As I’ve said once, twice, three times a lady, I don’t read or watch much news anymore.

Not because I don’t care. No. Because I care too much.

Trying to stay informed these days feels less like consuming information and more like voluntarily climbing into a cesspool of conspiracy theories, outrage bait, state- sponsored propaganda, political theater, and grown adults behaving like toddlers across the internet.

The noise never stops.

And somewhere underneath all that noise is an increasingly uncomfortable realization: humanity may be fundamentally incapable of learning from its own history. Or even from things that are happening right here, right now.

Case in point: I just found out Spencer Pratt is running for Mayor of Los Angeles.

If you’re not familiar, Pratt is the former “prince of reality tv”. He is also the human embodiment of “What if a tabloid headline became sentient?”

I don’t know what Pratt’s politics are, and honestly, I don’t care. My issue is less about party affiliation and more about the fact that we continue confusing fame with competence.

At some point, society collectively decided that being loud, recognizable, and willing to embarrass yourself publicly qualifies a person to run things.

And that feels…far from ideal.

Of course, Spencer Pratt isn’t the first celebrity to wander into politics. And he won’t be the last. But after the last decade, you’d think Americans might collectively pause before handing microphones and power to aging reality stars whose primary qualification is “people know my name.”

Apparently not.

Because history keeps repeating itself. Over and over and over again.

We ignore warning signs. We romanticize chaos. We reward performance instead of substance. Then we all stand around shocked when the circus tent catches fire. Again.

And maybe that’s the most exhausting part of modern life. Not the bad decisions themselves, but how predictable they’ve become.

We keep acting like every disaster arrived out of nowhere.

Meanwhile, history sits in the corner screaming, “I literally told you this would happen.”

To be fair, this isn’t just about politics. Humans repeat the same mistakes everywhere:

• Relationships

• Economics

• Social trends

• Technology

• Wars

• Environmental collapse

• Fashion

The older I get, the more I realize history isn’t some dusty collection of dates and dead people. It’s patterns. Cycles. Human behavior wearing slightly different clothing.

And unfortunately, humans are very committed to reruns.

Maybe that’s because learning from the past requires humility. It requires admitting people before us might have known something. It requires self-awareness. Reflection. Accountability.

All qualities currently getting bulldozed by algorithms and influencer culture.

Everything now is immediate. Reactive. Performative.

Nobody wants to study history when there’s content to make.

Still, I try not to become completely cynical about it all. Because every once in a while, people do learn. Communities do evolve. Progress does happen, even if it arrives slower than dial-up internet and more noise than a F1 race.

But some days?

Some days it really feels like humanity is trapped in an endless cycle of making the same mistakes, ignoring the same warnings, and acting stunned when the ending never changes.

Keep calm and vote on!
Clint 🌈✌️

PHOTOS OF THE DAY

FROM THE ARCHIVES

BORN THIS WAY ON THIS DAY

• 05-14 = Julian Eltinge (1881-1941) = American actor and female impersonator 🌈

• 05-14 = Magnus Hirschfeld (1868-1935) = German physician and sexologist 🌈

• 05-14 = Richard Deacon (1921-1984) = American actor 🌈

MAN CRUSH OF THE DAY

“Soon the day will come when science will win victory over error, justice a victory over injustice, and human love a victory over human hatred and ignorance.”
Magnus Hirschfeld

A while back, I accidentally jumped the gun and wished an early happy birthday. Very early. Two months early.

Thankfully, today is his actual birthday, which gives me the chance to finally get it right: Happy birthday, Mr. Maupin! May all your wishes come true.

Few writers have captured the messy beauty of human connection quite like he has. Through humor, heartbreak, friendship, sex, loss, and chosen family, his words have painted vivid characters and emotional snapshots that made countless LGBTQ readers feel seen.

Especially those of us who grew up searching for reflections of ourselves that weren’t hidden in shadows or reduced to punchlines.

His stories didn’t just entertain. They comforted. They challenged. They reminded readers that queer lives deserved to be more than just supporting characters. As a result, his work is filled with humor, heart, and happy endings.

That kind of legacy lasts far longer than any candles on any cake.

Here’s wishing him a happy, healthy celebration and many more birthdays to come.

Live long and prosper, Mr. Maupin.

And thank you for being a friend!
Clint 🌈✌️

FROM THE ARCHIVES

BORN THIS WAY ON THIS DAY

• 05-13 = Alan Ball (1957- ) = American writer and director 🌈

• 05-13 = Armistead Maupin (1944- ) = American writer 🌈

• 05-13 = Cheryl Dunye (1966- ) = American filmmaker 🌈

• 05-13 = Réal Ménard (1962- ) = Canadian politician and lawyer 🌈

MAN CRUSH OF THE DAY

“The world changes in direct proportion to the number of people willing to be honest about their lives.”

While I was in Portland a couple of weeks ago, I must have slept wrong on the fancy feather pillows at The Hotel Zags. Ever since then, my neck has been in knots and refused to participate in basic human movement.

And because the universe enjoys a themed experience, my wrist hurts too.

Somewhere while packing for my getaway, I must’ve twisted it. I don’t even remember when it happened. One minute, I’m pulling my suitcases out of the garage. The next, my wrist starts acting like I’d spent a week jerking off construction workers.

So now the entire right side of my body is basically staging a labor strike.

My neck hurts. My wrist hurts. My shoulder feels suspicious. Even my posture has developed a sort of haunted, hunched-over quality.

Fun stuff.

The weird thing about pain isn’t always the pain itself. It’s the distraction. The friction. The way it sneaks into every tiny part of the day and turns simple tasks into exhausting ones.

• Editing photos? Pain.

• Making montages? Pain.

• Writing Substack posts? Pain.

• Sleeping? Somehow also pain.

Even eating breakfast has become a high-stakes, wrist-based event.

Unfortunately, freelance work doesn’t come with paid sick days or reassuring emails from Human Resources telling me to “rest and recover.”

Which is why I’m especially grateful for my paid subscribers. Your support genuinely helps keep me going, figuratively and literally. And thank you as well for your patience, support, and patronage while I struggle to get myself back up to speed.

When I slow down, work slows down. Posting slows down. Income slows down. Some subscribers drift off into the digital wilderness in search of creators whose musculoskeletal systems are a little more cooperative than mine at the moment.

Being freelance is great when everything’s working. And I do mean everything.

When inspiration is flowing. When projects are moving. When my body isn’t behaving like I got shoved down a staircase. And honestly, let’s not even get into my brain.

But when I physically can’t focus because every muscle on the right side of my body is throbbing and stiff? “The Glamorous Life” of a creative suddenly looks like me squinting at my computer while wearing a heating pad like a widow in a period drama.

Still, I’m trying to get my professional life back on track. Not in some dramatic “rise and grind” motivational speaker kind of way. More in an “eat breakfast, answer emails, ice wrist, survive” kind of way.

Because honestly, growth looks a lot less glamorous than people pretend it does.

