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March 2012


A word of advice: If you’re in Miami (or, in my opinion, forced to be in that god-forsaken city where cup size and IQ seem interchangeable) and are looking for some nice digs, you will go dizzy from the array of ‘hip’ places to stay in South Beach.  Mind you, the design aesthetic at places like The Breakers or Gianni’s old death mask are drop dead gorgeous, that I can’t deny, but their level of service rivals the French prison system.  Honestly, I’ve been treated better by chlamydia.  My last visit to a South Beach hotel made me think that somehow Anne Frank didn’t have it so bad and that I could get used to an attic if the climate control was adequate.

That being said, I found my new holy grail of Miami hotels this past weekend.  While not located on Collins Ave, it’s on the bay and has spectacular views.  It’s the Beaux Arts, and yes, while it’s Marriott-owned, it’s also stunning.  It’s on the three top floors of the JW Marriott, incredibly quiet and designed with such stunning, clean beauty that I immediately wanted to live in the room and have all of mail immediately forwarded from San Antonio.  For those of you who have stayed at the MGM Grand Skylofts in Las Vegas, this room had some of that same Tony Chi aesthetic, but done with much higher-end materials.  Bang & Olufsen tech, touch-sensitive LED faucets, Molton Brown bath products, gilded Fleshjacks…  (okay, well maybe not THAT great.  Just making sure you’re still paying attention).  Bottom line: Skylofts was designed for yokels who only splurge once a year to think they’re Vegas whales.  Beaux Arts hides you away from the world in luxe digs and ensures every surface you see or touch is beautiful and top-quality.

The bummer about being in Miami right now is that it’s Winter Party week, attracting every Florida meth addict, as well as a contingent of gay men who haven’t gotten the memo that the circuit scene died sometime just after 1999.  Going to the Winter Party (or White Party, Black & Blue in Montreal, etc) is a lot like opening up a time capsule of collagen-deprived despair:  Every overly-tanned, 40-something ‘boy’ is doing his best to look as fit as possible, while completely negating health benefits by abusing enough drugs to make Keith Richards want to Friend Request them.  You soon realize why the music all sounds the same… Because no one’s sober enough to really give a fuck about quality. As long as the beat goes on (thanks Cher) and the lights keep strobing, these guys can continue to live out their fantasy that Studio 54 never really closed.


On a totally different note, I noticed that for the first time in a long while, I was named Coverboy of the Day on the M4M Review.  It’s always nice to be recognized for doing something that you really love and I’d like to give a quick shout of thanks to Daddy and his crew for the press.  It also bears mentioning the awesome review from Fosterchow, a man with such skill for writing that he literally has followers of his prose.  I remain, as always, impressed by his way with words.  He’s basically become my very own Emily Bronte… That is, if Emily Bronte wrote poetry about submission, getting duct taped to a wall and random acts of piss play in Wuthering Heights with Heathcliff.

Some housekeeping news:  I’ve added new images to the galleries and have been making a concerted effort to ‘tweet’ more often, trying also to more effectively use hashtags.  The photoblog continues to serve up a smart-ass storm of randomness from the road.  While I’ve slowed down a bit in daily answering on the Formspring Q&A, I do continue to get some great questions.  Always feel free to submit a question, as it continues to be a fun, free and anonymous way to get to know more about me.

As a last ditch effort- satisfying a final term of my community service- to ween some of you from the evil clutches of Bravo Television, I highly recommend The Hunger Games trilogy.  Yes, a book.  You remember what they look like, right?  I plowed through all three in two days flat, loved that the author didn’t resort to Twilightesque, pseudo-Harlequin romance novel bullshit and that the plot moved briskly, giving every character just the right amount of background.  The film version is sure to soil my experience with the book.  As in most cases, the book will likely spank the movie in every way possible (Also see: Jurassic Park, Jaws, It, Andromeda Strain).

I did not mention any of John Grisham’s book-to-film adaptations as his plot lines are flimsier than a fat kid in yoga class and after you’ve read a few of his books, you can basically just guess the outcome for all of the others.  Sadly, the movies of his books IMPROVE on the content.


… And yes, I’m even including The Firm movie as an improvement.  *shudder*


Be well fine readers. Thanks, as always, for your continued patience in me getting the gumption to update this blog.