Category Archives: General

No one’s ever going to believe that I’m a jeans and t-shirt kind of guy, so I won’t even pretend to peddle that bullshit here. I’ll never be that guy. I’ll never be that simple, that casual, that easy-going – it’s just not in my make-up. There are too many facets and angles to this frustratingly-complex mess. But every now and then it’s good to strip it all down, so to speak, and indulge in the basics. There are far fewer components to worry about in an outfit like this – no worries of mismatched ties or faulty sock decisions, no striped suit patterns possibly clashing with checkered shirt options. It is the default uniform of the current generation – and given the growing propensity younger people seem to have for sweatpants and other atrocities, a good pair of denim jeans is indeed a dress-up outfit when paired with a smart sport coat, shirt, and tie.

As for its ubiquitous nature, there’s no getting around that. I could deal with a little more blending into mainstream society anyway, so this affords a nice change of pace. As the musical Norma Desmond once sang, “I can play any role.”

At the time of this writing, Boston is under threat of a winter storm walloping (it will likely have already arrived by the time this gets posted), so I must admit to being glad of not being there right now. Just a few short days ago I captured this promising bush in bud in the Boston Public Garden, where witch hazel was also on the verge of blooming, the willows were gaining in their chartreuse color, and the pond was being worked on for its near-future filling. It was a scene of possibility, the earliest peek at the spring to come, and it made me happy to see. There are good memories in that Garden.

As for our own gardens, they are still mostly buried in snow – lots and lots of dirty snow. I made the first pass through the backyard yesterday, when a pair of cardinals was calling out to me. Loads of bunny droppings were scattered generously throughout the space, a boon to the soil, I hope – but the ground remained frozen. Not one sign of snowdrops or Scilla, or even the tattered foliage of the Lenten rose. It’s late arriving, but spring is assuredly on the way. It has to be.

As the sun sets, and the afternoon advances, the bedroom changes. A stirring beneath the duvet, a flickering of dust in the slanting sunlight, a reluctant sigh. The luxury of an hour or so beneath the sun should not be so quickly dismissed. It can feed the soul, and match more complicated and costly methods of calm. Now that the days are growing longer, there are more opportunities to find such pockets of tranquility.

Having had a day job for most of my adult life, I never take such moments for granted. Beauty like this gets me through the day. The memory of it sustains until a new memory can be made. It is the promise of possibility.

Typically I post a recap in this time slot, something whereby those who had better things to do than check this site every day might have another chance to witness what has already passed. Given this gigantic winter recap from yesterday, it’s definitely too soon to do another. I will, however point out a couple of posts that weren’t quite done when that big recap was written.

The first is this epic Madonna Timeline: ‘Like A Prayer.’ I tried to take you there.

And the second is this review of the amazing production of ‘Gypsy, A Musical Fable’ currently showing off at the Capital Repertory Theatre.

Both are wordy and verbose enough to quell the man-candy complaints (not that there have ever been complaints against the men – just my exploitation of them.)

Seeing as how I spent the weekend in Boston, and a pretty quiet and peaceful one at that, I’m taking it easy this week, blog-wise. As the seasons turn, my attention will turn elsewhere as well, and that path leads outside, and away from the laptop. The winter has bound us long enough.

Maybe the world is blind, or just a little unkind – don’t know…

Seems you can’t be sure of anything anymore – although…

You may be lonely and then one day you’re smiling again

Every time I turn around….

It came on, if faltering memory serves, early on a Sunday night – 7 PM I believe – that dreaded do-or-die time for homework left all weekend (and who didn’t leave homework all weekend?) My brother and I would sit in the family room and watch it, pretending that we didn’t like it, but glued to the set week after week. Maybe we only watched it for the theme song – so many television shows of my childhood only mattered for their theme songs – or maybe we did it for something more. The point is, we sat there watching ‘Punky Brewster’ and witnessing Soleil Moon-Frye strut herself before she went and grew big boobs, trying to draw out the last bit of Sunday for as long as we could, holding onto the weekend in an always-losing effort.

Sometimes I still feel that way, remembering the sad moping that accompanied Sunday nights during the school year. The dull dread of another Monday, the mental tussle of whether it would be better to go to sleep and forget about it, or try to stay up because once you went to sleep it would be Monday the next waking moment. The little worries of a kid don’t always dissipate as an adult; they usually get a lot worse.