Sometimes growth is just gritting your teeth and doing what you can with the body, mind, and spirit you’ve got that day.

Sometimes resilience is stretching your neck for the fifth time and still managing to edit a few photos. Sometimes focus means accepting that both your body and brain are operating at half capacity but showing up anyway.

And sometimes achey really does require a break-y.
And some brekkie. Preferably with lots of carbs.

So that’s where I’m at right now: sore, stiff, hungry, mildly cranky, and trying to rebuild momentum one small task at a time.

I may not be 100% physically. But creatively? I’m still in the game, damnit.

Keep calm and get your healing on!
Clint 🌈✌️

PHOTOS OF THE DAY

FROM THE ARCHIVES

BORN THIS WAY ON THIS DAY

• 05-12 = Edward Lear (1812-1888) = English artist, musician, and writer 🌈

• 05-12 = Florence Nightingale (1820-1910) = British nurse and social reformer 🌈

• 05-12 = Gerry Studds (1937-2006) = American politician 🌈

• 05-12 = Jared Polis (1975- ) = American politician and businessman 🌈

• 05-12 = Joan Nestle (1940- ) = American writer and archivist 🌈

• 05-12 = Katharine Hepburn (1907-2003) = American actor 🌈

• 05-12 = Lola Flash (1959- ) = American photographer and activist 🌈

• 05-12 = Margaret Cuthbert (1887-1968) = Canadian-American broadcaster 🌈

• 05-12 = Robbie Rogers (1987- ) = American professional soccer player 🌈

MAN CRUSH(ES) OF THE DAY

“We need to risk, we need to dare to risk and fail greatly because that’s the only way we grow.”
Emilio Estevez

“Just cause you got the monkey off your back doesn’t mean the circus has left town.”
George Carlin

After several false starts, I finally found the best way to scan my friend DJ’s sprawling collection of vintage beefcake, erotica, and porn.

And when I say sprawling, I mean it. From the 1950s to the 1990s. Mostly earlier.

I originally thought there were maybe a hundred images in the stack. Turns out, there were well over two hundred. Some glossy. Some faded. Some curled at the corners from decades of handling and hiding. Tiny frozen moments from another era.

Most of these photos are at least a decade older than I am.

Which means the process has become about more than simply scanning. It’s become about restoring too. Dust removal. Scratch repair. Cleaning up fingerprints, debris, and the wear that happens over time. Every image needs a little love before it can fully breathe again…without distrations.

So guess what I’ll be doing today? Photo retouching and video editing!

Honestly, there’s something strangely calming about sitting quietly with these photographs, zooming in close, fixing imperfections one speck at a time. It feels less like editing and more like preservation.

Here are a few of my Substack-friendly favorites…so far:

Keep calm and appreciate on!
Clint 🌈✌️

P.S. For those who enjoy even more skin, keep an eye on my Bluesky later today. Some uncensored, full-monty photos are on the way, y’all!

FROM THE ARCHIVES

BORN THIS WAY ON THIS DAY

• 05-11 = Bernice Bing (1936-1998) = American artist 🌈

• 05-11 = Christopher Bailey (1971- ) = English fashion designer 🌈

• 05-11 = Dick Leitsch (1935-2018) = American activist 🌈

• 05-11 = Eleanor Butler (1739-1829) = Irish aristocrat and socialite 🌈

• 05-11 = Salvador Dali (1904-1989) = Spanish artist 🌈

• 05-11 = Sarah Ponsonby (1755-1831) = Irish aristocrat and socialite 🌈

• 05-11 = Valentino Garavani (1932-2026 ) = Italian fashion designer 🌈

MAN CRUSH(ES) OF THE DAY

“Have no fear of perfection. You’ll never reach it.”
Salvador Dali

“There are only three things I can do - make a dress, decorate a house, and entertain people.”
Valentino Garavani

Mother’s Day has always been complicated for me.

So has being a son.

Like a lot of gay men, I had a rocky relationship with my mother. The kind of rocky relationship people tend to soften and smooth over after enough years have passed. But the truth is, my mother and I didn’t really like each other very much. We weren’t even on speaking terms when she passed away just over five years ago.

We loved each other, yes. But love and liking aren’t always the same thing.

Still, we tried.

And sometimes trying has to count for something. Riiight?

My mother could be funny, competitive, dramatic, stubborn, wounded, and loving…in her own special way. She could make me laugh and break my heart in the same sentence. She also had a gift for denial that bordered on performance art. If Queen for a Day had still been on tv, she would’ve won.

When I came out, my own private “Queen Of Denial” pretended not to hear me.

Somewhere deep down, she has convinced herself I was probably asexual. Quiet. Sensitive. Artistic. Different, sure. But not gay. Never that.

Maybe I’d eventually marry a nice woman and give her a grandchild she could parade around to the neighbors.

Instead, she got me. A gay son growing up in a time when being openly queer still felt dangerous and even deadly. A son who learned early how to make himself smaller and quieter in order to survive.

Coming out wasn’t some magical healing moment for us. There was no dramatic breakthrough. There was confusion, distance, hurt, and long stretches of silence.

And yet, love survived anyway.
Not perfectly. Not gracefully.
But imperfect love is still love.

As I got older, I stopped needing my mother’s approval. I tried (and mostly failed) to appreciate the good parts of who she was. Without forgetting or rewriting the past.

What I know now is this: many LGBTQ people spend their lives building family in the spaces where traditional family fell short. I became a collector of mother figures. Women who loved me in ways my own mother couldn’t.

I’ve been lucky enough to have several of those wonderful women in my life.

Women who nurtured me in ways my own mother either couldn’t or simply didn’t know how. Women who reminded me that motherhood is not strictly biological. Sometimes motherhood is just showing up consistently for someone who needs tenderness.

Some of the strongest mothers I’ve known never gave birth at all.

Especially in the LGBTQ community, “mother” can become a sacred title earned through action rather than DNA. Chosen families understand that. Ballroom culture understood it long before the rest of the world did. Sometimes the people who save us are simply the people who decide to claim us.

Being a son, especially a gay son, often means living between gratitude and grief. Gratitude for the love we received. Grief for the love we didn’t receive. Gratitude for the mothers who tried. Grief for the parts of them that couldn’t meet us where we were.

Both things can be true at once.

Every Mother’s Day, I try to hold space for all of it. The good memories. The sharp edges. The forgiveness that arrived late. The forgiveness that never fully arrived at all.

Mostly, I think about the women who loved me the best they could, even when “the best they could” sometimes fell short.

Maybe that’s what motherhood really is.

Not perfection. Not sainthood. Just imperfect people trying to love each other through fear, expectation, silence, and hope.

So today is for the mamas:

• The biological ones.

• The chosen ones.

• The drag mothers.

• The aunties.

• The women who stepped in quietly when nobody else did.

And for the sons still trying to make peace with all of it.

