This is not over yet, but far from the rallying love cry of redemption and hope in Jason Robert Brown’s similarly titled 11th-hour number from ‘Parade’ (how reassuring to know I can still pull a relatively obscure musical reference out of my ass) this is more of a lament than anything else, as a storm threatens us once again. It matters not, and I mark the inevitable end of winter and ceaseless march of time with a quick time-lapse series of a single day in the snow. Let it also be accented with a quote by Marcus Aurelius:

Time is a sort of river of passing events, and strong is its current; no sooner is a thing brought to sight than it is swept by and another takes its place, and this too will be swept away.

Lines For Winter 
by Mark Strand

Tell yourself
as it gets cold and gray falls from the air
that you will go on
walking, hearing
the same tune no matter where
you find yourself –
inside the dome of dark
or under the cracking white
of the moon’s gaze in a valley of snow.
Tonight as it gets cold
tell yourself
what you know which is nothing
but the tune your bones play
as you keep going. And you will be able
for once to lie down under the small fire
of winter stars.
And if it happens that you cannot
go on or turn back and you find yourself
where you will be at the end,
tell yourself
in that final flowing of cold through your limbs
that you love what you are.

It looks like we may break into the 40’s this week, and I honestly don’t know how my body is going to react to such a tropical heatwave. I hope it doesn’t explode. This spring is going to be a riot of celebration, and a lot of work for my new project, but that’s all in the distance. For now, a closer look at the last week, before Madonna completely takes over the inter-ether.

She already showed up in this quick look back at her most compelling album thus far.

A classic Italian dish turns out better than expected, even if I still don’t love tying up the meat.

Douglas Williams is a Hunk who knows his way around the opera house.

My brother celebrated his birthday, inching ever closer to the 40-mark that I’ll hit this year.

Justin Leonard in all his splendor.

Dickhead/douchebag Daniel Murphy proved what a complete tool he is.

Straight ally and super-sexy rower Laurence Hulse sent pulses racing with his Hunk of the Day feature.

Ben Cohen took some of it off, and I mean hair.

Pardon me while I play the grand piano.

Watch the butter around this booty.

What kind of mood does Miles Davis Moody inspire in you? Personally, it would never fit.

A fun and enthralling romp of a read, ‘The Andy Cohen Diaries’ is just as wonderful as expected.

Two words: Greg Kelley. Click him up.

I want YOU.

A spectacular Special Guest Blog by my friend Joe. This is the shit I’m talking about.

Desperately Seeking Spring.

Ed Sheeran is technically a ginger, and now a Hunk of the Day.

Having already written the best-selling ‘Most Talkative’, Andy Cohen knows his way around book, and his latest literary venture is an enthralling, saucy, dishy good read. ‘The Andy Cohen Diaries’ takes its inspiration and namesake from another famous Andy ~ Mr. Warhol ~ and the result is a page-turning romp where names are named, Housewives are tamed, and Kevin Spacey is shamed.

An effervescent, light-hearted and admittedly shallow recounting of a year in his life, Cohen punctuates the proceedings with a surprisingly introspective look at fame, celebrity, and pop culture. He’s become a pop fixture in his own right, having propelled the Bravo network into a water-cooler topic with the ever-expansive Real Housewives’ shows and his own ‘Watch What Happens Live!’ which has injected new life into the rather tired late-night talk-show format. He remains, at heart, a pop culture fan, and that’s why his television show – and this book – work so wonderfully. His love for celebrities is authentic, and his excitement over getting to play with them is contagious and palpable.

The Warholian flourishes and fixation of all things famous, along with the endless name-dropping (the guy’s on a first-name basis with Madonna for fuck’s sake) seems like it would get dull after a while, but to Cohen’s credit (and the sly conversational skill with which the book is crafted) it never deteriorates into a one-note affair. The ebb and flow of a single year churns along, as Cohen alternately seeks and dismisses the quest for love, which arrives unexpectedly in the form of his dog Wacha. It may not be romantic, but love is love – and the relationship between dog and man is sweet and fully-realized here.

Cohen has managed to tame the fickle beast of fame by remaining grounded in some surprising ways. Rather than take the vain stab to the heart that a handsome but uninterested guy’s dismissal of him might produce in a needy freak like myself, he takes it all in stride and moves on to an evening with his pooch, largely unaffected. Those moments are the ones that work the best – the oddball side of charm and endearing vulnerability, coupled with a matter-of-fact stoner’s philosopher that life is still all good, for the most part.

Further stabilizing what could have been an exercise in self-obsession heavy on indulgent massaging (literally) is his core cast of characters – Kelly and Mark Consuelos, Anderson Cooper, Sarah Jessica Parker, Jimmy Fallon, and his own mother (whose capitalized emphasis of certain words is not only REMARKABLY EFFECTIVE, but riotously HILARIOUS). Together, with his beloved New York City, and newly-found love of his life Wacha, this is in some ways an ensemble piece, and Cohen’s love for all of the supporting characters lends a depth lacking from more self-obsessed celebrity diaries.