But for this Sunday night, I’m relatively calm, bemused by this song, tickled by this video, and made happy by this memory.

(PS – Did you know that Punky’s real name was ‘Penelope’? I just found that out tonight. It changes everything. I once had an octopus named Penelope… She was a gift.)

What’s gonna be?

Just we’ll just wait and see.

A few days ago we turned the seasonal page to spring, something most of us in the Northeast have been impatiently awaiting since, well, winter began. It’s been a tough and frigid one, and I’m sure we’ll get a few more lashes of winter’s whip before the bastard returns to hell, so I write this with that caveat in mind.

It was a winter of unsettled discontent, at least until the kitchen was completed.

It was a winter of our eleventh anniversary. (And I mean you and me.) Oh, and a tenth anniversary as well.

It was a winter of Madonna mini-moments, like her appearance at the Grammys, and some notable Madonna Timeline entries like ‘Impressive Instant‘ and ‘Dress You Up.’

It was a winter of Boston memories, here and here.

It was a winter in which we got a whiff of Matthew Camp.

It was a winter of stupid idiocy.

It was a winter of Mary Poppins.

It was a winter of Ben Cohen’s balls.

It was a winter of shirtless selfies.

It was a winter of the Missing Finger.

It was a winter of stunning Hunks like Trevor Adams, Derek Allen Watson, Grady Sizemore, David Agbodji, Stuart Reardon, Mark Wright, and a naked Jake Gyllenhaal.

It was a winter to be brave, can we be brave?

It was a winter to bare my butt. (More than once.) Even if these butts were better.

It was a winter of Chris Salvatore’s underwear. Not to be outdone, Todd Sanfield’s underwear too.

It was a winter to put the new kitchen to the test, for comfort, for smoothies, for chicken.

It was a winter of The Gay Soiree (and this flashy/trashy outfit.)

It was a winter of even more naked male celebrities and models, like the ones in this gratuitous post, and more specifically Alex Pettyfer, Lucien Laviscount, Greg Rutherford, Ryan Carnes, Henry Cavill, (Greg Rutherford again because once is never enough) and, drum roll please, Tom Daley’s naked ass. (But not David Beckham.)

It was a winter of Dan & Tom.

It was a winter of family fun.

It was a winter of Olympic shirtless glory.

It was a winter in which the curtain went up on this fantastic production of ‘Gypsy.’

It was a winter of Erotica.

It was a winter of red-hot gingers.

It was a winter of Buttery scones.

It was a winter of rose quartz.

Finally, it was a winter in which the haze started to lift.

And yes, even more nude male celebrities, like Marco Dapper,  Nigel Barker, Daniel Radcliffe, another butt-baring set by Jake Gyllenhaal, and a naked Dan Osborne. And again.

The night is not quite ready to give way to the break of day. A purgatorial holding pattern of a stubborn yet dying winter leaves me restless in the bed. I want to get out, but it’s still so warm and cozy here. There is not yet enough incentive to rouse myself to shower. I’ll pull a bathrobe over myself soon, and trudge wearily out to start a pot of tea, but for now I linger in the soft folds of Marimekko.

I may stay here all day.

During Lent we had to attend the Stations of the Cross every Friday night. It was definitely a buzz-kill for the start of a weekend, but so much Catholic guilt was ingrained in my head that I felt it was the least I could do for the guy who died for my sins. I liked to sit under the third station, where Jesus falls for the first time (no gentle Veronica-wiping-the-face-of-Jesus for me.) That’s when I wasn’t serving as an altar boy and carrying a candle around (which, if one wasn’t careful, would drip hot wax onto little fingers – another danger I somehow skirted during a childhood in the Catholic church.) Lent was a somber time, arriving at the end of winter, part of the seemingly-endless trudge toward spring, and coupled with the dark, mysterious story of the crucifixion of Jesus and the subsequent resurrection.

The scent of incense hung in the church during these weeks, a product of the swinging censer for all those Stations of the Cross. Part magic, part faith ~ part mysticism, part blind-belief ~ it was a time cloaked in shadows and smoke, where candlelight offered both hope and danger, and the flickering flames revealed either a smile or the stern consternation of the priest.