Happy Mother’s Day to all the Mamas…and the Papas!
Clint 🌈✌️

P.S. Thank you Nellie, Alta, Sandra, Katherine, and all the other mamas and mother figures who helped me become the man I am today. With love always…

ICYMI = IN CASE YOU MISSED IT

• SUNDAY = My Belated LA Anniversary

• MONDAY = Keith Haring Was Here

• TUESDAY = It Ends With This?!

• WEDNESDAY = DJ’s Private Collection (Preview #1)**

• THURSDAY = Don't Poke The Bear

• FRIDAY = Snooze Uncontrolled

• SATURDAY = News + Views

** For those wondering when I’m going to post more of DJ’s Private Collection, I finally got my good scanner working properly, so will be working on scanning them all later today and tomorrow.

FROM THE ARCHIVES

BORN THIS WAY ON THIS DAY

• 05-10 = Andrea Jenkins (1961- ) = American politician, writer, and artist 🌈

• 05-10 = Scott Brison (1967- ) = Canadian politician 🌈

• 05-10 = Steve Gunderson (1951- ) = American politician and executive 🌈

MAN CRUSH(ES) OF THE DAY

“I have no desire to prove anything by dancing. I have never used it as an outlet or a means of expressing myself. I just dance. I just put my feet in the air and move them around.”
Fred Astaire

One thing I miss about working in an office is the “watercooler” talk.

Even when there’s no actual watercooler involved. Those random conversations that start with, “Did you see that?” and somehow spiral into twenty minutes of cussing, discussing, debating, and dissecting the latest headlines, celebrity chaos, pop culture moments, and world events.

Working from home has its perks, but spontaneous conversation is not one of them.

So consider the list below my virtual “watercooler” talk starter pack. Just a few headlines, hot topics, and stories that caught my eye this week. Along with a few thoughts, observations, and side-eyes of my own.

• The Great Divide: Hollywood CEO Pay Mega Chart Revealed (THR)
  If you’ve worked in Corporate America, you’ve seen plenty of instances of those who have failed their way to the top. Well, it seems in Hollyweird those failures are paid very, very well. The audacity of asshats….

• ‘Live And Let Live’: Northern Ireland Historian Uncovers Surprising Era Of Tolerance Of Gay Men (The Guardian)
  Love is love. Always was. Always will be.

• Reclaiming The Self-Taught Artist’s Creative Identity (Hyperallergic)
  As a self-taught creative, I really want to see this exhibit.

• The Bad Bunny Chairs Taking Over The Art World (CNN)
  Who doesn’t want to sit on Benito’s face? Only people who haven’t seen him yet.

• Instagram Loses End-To-End Message Encryption… (Mashable)
  Zuckerberg’s Project Enshitification continues its scope creep. Yet another reason for me not to use any of Meta’s platforms. Fuck Zuck!

• Blake Lively’s ‘Diva’ Chaos Exposed As She ‘Snaps’ At Met Gala Staff Demanding Perfection On Carpet (Bored Panda)
  Is anyone surprised by Lively’s entitled bitch shit (while attempting to distract attention from her legal shenanigans)? I have never liked this alleged blonde bombshell. I will never like this delusional-as-hell diva. Her talent and ego do not match. There We Are Then.

What’s been capturing your attention and/or helping distract you from the political bullshit that pollutes our newsfeeds? Recommendations welcome.

Keep calm and ponder on!
Clint 🌈✌️

FROM THE ARCHIVES

BORN THIS WAY ON THIS DAY

• 05-09 = Alan Bennett (1934- ) = English writer and actor 🌈

• 05-09 = Marieke Wijsman (1975- ) = Dutch Olympic speed skater 🌈

• 05-09 = Wendy Crewson (1956- ) = Canadian actor and producer 🌈

MAN CRUSH(ES) OF THE DAY

“One of the drawbacks about being an actor is that it's a very subjective profession. You go to the studio and look at yourself being made up. Then you look at yourself in costume. You rehearse and worry about your lines and your character. There's a lot of self in it: me, me, me. Directing is wonderful, because you worry about everything and everyone else.”
Albert Finney

I feel like a visitor just about everywhere.
John Corbett

Ever since I got home from my three-week getaway last Friday, my sleep has been both better AND worse than it’s been in years.

Which may sound impossible. But here we are.

The night before last, I could not fall asleep to save my life. I tossed. I turned. I checked my phone’s clock so many times the battery nearly died.

Every sound in the apartment became amplified. The refrigerator hummed like a diesel engine. A car alarm six blocks away might as well have been parked in my living room. Meanwhile, my brain decided 3:17am was the perfect time to revisit awkward conversations from 1998. Classic insomnia.

Then this morning? The complete opposite. I could not wake up.

Not “hit snooze once” could not wake up. I mean full-blown drifting in and out of consciousness, bargaining with myself and my alarm clock through half-formed dreams. Every time I opened my eyes, I rolled over and closed them again.

Lately, I’ve been waking up between 6-7am. But today, I finally crawled out of bed just before 9am. Feeling groggy, disoriented, and oddly guilty, like I had missed an important appointment.

Apparently, my body has decided that if it refuses to sleep one night, it will simply collect payment with interest the next.

Honestly, I don’t know what, if anything, is going on.

Maybe my system is still recalibrating after three weeks on the road. Maybe my internal clock got scrambled somewhere between hotel beds, cruise buffets, freeway hypnosis, late-night snacks, inconsistent routines, and entirely too much caffeine. Or maybe this is simply what happens when a lifelong insomniac accidentally stumbles into actual rest and has no idea what to do with it.

Because balance? I would not know balance if it slapped me upside my head.

Maybe it is fitting that all of this is happening during Mental Health Awareness Month, because sleep and mental health are deeply interconnected.

Pull on one thread and the other inevitably moves with it.

When my anxiety spikes, sleep disappears. And when sleep disappears, everything else starts to feel heavier too. My patience shortens. My focus scatters. Small inconveniences suddenly feel enormous. Even my emotions seem louder, like somebody cranked the volume to maximum and snapped it off there.

And the reverse is also true.

A good night’s sleep doesn’t magically solve life, but it can make life feel manageable again. Softer around the edges.

It is easy to forget how connected everything really is. Sleep affects mood. Mood affects energy. Energy affects motivation. Motivation affects how we care for ourselves. And how we care for ourselves eventually circles back around to sleep again. None of it exists in isolation. Our minds and bodies are constantly negotiating with each other, whether we realize it or not.

Still, I have never been one of those people who gracefully powers down at 10pm and rises with the sun like some well-adjusted woodland creature. Circadian rhythms be damned.

Sleep, for me, has always felt more like a negotiation. Sometimes a hostage situation.

There have been stretches of my life where four hours felt luxurious. Other times I have crashed so hard from exhaustion that I slept half the day away and still woke up tired. It’s rarely made sense, and trying to force it to make sense usually only makes it worse.