There is some serious behind the scenes dish that we’re likely not getting, as Cohen is clever and shrewd enough to understand that he can’t quite bite off the hand that feeds him, but he does get to nibble (Kevin Spacey and Rachel Ray might have some marks on them) and while he doesn’t get too deep or specific about his infamous Real Housewives franchise, there is some unsaid stuff that keen Bravo viewers will be able to figure out.

Fame and celebrity do come at a cost, and in the social-media world that Cohen (in his popular Twitter and Instagram incarnations) has himself celebrated and used to great advantage, there is also something to be reviled. In opening up the platform to everybody, you open yourself up to attack, and if anything seems to dampen the otherwise pretty affable Andy front, it’s the comments and attacks that come out of nowhere.

“After all these years of putting myself out there, I am pretty thick skinned, but the shit gay people say about me is, wow. I am apparently a lecherous, disgusting, old, crazy, cliche, star-fucking, ladylike, bossy bottom. That’s it in a nutshell,” he writes. And if you’ve ever made the mistake of reading the comments on any given website that allows them, you’ll know exactly what he’s talking about.

He also ruminates on the changing world around him, lamenting the quickened whitewashing of New York, as greedy landlords drive out individual restaurants and one-of-a-kind bookshops. The new world order of dating habits also makes him wary: “I am from the generation of meeting on the street and connecting – there was nowhere else to do it, but Grindr and Tinder killed that. I still look at everybody. I dig eye contact!”

That sort of longing for connection drives the narrative, and like most engaging celebrities, Cohen is as interested in others as he is in himself. You need both to properly connect to an audience – and thanks to this charming addition to his oeuvre, Cohen can now count readers among that group. His world is rarefied yet accessible, and his all-inclusive recounting of an enchanting year makes for a compelling and magical read.

THE LETTER
By Amy Lowell

Little cramped words scrawling all over the paper

Like draggled fly’s legs,

What can you tell of the flaring moon

Through the oak leaves?

Or of my uncurtained window and the bare floor

Spattered with moonlight?

Your silly quirks and twists have nothing in them

Of blossoming hawthorns,

And this paper is dull, crisp, smooth, virgin of

loveliness

Beneath my hand.

I am tired, Beloved, of chafing my heart against

The want of you;

Of squeezing it into little ink drops,

And posting it.

And I scald alone, here, under the fire

of the great moon.

March. Month of miraculous transformation. How we have waited for you to turn the page on winter. Oh yes, I realize with much chagrin that there are still a few weeks to go – and likely the most difficult ones. Every winter snowstorm that arrives after this becomes more and more trying, testing the patience and endurance of the most jaded Northeastern denizen. I’m thoroughly sick of this shit, and have been for some time, but I’ll hold on because we’re accustomed to it. We can manage.

To commemorate this first day of the month in which spring finally pokes through the snow, a look back at March moments from the past. Let’s begin with the most recent of them, such as this two-parter when I was Boston. Part One simply must happen again, and Part Two most definitely will. I miss Boston immensely in this winter of frozen dreams and snow-bound streets.

The Ass Menagerie.

I Love Bois.

March is a good month for gingers. (Like every month, really.)

It was also the month that found the release of ‘Like A Prayer’ by Madonna.

More importantly, it’s the month of change.

Going back two years, March moments included the Magic of Mann, the wonder of ‘Ray of Light‘, the magnificence of Scott Herman, the amazing Alex Minsky, and this erotic erection collection. March also rang with music, and the music of spring always touches a deeper part of the heart.

March also means Easter bunny mayhem. (Still recovering…)

One final March post is from 2012 when we were in the throes of MDNA madness. We’re almost there again, thanks to Rebel Heart. Hold tight…

While the doors of ‘Downton Abbey‘ are nearing their close for the season, the window to ‘Mad Men’ is about to open. This trailer for the final episodes is riveting, playful, and just the slightest bit sexy – a perfect encapsulation of the series as a whole. The party is not quite over… 

Oddly enough, this recap will have little if anything to do with the Oscars. Barring some catastrophic fashion moment or live mishap, I’m not going crazy with the award shows this year. Maybe that will change come Tony time. Or depending on the brilliance of Neil Patrick Harris. Or both in the event that he hosts again. Onto last week’s shenanigans now…

It started on a sultry note, the anti-thesis of all the wintry nonsense that just won’t quit. Here, the hot body of William Levy just won’t quit either.

The scent of winter, turned on its head in delightful fashion, thanks to L’Eau d’Hiver by the ever-elegant Jean-Claude Ellena.

A hunk of worldwide fame and acclaim, and hailing from my ancestral islands, the newly-crowned Mister International Neil Perez.

This is my ultimate fantasy, and it’s a hot one.

Speaking of hot, here is Robbie Amell flexing his pecs.

Blow this.

