Category Archives: General

Today is Palm Sunday, one week before Easter. This was one of the more interesting Catholic days, whereby we received a few palm fronds while the Priest sprayed the congregation with Holy Water. Kids tend to covet things, and my brother and I were no different, so we loved getting the stringy palm leaves, tinged just slightly with green – proof that they were once a part of something that was alive. We held them up as the Priest came around blessing them and throwing a few drops of Holy Water about. That sort of thing was more interesting to us than any drawn-out homily or communion-hand-out.

Though this site has been in existence since 2003 (not many personal websites can boast that claim) I didn’t bother archiving much until a few years ago. Prior to that I’d simply re-boot and start fresh every year. Yes, some good things were lost in the process – mostly in the in-between moments that seem insignificant at the time, but whose meaning can only be gleaned in hindsight. Subtle patterns of evolution, small signposts of the way things would go ~ such are the jewels along the journey of life. A small part of me mourns that loss, but most of me is glad to be rid of the past. More people need to learn to let go like that.

For the past couple of years, however, we’ve had the Archives – the little box that can be found when you scroll down to the bottom right of this page. If you click on that it will bring you to the month and year of your choosing (all the way back to a few posts from 2010). You can find the events of May 2010 – the month of my wedding to Andy, the Provincetown fun of August 2012, the chill of this past December, and the mystical moments of March 2011.

There was this rather schizophrenic spattering of posts from February 2013, the Madonna-centric meanderings in September 2010, the sultry summer studs that populate July of 2013, and the mixed bag of spring tricks from April 2012.

Once you reach a certain point in the past, you can keep clicking on the ‘Older Entries’ link at the bottom of each page to go back post by post – though I don’t recommend that. It’s difficult enough to look ahead, much more so when trying to look back at the same time.

A close-second to The Writings, as far as my fickle interests go, are The Pictures. In some ways, they have taken over this site, as almost every post features some sort of photo to go along with it, whether it be Shirtless hunks or iconic Madonna poses or simple flower and gardening shots. Of course, there are more shameless photo albums, like of me in my underwear, or high-brow black-and-white collections (me in my underwear with an artistic slant).

There are also albums of favorite places I’ve been, like London, Boston, Ogunquit, Provincetown, Washington, Cape Cod, San Francisco, and some not-so-favorite places like Las Vegas.

Finally, there are the seasons – those natural markers that signify the passage of a year, the ticking of time. The freshness and hope of spring, the glory and celebration of summer, the ripe fullness of fall, and the woeful slumber of winter ~ each grand and gorgeous in its own right, each possessing a particular pulchritude.

One day I’ll get around to updating these galleries, but that day is not today, so you have some time to peruse them at your leisure.

This winter was not kind to the Japanese Umbrella Pine I relocated to the front of the house, dealing some harsh burns to a number of its lower branches, which were largely surrounded by snow and ice for much of the season. The majority of the plant has remained intact and green, however, so I’m hopeful it will spring back in the coming months. Mother Nature can be a dangerous mistress.

Big changes are afoot here (well, in my life, which will translate to this blog) but more on that later. Let’s just say this will be a spring of new experiences all around, and there won’t be much looking back. Except for Monday mornings. Here we go again…

Last week Harry Judd got naked again for Attitude magazine’s 20th anniversary special (providing these two new luscious shots,) while David Beckham debuted a rather lack-luster swimwear line.

I finally posted a full-frontal shot, followed quickly by an almost-full-frontal shot. Not sure which was less well-received.

Lest you think it was all hard and edgy, things got soft and sweet with some under-the-table action, some statuesque poses, and some lotion-rubbing antics.

For some reason, this sort of flashing always makes me wet in the face.

Justin Timberlake grabbed his crotch ~ truly, madly, and deeply.

Meanwhile, I put my cock in a sock and recorded the moment for posterity.

Madonna has a way of waking me up, even when it’s not over.

While I’m not the biggest fan of the various restaurant weeks that go on in Albany and Boston, they do serve their purpose for those who don’t get out much. For those of us that do, they’re usually a disappointing exercise in which my favorite restaurants go cheap on their portions and service in the hopes of attracting the average non-restaurant-goer. But I won’t piss on this year’s Downtown Albany Restaurant week, where one can get a three-course meal for $20.14 – mainly because Downtown Albany (not to be mistaken for ‘Downton Abbey’ despite what my FaceBook and Twitter friends not-so-wittily say) needs all the help it can get. See, I am supportive of this city.  Eat your heart out, Downtown Albany!

Having waxed rhapsodic about the Victorian Stroll last winter, I find a growing soft-spot in my heart for Troy. Suzie’s even contemplating a move there, and tonight my parents are taking us out to dinner followed by a show at the Troy Music Hall. (The last time I was there must have been when I was onstage performing with the Empire State Youth Orchestra – not exactly the happiest of memories.)

Troy’s downtown area is a quaint one, with historical throwbacks dating to the 1800’s (I believe that parts of it were used in scenes from ‘The Age of Innocence’ to re-create the look of old New York City.) It retains that historical charm, with beautiful buildings and brownstones, and it continues to rebuild its image after a questionable number of declining years.