The strange thing is that since coming home, I have been sleeping deeper. When sleep finally arrives, it actually feels restorative for once. Less fragmented. Less like hovering just beneath the surface all night waiting for my brain to sound another alarm.

That part has been nice.

But the timing of it all remains absolutely feral.

I’m either staring at the ceiling at dawn or waking up wondering what year it is. There’s not much middle ground to be found.

Maybe this is just an adjustment period. Maybe my body is finally cashing checks exhaustion wrote years ago. Or maybe this is simply adulthood now: realizing your relationship with sleep becomes increasingly strange, unpredictable, and deeply personal the older you get.

Because for something so essential, sleep remains oddly mysterious. We spend nearly a third of our lives doing it, yet so many of us struggle to surrender to it. We fight it. We chase it. We resent it when it will not come and resent the world when it ends too soon.

And yet, when we are deprived of it long enough, everything suffers. Our mental health. Our physical health. Our resilience. Our relationships. Our ability to cope with even the ordinary weight of being alive.

Rest is not laziness. It is maintenance. Repair. Survival.

Maybe that is the lesson my body is trying to teach me right now, even if its delivery method is hit-or-miss.

Either way, for today at least, the snooze button has officially stopped being a suggestion and become something closer to a coping mechanism.

So if you need a friendly reminder, here it is: get some rest. Some deep sleep if you can get it. The world will still be waiting when you wake up.

Keep calm and recharge on!
Clint 🌈✌️

FROM THE ARCHIVES

BORN THIS WAY ON THIS DAY

• 05-08 = Darren Hayes (1972- ) = Australian singer-songwriter 🌈

• 05-08 = Gary Snyder (1930- ) = American poet 🌈

• 05-08 = Henry Dunant (1828-1910) = Swiss businessman, activist, Red Cross co-founder, and first Nobel Prize laureate 🌈

• 05-08 = Jessica Platt (1989- ) = Canadian professional hockey player 🌈

• 05-08 = Nyle DiMarco (1989- ) = American model, actor, and activist 🌈

• 05-08 = Touko Laaksonen (aka Tom of Finland) (1920-1991) = Finnish artist 🌈

MAN CRUSHES OF THE DAY

“When you hit someone back with understanding or love it stops the cycle of friction. It’s not always easy to do, but when youre aware in the moment you have a choice to respond with love or hate. It’s not rocket science.”
Darren Hayes

“I almost never draw a completely naked man. He has to have at least a pair of boots or something on. To me, a fully dressed man is more erotic than a naked one. A naked man is, of course beautiful, but dress him in black leather or a uniform - ah, then he is more than beautiful, then he is sexy!”
Tom of Finland

There’s an old saying: “Don’t poke the bear.”

Most people hear that and think it’s about anger. Temper. Aggression.

But I think it’s really about boundaries.

Bears don’t wake up every morning looking for a fight. They’re not stomping through the woods searching for someone to maul. Most of the time, they just want to be left alone. They want Peace. Space. Quiet. Safety. Snacks.

I, a bear in human form, want the same things.

I try very hard to be more chill than I was raised to be. I try to pick my battles more carefully than I used to. I warn people: I’m nice…until I’m not. I try to remember that human beings are messy and flawed and complicated.

But there are certain lines that cannot be crossed. Non-negotiables.

And once I have clearly communicated those boundaries, once I have looked someone dead in the eye and said, “Do not do that again,” the responsibility shifts.

At that point, nobody gets to act shocked when I see red and bite their head off.

Last night, I lost my shit on someone I genuinely like. Maybe even love. But love, like patience, has its limits. And needs to be a two-way street if it’s going to last.

Two months ago, I warned this person about something specific. I was calm then. Direct. Clear. There was no confusion. No mixed signals. No passive-aggressive bullshit. I explained exactly where the line was and why it mattered.

Last night, he crossed it anyway.

And something in me snapped. Not cracked. Snapped.

My reaction was not careful or cool. It was cold, crazy, and even a little cruel. Once I see red, I don’t see any other colors again for a while. Every ounce of restraint I had been holding onto disappeared the second I realized he didn’t give a fuck about what I had said and warned him about.

He didn’t listen. And looked confused when I was screaming at him.

I’m not proud about how loud I got. But I refuse to apologize.
Play stupid games. Get stupid prizes.

Here’s the thing about boundaries: they’re meaningless if they’re not enforced.

I think a lot of us were conditioned to believe that protecting our peace makes us difficult. That enforcing boundaries makes us dramatic. That anger automatically invalidates whatever hurt came before it. Fuck all that stupid shit.

Sometimes anger is the clearest sign my nervous system can send: “STOP!”
Sometimes rage is what happens when my spirit gets tired of being ignored.

That doesn’t mean every reaction is justified. I know I could have handled parts of last night better. I know there were moments where I chose emotional napalm when a simple match would have done the job.

But I think I understand why I responded the way I did.

There’s a particular kind of heartbreak that comes from someone hearing your boundary and crossing it anyway, especially when it’s someone you thought was on your side and you would like to keep close. But enforcing boundaries often means risking the relationship itself.

Some people only love the version of you that grants them unlimited access. The moment you say “enough,” you become the villain in their story. If that’s the case here, so be it. What will be will be. I have no interest in keeping people in my life who refuse to respect me or my boundaries.

I would rather be accused of being too intense than spend my life teaching people they can disrespect me without consequence.

The truth is, most bears, animal or human, don’t want to attack anybody. Most of us would rather be left alone than pushed into a corner.

But to the people who keep poking after they’ve been warned to stop, eventually you lose the right to act surprised when the bear bites and fights back.

Keep calm and protect those boundaries!
Clint 🌈✌️

FROM THE ARCHIVES

BORN THIS WAY ON THIS DAY

• 05-07 = Angélica Lozano Correa (1975- ) = Colombian lawyer and politician 🌈

• 05-07 = Gary Cooper (1901-1961) = American actor 🌈

• 05-07 = Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky (1840-1893) = Russian composer 🌈

MAN CRUSH(ES) OF THE DAY

“To get folks to like you, as a screen player I mean, I figured you had to sort of be their ideal. I don’t mean a handsome knight riding a white horse, but a fella who answered the description of a right guy.”
Gary Cooper

After months of cussing and discussing vintage gay erotica with my old friend DJ, he finally offered to loan me some of the latest additions to his private collection.

Of course, I said yes.

When we met up yesterday, he didn’t just bring a piece or two. He showed up with two bags full of 4x5 and 5x7 prints. Easily a hundred photos, worth thousands of dollars. Not the kind of haul you casually toss into a tote bag. Holding them felt like holding frozen moments of art and history all at once.

A lot of the models are unfamiliar to me. Same with the photographers, when they were labeled at all. Which, if you know me, only makes this loan even better. The thrill isn’t just in the image. It’s in the discovery. The research rabbit holes. The slow unraveling of who, where, and when. If possible.

There’s also something about the prints themselves. Knowing they’ve lived other lives before landing with me. Passed through hands, hidden in drawers, tucked into portfolios, maybe even forgotten for a time. And now, somehow, they’ve found their way back into the light.