With Cole Monahan, it’s all about the hair. And the body. And the butt.

A hazy winter memory.

How Hudson Taylor hadn’t been named a Hunk of the Day until this past week is one of life’s mysteries, now put to rest.

Despite my cynical, jaded countenance, I still succumb to feel-good moments like this.

Get your red-hot ginger GIFs right here, in the form of Bryce Eilenberg.

Tom Ford made a splash in LA, and all I wanted to do was be there in ‘Lavender Palm.’

The Special Guest Blog this week was written by a cat. Really, it was. Millie purred and preened and showed off the proverbial power of the pussy.

The imagination of dragons set to song.

Once upon a time I wanted shit on a condom. Vote for this site anyway!

Oh, and Neil Patrick Harris got into his tighty-whities in front of a billion people, which was the best part of the Oscars.

Winter wears down the staunchest of characters, and lately I’ve been feeling a bit worn. House-bound and restless, we struggle as the season takes its toll. It could be worse. I could be stranded in Boston right now (I’ve recently changed two planned weekends there because the snow was too much, but I’ll be back regularly once it all goes away.) As such, I’ve been brought low by the uninspired doldrums of upstate New York in the middle of winter.

Lately, a bunny has been visiting the house, a trail of paw prints and poop pellets meanders through the front and back yards. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, I can catch the creature in the snowy expanse outside the bedroom window. The sight tugs at my heart, as my tendency towards the anthropomorphic has me wondering if he or she is cold or lonely. ‘Burrow in,’ I want to say, ‘Find your other half and keep each other warm.’ Not that I know any better. I return to a cold bed and curl into myself.

A friend asked me to go to Miami this weekend, and I wish I’d had the funds and time to do so. I could use the sun and cheer. I could use the escape. I could use a moment away. Instead, I’ll exorcise the demons of winters present and past in other ways.

Outside, the wind rages and the temperatures go lower than low. Inside, it is hot and electric – and it started last weekend when Madonna turned the Grammys into her own ‘Living For Love’ moment. She flashed her ass, strutted her stuff, sang her heart out, and put on a killer performance. That’s our girl.

Ismael Álvarez kept the inspiration going with his first crowning as Hunk of the Day.

I made this terrible confession, the repercussions of which resonate to this moment. All I can say is that I’m still sorry, and I know I hurt a lot of people. Forgiveness can only come in the form of Tom Ford.

Justin Peck, Matheus Rodrigues and Travis Van Winkle were names I hadn’t known, but put them together with their photos (and bodies) and you won’t likely forget.

Aaron Schock designed his Congressional office to look like ‘Downton Abbey’ but he is most assuredly not gay. I repeat, Aaron Schock is not gay. No way, no how. So not gay.

Jamie Dornan got naked in ’50 Shades of Grey,’ but this is the more gratuitous blog post ’50 Shades of Male Nudity.’ He gets naked in this one too, along with Channing Tatum and Harry Judd.

St. Valentine’s Day was marked by a mix tape, old-school style. Side One had such 80’s champs as Chicago and Journey, while Side Two was a little lighter in tone and artist. Tommy Page anyone?

This week’s Special Guest Blog (Zords Combine!) was written by everyone’s favorite Suzie Ko. She could have spilled a lot of secrets about me, but thankfully kept things on a much higher (and deeper) plane. (She’s just saving the real dirt for her tell-all, which I have insisted she release only after my death.)

Newsflash: Kanye West is still a douchebag.

Finally, I posted the first-ever survey on this site, and it was a question worthy of Presidential import: who should be the first gentleman named Hunk of the Day for the third time? There were a few contenders who have received the honor twice, but it’s up to you who’s going to make the third charmed time. (And if you don’t vote, you’re gonna get a spanky.)

Let’s not discuss the snow, ok? Only because I’m trying to cut down on the word ‘fuck’ here. And ‘bullshit.’ So please, no snow talk. Instead, let’s go back to the days immediately following all the SuperBowl glory, and one Sebastian Vollmer. Besides, I’m still coming down off the Madonna high of last night. I need a moment…

Ricardo Veia showed the magic of black and white, and he did it all in his underwear.

For those of you who missed Ben Cohen on the blog of late, you’re not alone, so here you go.

Dance, dance, cry.

It’s all about The MoMo.

Only a few special guys get a second crowning as Hunk of the Day. Chris Salvatore is pretty damn special.

When in doubt, quote Baudelaire and post a mustache.

Getting your Krit off ~ Krit McLean.

Sometimes you just have to Thai one on.

The Special Guest Blog spot this Sunday was delectably filled by Carl Franco, who put a culinary spin on things.

Channing Tatum’s naked ass.

Finally, the highlight of the week was easily the return of Madonna to the pop scene. Not that she ever really left, but she’s back in full-force thanks to this brilliant video that elevates the lead single from her forthcoming album ‘Rebel Heart’ to a whole new level. Things are about to get damn good. Ole!