When I was a kid, Troy was the next biggest city to where my grandmother lived – in Hoosick Falls (which says something about Hoosick Falls), so whenever we were visiting she would take us on the bus to visit the downtown area. I don’t remember much of those trips, other than going over a big bridge and possibly shopping at the Carl Company. Since then, I’ve had a nostalgic fondness for the home of Uncle Sam.

The Trojan Renaissance continues on every last Friday of the month, when Troy Night Out features art exhibits and live performances at the restaurant and shops in the downtown vicinity. These nights are a fun time to get out and see what the city’s like at its most vibrant and active. Now that the weather is getting nice again they’re the perfect times to stroll the streets and see what Troy has to offer.

Oh my God, I thought as I turned my hands over in themselves, rubbing lotion into the dry cracks of my knuckles, I’ve turned into Mrs. Loomis. She was my second grade teacher – one of my favorites – and I remember quite a few days of that school year. It was the year we each got a folder with our name on it, one we would keep until the last day of school.

In a method that would likely be unthinkable in today’s overly-egalitarian coddling of children, those students who completed a perfect day of school work would receive a sticker for our personalized folders. At the end of the year, the student with the most stickers would get to pick from a pile of prizes, and so on down the line until everyone got one. I guess in a way it was kind of cruel, but only if you were one of the dumb kids. Well, scholastically-challenged. Oh fuck it, dumb. This blog isn’t going to win any child-friendly awards any time soon.

But I digress… back to the lotion at hand. Or on hand. I use it sparingly now, remembering a certain day when Mrs. Loomis made the mistake of squeezing out more than she needed. She often sat at her desk while we were working, twisting her hands and fingers around each other after procuring a small amount of lotion from her container of Vaseline. I watched with keen interest this magic ritual. She didn’t even take her rings off to do it. One day she absent-mindedly squirted too much into her palm. She looked up and asked the class if anyone wanted some. A few girls stood up and got in line, and a boy or two. (I was not one of them.) She took a little bit from the excess on her hand and put some on each child’s hand until she had a manageable amount left. The kids acted like little adults, rubbing it in as they returned to their desks. One of the kids, Sammy, was notoriously ill-behaved. I had no tolerance for such nonsense, so he was never one of my favorites, but he stood in line, much to my amused surprise. He got his little dollop of lotion and swirled it around in his hands. My heart softened a little at that moment. I wondered if he lived in a home bereft of the luxury of lotion. I wondered what else his home might not have that mine did, and that I’d always taken for granted. While I’d never been outwardly mean (I was actually frightened of him), inwardly I became a little nicer, unsure if such an internal change made any difference at all.

This particular statue holds a special place in my heart, as it stands sentinel in front of the patch of green where Andy and I were married. At this time of the year, it’s still too soon to be surrounded by much life, but soon – very soon – it will be backed by a trio of pink Kwanzan cherries, the chartreuse strands of weeping willows, and a majestic Metasequoia. The duck-and-swan-filled pond will return to squawking activity, and the foot-bridge will carry pedestrians from flowering tree to flowering tree. It will return. It always does.

“Laughing at all the haters out there who spend their energy trying to limit and label me with their prejudices and fears! Take your evil tongue and eye and turn them into birds that fly! Don’t waste precious time. Spend it on things you love!” ~ Madonna

The time has come for March to depart, and not a moment too soon. This is not a complaint – March has been, for the most part, pretty damn good to me, laying the groundwork for some major changes – mostly good – to kick-start the rest of this spring. More on that a little later. For now, this recap of the eventful last week of the month that came in like a lion and will hopefully exit as softly as a lamb.

We started off with a few Cocks in Socks. Will there be a Part 2 with my own junk front and center? Wait & see…

It turned out that everyone has a ‘Punky Brewster’ memory.

A British ass menagerie featuring Ben Cohen, Harry Judd, and Tom Daley.

Waking up with a woody.

I’m just a jeans-and-t-shirt kind of guy. NOT.

Say a little prayer. Or a lot of them

Our shirtless American hero, prepping for the Winter Festival.

This woman brings out the beast in me.

A pair of birthdays on the same day ~ here and here.

Some were like lions, some were like lambs – all were hunky, including Kevin Selby, Mahershala Ali, Olly Barkley, Kirill Dowidoff, Adam Coussins, and Lenny Kravitz.

The rope of beads wound around my grandmother’s wrinkled hand, while the cross swung with the gentle rocking of her chair. She worried each one between her fingers as she said each prayer, then moved on to the next. It seemed an endless chain of recitation to my childish mind, but I assumed it was another adult mystery that would be revealed in time. I didn’t know that there was no answer for this, no magic moment that suddenly made sense of faith and religion. Instead, I did my best to believe, even if the drudgery of saying an entire rosary was beyond my comprehension or capability.

The ritual seemed to calm her. Maybe that was how it worked. It was a form of meditation, and, when you get right down to it, what else is prayer at its most basic essence? The words eventually ran into one another, the meaning but gleaned, and by that point it was simply a matter of a mantra, a chant, a rhythm of speech, a cadence of sounds. The calm and soothing drone of a river of words ~ whispered prayers ~ and an outwardly peaceful disposition belying a raging heart.