Over the coming days and weeks, I’ll be scanning and sharing what I can, when I can.

If you enjoy a little mystery, a slow reveal, the tease of not knowing what’s coming next, I’ll be posting selections here on Substack. I already have ideas for a few montages, small curated moments pulled from the stacks.

For those who prefer things a bit less restrained, I’ll be sharing additional, full monty images over on Bluesky.

But back to DJ.

I don’t take it lightly that he trusts me with this. These aren’t just photos. They’re fragments of queer history. Artifacts from a time when desire had to be coded, hidden, or quietly circulated. There’s courage in that. Beauty in it. And yes, plenty of unapologetic flesh.

DJ shares that belief. That this work deserves to be seen, appreciated, and preserved. Not locked away in boxes where no one gets to experience it.

And who is DJ, exactly?

First and foremost, he’s my forever friend. He’s also a former lover and longtime partner-in-crime. A true pain in the ass and fellow Texan, DJ is someone who’s taught me more than I’ll ever admit. He has an exceptional eye, exquisite taste, and a deep respect for the past. He works in antiques and estate sales, which gives him a knack for finding what others overlook, don’t understand, or fail to value until it’s too late.

Then there’s his personal art and photo collection. Carefully collected and curated. A seemingly motley mix of artifacts and ephemera that say as much about him as it does about the eras it represents.

One of these days, maybe he’ll let me dive deeper into his collection.

If he does, you already know I’ll bring you along for the ride.

For now, I’m feeling very grateful for his generosity.

Keep calm and appreciate on!
Clint 🌈✌️

P.S. Here’s a couple more quick scans to tide you over until I have a chance to scan the rest:

FROM THE ARCHIVES

BORN THIS WAY ON THIS DAY

• 05-06 = Jon Reed Sims (1847-1984) = American choir conductor 🌈

• 05-06 = Mary Lowndes (1857-1929) = British artist and suffragist 🌈

• 05-06 = Noah Galvin (1984- ) = American actor and singer 🌈

• 05-06 = Rudolph Valentino (1895-1926) = Italian actor 🌈

MAN CRUSH(ES) OF THE DAY

“I have been deeply touched by the many telegrams, cables and letters that have come to my bedside. It is wonderful to know that I have so many friends and well-wishers both among those it has been my privilege to meet and among the loyal unknown thousands who have seen me on the screen and whom I have never seen at all.”
Rudolph Valentino

When allegations surfaced in late 2024 involving Blake Lively and Justin Baldoni during the filming of It Ends With Us, I was skeptical.

Not dismissive. Not defensive. Just…skeptical.

Something about it didn’t pass the smell test.

Maybe that instinct comes from my years working as a set costumer. I’ve been on enough productions, with enough big personalities, to know the spectrum.

I’ve seen generosity and professionalism. I’ve seen egos the size of soundstages. And yeah, I’ve seen behavior that made me rethink my career choices on the drive home.

So when this story broke, I paid attention. And then I kept paying attention.

For the better part of a year and a half, this case became one of my strange background obsessions. Not because it affected my life in any real way, but because it unfolded in a world I used to work in. It felt familiar. The rhythms of it. The personalities. The behind-the-scenes machinations and maneuvers.

Every filing. Every response. Every “inside source.” A slow drip of updates that, at times, felt more like a soap opera than a legal dispute.

So when news broke yesterday afternoon that the case had been quietly settled, without any real public reckoning, the only thing I felt was underwhelmed.

Not relieved. Not outraged. Just underwhelmed.

Because after all that noise, all that speculation, all that time, and all those fucking lawyers, Lively vs. Baldoni (et al) didn’t end with clarity. It ended with a shrug where a conclusion was supposed to be.

And maybe that’s the point.

Because the truth is, most of us watching from the outside never had the full picture. We had fragments. Narratives. Competing versions of events shaped by legal teams, media cycles, and public perception. And somewhere along the way, it stopped being about what actually happened and became about what people were willing to believe.

That’s the part that sticks.

How quickly a situation like this turns into a proxy war for bigger conversations. Power. Credibility. Gender. Celebrity. Reputation. All of it layered on top of a story none of us actually had full access to.

How easily the public, myself included, can get pulled into picking sides based on incomplete information. And yeah, I’ll own my part in that. I had and have opinions. Strong ones. Probably stronger than the situation warranted, considering how little any of us truly knew.

So why did I invest so much attention into something so far removed from my life?

Part of it is proximity. Even now, the film and TV worlds feel like a language I still speak. When something messy happens in that space, it’s hard for me not to lean in.

But the bigger truth is harder to admit: This controversy was a distraction from the other “news” headlines.

It’s easier to track a high-profile drama-mama story than to sit with the heavier, messier realities happening elsewhere in the world. Celebrity conflict is messy, but is relatively contained. It has characters, plot twists, and, usually, an ending.

Real life doesn’t always offer that.

And this ending, if you can even call it that, makes that painfully clear.

No dramatic courtroom moment.
No definitive version of the truth.
No clean and clear resolution.

Just a settlement, a joint statement, and the slow fade of public interest.

It ends with this. Not with a bang. But with a whimper.

And maybe that’s the real takeaway.

Not who was right. Not who was wrong.

But how easily we can get pulled into stories like this. How quickly we invest, react, argue, and assume, all while standing on the outside, filling in blanks that were never ours to fill.

In the end, the case disappears. The headlines move on.

And all that certainty we felt along the way?

That’s the part that makes me the most uncomfortable.

Keep calm and carry on!
Clint 🌈✌️

FROM THE ARCHIVES

BORN THIS WAY ON THIS DAY

• 05-05 = Del Martin (1921-2008) = American feminist and gay rights activist 🌈

• 05-05 = James Beard (1903-1985) = American chef, author, and tv personality 🌈

• 05-05 = Robert Vano (1948- ) = Slovak photographer 🌈

• 05-05 = Tyrone Power (1914-1958) = American actor 🌈

MAN CRUSH(ES) OF THE DAY

“A gourmet who thinks of calories is like a tart who looks at her watch.”
James Beard

“I’ve done an awful lot of stuff that’s a monument to public patience.”
Tyrone Power

I remember the first time I “met” Keith Haring.

I was ten years old, parked in front of the television, watching Dan Rather on CBS Evening News. That alone was unusual. Because, in our house, the nightly news was usually delivered by Peter Jennings over on ABC World News Tonight.

But for whatever reason, on that particular night, we switched channels. And that small, random deviation from our regularly-scheduled programming ended up changing more than I could have understood at the time.

Because that was the night I was introduced to Keith Haring.

I didn’t have the language for it yet. I couldn’t have told you about pop art, or graffiti as cultural resistance, or the democratization of art. I was just a kid. But I knew what I liked. And I liked what I saw.

Haring’s figures were simple. Bold. Alive.

