You only hear the sound of a burning candle when it’s extra quiet, and it’s enchanting.