I didn’t know at the time that all these religious issues – the questions of faith, the tenets of Catholicism, the blind reverence and obedience – would come to burning life by the namesake of the Mother of God Herself – for it was at this time of the year that it arrived. The song, the album, and one of the greatest Madonna moments ever recorded: on the 25^th anniversary of its release, tomorrow’s Madonna Timeline is ‘Like A Prayer.’

Everyone must stand alone…

This stationary has always reminded me of seashells, so I juxtaposed the real thing with its artistic interpretation for these photos. That sort of collision is what excites me ~ the crux of nature and art, the crossroads of reality and representation. That on a simple piece of card-stock, the sea can be so eloquently conjured is one of life’s greatest gifts. Particularly in a land-locked portion of upstate New York, where the ocean feels so far away, it’s a comfort to find a few objects and renderings that take me right back to the shore.

In our living room there is a large half of a clam shell, and in it is a collection of stones that I plucked from beneath the rolling waves of Ogunquit Beach. They are mostly smooth from years of tumbling against the sand, but each is unique in design, color, and variation. Whenever I miss the sea, I wander over to this little pile of stones, take a few in my hand, and return to that idyllic space between land and ocean.

This is a holiday in which I play no part. As much as I like green, it’s overdone on this day, and done horribly wrong (plastic shamrock necklaces anyone?) Beer, green or otherwise, has never appealed to me. And kegs and eggs? A more gross combination does not come immediately, or with pause, to mind. So let’s look back over the week that came before this ridiculous day, and then fast-forward to Tuesday. (Come back later for a super ginger post, if you like redheads.)

I’ll be back in Boston soon, because I miss the scones and the banana bread at the South End Buttery just too much.

The whimsical wonder of Boston was in evidence in the charming shops along Tremont Street, where the enchanting Niche and the exquisite Olives & Grace kept the South End rife with magic and beauty.

There can never be enough of Tom Ford.

Locally, at least Capital District-wise, a few friends were doing what they do best: Kevin Bruce, GioExpressions, and the Cohoes Music Hall.

Despite all frigid signs to the contrary, this is officially the week we move into spring. To keep things hot, a few sexy gentlemen were featured in most of their glory, including Louis Smith (naked Olympian), Jake Gyllenhaal (naked actor), Anton Hysen (naked soccer player), Ryan Carnes (almost-naked actor), and Paddy O’Brian (naked gay porn star.)

Despite the glowing admiration of my pal Parley, I’ve never been all that enamored of Wes Anderson’s films. In fact, the only one I tried to get through – ‘Rushmore’ – left me unimpressed and stopping it before it took hold. That’s not usually like me. (I even sat through the wretched ‘Jerry Maguire’ when every fiber of my being was impelling me to walk out of the theater and save a few minutes of otherwise-wasted time. God I hated that film. Show me the money my ass.)

From that ‘Rushmore’ experience, I’ve unfairly avoided Mr. Anderson’s movies, with the exception of ‘Fantastic Mr. Fox’ – because I’m a sucker for talking animals. That may change with ‘The Grand Budapest Hotel’ which looks visually compelling, and features the work of an actor I’ve long admired – Ralph Fiennes (who, when I initially noticed him in ‘Quiz Show’ looked eerily similar to the first man I ever kissed.)

Being that I generally enjoy a quirky take on life, I may need to re-examine Anderson’s oeuvre. It’s never good to be a party-pooper without first having attended the party. And what better way to get back into the World of Anderson than with this short he did for Prada, “Castello Cavalcanti?” If anything’s going to convince me of someone’s impeccable taste, it’s Prada.

This country needs to bring back the siesta, that break in the early afternoon where you nap or replenish your energy for another stretch of work. American wisdom is that it would zap the day, and make anything that follows a wash. There’s wisdom in that analysis, I suppose. (I’ll regale you with stories of lunch siestas during my John Hancock stint another day. Let’s just say that they were fun, and leave it at that.)

In a world full of ‘No’s and ‘Do Not’s, sometimes there’s only one thing to say: ‘Yes.’

Someone once wrote that the most pleasing word in the English language was ‘yes’ and I think there’s some validity to that. Especially when bombarded with signs telling us otherwise.

It turns out that while hearing ‘yes’ may be most pleasing, saying ‘no’ seems to be much easier.

The proof is in the writing on the wall.

Everybody says don’t…