Radiant babies. Barking dogs. Dancing bodies that looked like they were vibrating right off the canvas.

Even then, I understood something instinctively:
These weren’t just drawings. They were messages.

Haring’s work first gained notoriety in the New York City subway stations. He turned empty ad panels into canvases, chalk in hand, creating art in real-time for commuters who might not otherwise step foot inside an art gallery or museum.

Strangers rushing to work became his audience. The city itself became his gallery.

To my ten-year-old brain, his art felt rebellious and joyful at the same time. His work looked like modern-day cave paintings to me. But instead of telling stories of survival, they told stories of energy, connection, and pride.

As I got older, I learned what I couldn’t fully grasp back then. That beneath the playful lines was a sense of urgency and weight. Haring worked during a time when New York was alive with creativity and also reckoning with crisis. His work took on themes of love, sex, power, and the AIDS epidemic. It was activism disguised as accessibility.

He made it impossible to look away, even when the message was uncomfortable.

That’s what made Keith Haring and his work so powerful. He didn’t separate art from life. He didn’t wait for permission. He showed up, again and again, and made the work where people already were.

Looking back, that moment in front of the TV wasn’t just about discovering an artist. It was my first understanding that art didn’t have to live behind glass or inside quiet rooms. It could be immediate. Public. Alive.

Art could meet me exactly where I was.

Decades later, that still feels like the lesson.

Because those lines, as simple as they were, didn’t stay contained. They moved. Across subway platforms. Around the world. On public walls and in private art collections.

Haring’s work found a ten-year-old kid in a living room who wasn’t even supposed to be watching that channel. And it burned a hole in my imagination.

Keith Haring was here. And his legacy lives on….

Keep calm and keep his candles lit!
Clint 🌈✌️

FROM THE ARCHIVES

BORN THIS WAY ON THIS DAY

• 05-04 = Keith Haring (1958-1990) = American artist 🌈

• 05-04 = Lance Bass (1979- ) = American singer, dancer, and producer 🌈

• 05-04 = Lincoln Kirstein (1907-1996) = American writer, impresario, art connoisseur, philanthropist, and New York City Ballet co-founder 🌈

MAN CRUSH OF THE DAY

“I don’t think art is propaganda; it should be something that liberates the soul, provokes the imagination and encourages people to go further. It celebrates humanity instead of manipulating it.”
Keith Haring

Yesterday came and went without much fanfare. It wasn’t until I woke up this morning that I realized I had missed my LA Anniversary. Again.

Twenty-eight years ago, I arrived in Los Angeles, the so-called City of Angels.

I meant to celebrate. I really did. But I forgot.

To be fair, this is not my first time missing the date, and it probably will not be my last. Life has a way of moving forward whether you pause to mark it or not. And lately, it feels like life has been moving both fast and slow at the exact same time.

What stands out to me now is not just the number, twenty-eight years, but what that time actually represents. I have lived in and around Los Angeles far longer than I ever lived in my hometown of Dallas. That realization alone feels surreal.

There was a time when Texas was everything I knew.
Now it feels like a chapter from a completely different life.

Back in 1998, I made a very intentional choice. In Dallas, I had become somewhat of a big fish in a small pond. Comfortable. Maybe even a little too comfortable. So I did the opposite of what made sense and moved to California, fully aware I would become a very small fish in an absolutely massive pond.

I was then. And, in a lot of ways, I still am.

Los Angeles has a way of humbling you like that. It stretches you, tests you, and occasionally chews you up just to see if you will put yourself back together again.

Over the years, there have been more experiences than I can neatly categorize. So many random gigs, jobs, and projects that somehow kept the lights on and the stories going. More friendships, relationships, and situationships than I could ever count, much less fully remember. Some made perfect sense at the time. Others still don’t make sense to me after all these years.

And through it all, I’ve lived through the full spectrum of the good, the bad, and the ugh-ly. I try to focus on the former and forget the latter.

Building a life somewhere is not just the highlight reel. It’s the accumulation of all those moments, the chaotic, the beautiful, the confusing, and the mundane. Layered over time, they become something solid. Something real. One day you look up and realize you have roots.

So how did I spend my LA Anniversary?

Not with a party. Or even a toast. And definitely not with a reflective sunset moment.

I spent it recovering from my trip. Catching up with my best friend. Thinking about unpacking and then not doing it. And I slept. A lot.

Apparently, this is who I am now. Someone who celebrates twenty-eight years in Los Angeles a day late and a dollar short. And honestly, that feels oddly fitting.

Because the real celebration isn’t in marking the day. It’s in still being here. Still building. Still figuring it out. Still choosing this city, even on the days when it feels like it’s not choosing me back.

Twenty-eight years later, I am still that person who took a risk on building a bigger life. Even though I’m still a small fish in a very big pond, I think I’ve gotten wiser. And more realistic. Mostly.

And, if you are wondering, yes, I still poop out at parties.
Sometimes, I poop out before the party even gets started.

Thank you for being a friend!
Clint 🌈✌️

ICYMI = IN CASE YOU MISSED IT

• SUNDAY = The Struggle Is Still Mighty Real

• MONDAY = Seattle By Morning + Portland By Afternoon

• TUESDAY = Too Big For My Britches

• WEDNESDAY = Portlandia + The Road Home

• THURSDAY = The In-Between Place

• FRIDAY = Clicking My Heals

• SATURDAY = There's No Place Like Home

FROM THE ARCHIVES

BORN THIS WAY ON THIS DAY

• 05-03 = Mary Lambert (1989- ) = American singer-songwriter 🌈

• 05-03 = May Sarton (1912-1995) = Belgian-American writer 🌈

• 05-03 = Raffi Freedman-Gurspan (1987- ) = American political activist 🌈

• 05-03 = Robert De Niro Sr. (1922-1993) = American artist 🌈

• 05-03 = Sandi Toksvig (1958- ) = Danish-British comedienne and presenter 🌈

• 05-03 = William Inge (1913-1973) = American playwright and novelist 🌈

MAN CRUSH OF THE DAY

“Nobody is bored when he is trying to make something that is beautiful, or to discover something that is true.”
William Inge

My three-plus-week getaway officially came to an end yesterday afternoon when I rolled back into the peacock-filled driveway here in Pasadena.

And just like that…the trip was over.

After more than 2,000 miles added to the odometer, a couple of cruise points added to the tally, and suitcases that somehow feel heavier coming home than they did leaving, I’m baaaaack.

When I pulled into the driveway, I just sat in the car for a moment longer than usual, taking it all in before getting out.

Home hits differently after you’ve been gone for a while. Like a deep breath you didn’t realize you needed.

I’m not going anywhere for a bit. Not mentally. Not physically. Not logistically.

At least not until I can lose enough weight to fly comfortably again. That part is still very real and still sitting at the top of the list.

Because what I learned, or maybe relearned, on this trip is that Clint doesn’t mind driving for about an hour. Maybe two if the vibes are right. Anything beyond that? Not my cup of tea. Especially if bridges or mountain passes are involved.

Road trips are a lot harder for me than I remember. What used to feel like the freedom of the open road now sometimes feels like an endurance test of too many highways.

And yet, I did it.

Getting into Pasadena just before Friday rush hour felt oddly busy and quiet at the same time. There was no big moment. No dramatic sense of arrival. Just a subtle shift from being out there to being back here.

I left the bags in the car and went inside, where my roommate and his lil dawg Miss Ellie Mae awaited. Out in the backyard, his brother and sister-in-law were in the middle of giving the outside of my garage apartment some much-needed updates. Exciting!

We all cussed. We all discussed. Then my roommate headed off to work, everyone else went home, and I took a nap. A short, but very necessary, nap.

My place smelled like Fabulosa, that household cleaner that somehow makes everything feel fresher than it should. I’d left the bottle open while I was gone, hoping it would keep the apartment smelling fresh. And it did.

By evening, I was ready to start unpacking and easing back into the small rituals that travel interrupts.

• A shower in my own bathroom.

• A meal that didn’t come from a drive-thru, a cruise buffet, or some random gas station along the highway.

• Sitting in my usual spot and letting the noise of the past few weeks begin to settle.

Travel has a way of overstimulating everything. The sights. The sounds. The constant decisions. Even when it’s all good, it still adds up. Being home is where I can finally process it all.

By the time night rolled around, I was more than ready to sleep in my own bed again.

It shouldn’t feel like a luxury, but after weeks away, it absolutely does. No thin hotel pillows. No unfamiliar noises through the walls. No awkward navigation in the dark.

Just quiet. Just comfort.

I don’t even remember falling asleep.

This morning, there was a brief moment of disorientation. Where the fuck am I?

And then it clicked, right about the same time the peacocks started squawking.

I’m home.

No packing. No checkout time. No miles to cover. No itinerary waiting.

Just a day ahead of me being and doing whatever I need to today.

I may not be Dorothy, but as a forever friend of Dorothy (Gale and Zbornak), I can confirm that there really is no place like home.

As much as I love going places, I love coming back even more.

For now, home is exactly where I need and want to be.

Keep calm and have a great weekend!
Clint 🌈✌️

FROM THE ARCHIVES

BORN THIS WAY ON THIS DAY

• 05-02 = Catherine Opie (1961- ) = American photographer 🌈

• 05-02 = Lesley Gore (1946-2015) = American singer-songwriter 🌈

• 05-02 = Lorenz Hart (1895-1943) = American lyricist 🌈

• 05-02 = Mabel Hampton (1902-1989) = American activist and dancer 🌈

• 05-02 = Roscoe Lee Browne = American actor and director 🌈

MAN CRUSHES OF THE DAY

“There isn’t anything I wanted to do that I haven’t. At the same time, there isn’t anything I’ve ever done that I didn’t want to do better.”
Richard Rodgers

“Wide awake I can make my most fantastic dreams come true.”
Lorenz Hart

I’m writing and scheduling this post Thursday night from a hotel room in Stockton, CA. It’s nothing fancy, but just what I needed for a quick pit stop before the final stretch.

My plan is simple: crash early, wake up early, and drive.

By the time this post goes live, I should be on the road and within about four hours of Pasadena. The finish line is officially in sight, and I am ready for this roadtrip to be over.

My goal is to roll in around lunch so I can catch my roommate before he heads to work at 2pm and say hey to his brother too. Just one of those small, everyday moments that somehow feels like a big deal after being gone for three-plus weeks.

This trip has been a little bit of everything. Fun, messy, relaxing, anxiety-provoking. You know, life. Wherever we are, we are, right?

Right now, my focus is super simple: getting home safe and sound. I’m ready to be sleeping in my own bed and unpacking all my stuff. No more living out of a suitcase. No more wondering where I’m sleeping tomorrow night. Yay!

There’s something very Wizard of Oz about this part. No place like home. So yeah, I’m clicking my heels, repeating the mantra, and actually meaning it.

One more playlist and podcast. One more fill-up and pit stop.

Then I’m home, back to my regularly-scheduled life.

And honestly? That sounds perfect.

Keep calm and carry on!
Clint 🌈✌️

FROM THE ARCHIVES

BORN THIS WAY ON THIS DAY

• 05-01 = Andy Thayer (1960- ) = American Gay Liberation Network co-founder 🌈

• 05-01 = Calamity Jane (1852-1903) = American frontierswoman and scout 🌈

• 05-01 = Enoé Uranga (1963- ) = Mexican politician 🌈

• 05-01 = Katya Zamolodchikova (1982- ) = American drag queen, actor, author, recording artist, podcaster, and comedian 🌈

• 05-01 = Mary MacLane (1881-1929) = Canadian-American writer 🌈

• 05-01 = Michael Dillon (1915-1962) = British physician and author 🌈

• 05-01 = Romaine Brooks (1874-1970) = American-French artist 🌈

MAN CRUSH OF THE DAY

“It’s funny how you get a bit older and become more accepting of things.”
Jamie Dornan

I stopped in Ashland, OR, again last night. Not because I planned to, but because after six hours in the car, winding through mountain passes and inching through one-lane construction zones, I needed to be off the road.

I wasn’t thinking about destination anymore. I was thinking about relief. A bed. A door that locks. Silence that isn’t filled with road noise and a semi-truck isn’t trying to drive up my asshole.

I’m still more than ten hours from home. Odds are, I’ll repeat the pattern tonight. Drive. Think. Feel. Pull over. Sleep. Rinse. Repeat.

This is the in-between place.

Not quite where I started. Not even close to where I’m going. Just…here.

And “here” has a way of asking questions.

• What am I even doing right now? Not just the literal act of driving up and down the West Coast, but the bigger picture. The choices. The pivots. The quiet recalibrations that don’t make for dramatic storytelling but somehow feel more important than the big, obvious milestones.

• When did everything start to feel so…layered? The world, especially. It’s loud. It’s heavy. It’s relentless. And even when I step away, even when I’m surrounded by beautiful views, new cities, old friends, and delicious meals, that weight doesn’t fully clock out. It rides shotgun.

• Where am I, really? Geographically, sure, I can pinpoint where I am on a map. But internally, it’s less precise. Somewhere between tired and grateful. Somewhere between overwhelmed and grounded. Somewhere between wanting to unplug completely and wanting to stay engaged, informed, aware.

• Who am I in this moment? Not the version of me from a few weeks ago, and not quite the version I’ll be when I finally pull into my driveway. Travel does that. Distance does that. Time alone with your thoughts definitely does that.

• Why does all of this feel both necessary and a little disorienting? Because slowing down forces honesty. Because when you strip away routine, distraction, and the comfort of the familiar, you’re left with whatever’s actually going on underneath. No buffering. No background noise to hide behind.

And maybe the most important question:

• How am I? The real answer is…mixed. I’m tired, physically. Long drives will do that. My shoulders feel it. My eyes feel it. My patience feels it.

I’m also mentally stretched. Not broken, not spiraling, just…stretched. Like a painter’s canvas, ready to get the next creative project started. I’ve been holding a lot at once and I haven’t quite set any of it down yet.

But I’m also okay. More than okay, sometimes.

There’s something quietly reassuring about this in-between space. It’s not comfortable in the traditional sense, but it’s honest. It’s transitional. It’s proof that I’m moving, I’m making progress, even if I don’t have every answer mapped out.

I think we spend so much time trying to rush through these spaces. To get to the next destination, to the next version of ourselves, to the next sense of certainty. But there’s something to be said for sitting in the middle of it. For acknowledging that not everything needs to be resolved immediately.

Right now, my job isn’t to have it all figured out. It’s to keep going. To find the next place to rest. To notice what’s shifting, internally and externally. To let the questions exist without forcing answers that aren’t ready yet.

Another hotel tonight. Another stretch of road. Another few hours of thinking, or maybe not thinking at all.

Eventually, I’ll get home.

But for now, this in-between place is where I am.

And for the moment, that’s enough.

Keep calm and carry on!
Clint 🌈✌️

FROM THE ARCHIVES

BORN THIS WAY ON THIS DAY

• 04-30 = Alice B. Toklas (1877-1967) = American-born memoirist 🌈

• 04-30 = Matilda Mary Hays (1820-1897) = British actor and writer 🌈

• 04-30 = Onir (1969- ) = Bengali Indian filmmaker 🌈

• 04-30 = Tsukioka Yoshitoshi (1839-1892) = Japanese artist 🌈

MAN CRUSH OF THE DAY

“Look, I’m not odd. I’m just trying to be an actor; not a movie star, an actor.”
Montgomery Clift

My two-night stay in Portland is coming to a close, and shortly I’ll be checking out of The Hotel Zags Portland and hitting the road back to Pasadena.

This three-week getaway has been filled with ups, downs, and all-arounds. But mostly ups. And I don’t take that lightly. I’m genuinely grateful for everyone who reads, shares, and supports me on Substack. You’re a big part of why I was able to take this much-needed break and actually enjoy it.

Visiting Portland, for me, was all about one thing: reuniting and spending time with my beloved chosen sister, Miss B.

And let me tell you, reunited feels so good!

Yesterday, Miss B and I kept things simple, spending the day wandering through the exhibits and galleries of the Portland Art Museum. Room after room of thoughtfully curated work, the kind that makes you pause, tilt your head, and sometimes just stand there a little longer than expected.

And then there was the real highlight for me: an exhibit featuring hundreds of works by David Hockney, my favorite living artist.

If you’re not familiar with Mr. Hockney, do yourself a favor and go down that rabbit hole. His use of color, perspective, and pure joy in his work is something else entirely. Hockney’s art, from every era of his sixty-year career, feels so alert and so alive.

Miss B and I had so much fun, we ran out of energy for anything else. No time or energy to Powell’s City of Books. Or even get our mani-pedis on. Honesty, I’m not mad about it. It was that good of a day!

There’s something deeply satisfying about a day that’s so full, in the best possible ways, that it naturally tells you when it’s time to stop.

From here, the plan is simple: get on I-5 and drive home, slow and easy. No more than six hours of driving per day, I’m aiming to be back in Pasadena by early Friday afternoon. Unless I get a wild hair. Which is always a possibility.

As much as I’ve loved being on the move, my inner homo alono self is ready to sleep in my own bed, get back to my own routines and rhythms, and just be in my own space.

Speaking of spaces, I got a few ideas for reworking my studio apartment. Nothing major, just small projects that will make my heart happy and help the space feel even more like home.

And, lastly, for those who enjoy food porn, yes, I made it back to Grits N’ Gravy one more time this morning. I had to. Some things are just too good not to repeat. Here’s a look at what I ate and a glimpse of the decor. Note: The restaurant also acts as an art gallery for local artists. Some stunning pieces (that I didn’t photograph out of respect for their creators):

This trip may be winding down, but I’m taking the memories and the moments home with me. The ups, the downs, and the all-arounds. Cuz that’s the way, uh-huh uh-huh, I like it.

Keep calm and boogie on!
Clint 🌈✌️

P.S. Over the next week or so, I’ll be sharing new photos from a dear friend’s private collection. Primarily vintage physique and BDSM-themed portraits, likely taken by Bruce of LA, Pat Milo, and/or Mel Roberts. I’m due to pick them up to scan when I get home. Yay!

FROM THE ARCHIVES

BORN THIS WAY ON THIS DAY

• 04-29 = Garrison Starr (1975- ) = American singer-songwriter 🌈

• 04-29 = Constantine P. Cavafy (1863-1933) = Greek poet 🌈

• 04-29 = Jim Toy (1930-2022) = American activist and educator 🌈

• 04-29 = Leslie Jordan (1955-2022) = American actor, comedian, writer and singer 🌈

• 04-29 = Rod McKuen (1933-2015) = American poet, singer-songwriter, and composer 🌈

MAN CRUSH(ES) OF THE DAY

“I fell out of the womb and landed in my mother’s high heels.”
Leslie Jordan

Somewhere between the MS Noordam’s buffets and included room service, I must have gained a few pounds.

I had hoped extra laps around the promenade deck might offset at least some of those tasty calories. But as I was getting ready for Miss B to pick me up for happy hour and dinner at SoHo House Portland, reality set in.

Seems my favorite pair of pants, the ones that fit perfectly at the start of this getaway, now felt more like a second skin.

I could pretend this was shocking. Mysterious, even. But when you combine unlimited access to really good food with my long-standing love affair with anything sweet, savory, buttery, crispy, and/or covered in sauce, this feels less like a surprise and more like an inevitability.

And you know what? I’m not even mad about it. Okay…maybe a little mad.

Once I get back home on Friday, I’ll rein things in. Find some balance again. Maybe reacquaint myself with vegetables that aren’t fried or drenched in sauce.

But right now? In Portland? On this trip? I’m here to enjoy and experience as much as possible.

So instead of forcing the pants, I found a pair that actually fit. Not my favorite, but good enough. And just like that, I was out the door to meet the delovely and delightful Miss B.

After that run-in with reality, I found myself craving something a little lighter to balance out my liquid appetizers. Miss B recommended a chopped salad that absolutely rocked my world. Which, for me, is a bold statement for a salad.

The grilled chicken was fresh, flavorful, and perfectly cooked. Every ingredient tasted intentional. It wasn’t just food. It was a composed and curated meal. The kind of dish that makes you slow down and actually pay attention to each bite.

I wanted to take a photo because it looked like something straight out of a magazine. But SoHo House Portland has a no-photography policy, which I respect. Privacy over content, y’all.

Miss B and I settled into a sectional in the posh bar and lounge. There we caught up while cussing and discussing everything under the sun. God, I love my chosen sister.

After she dropped me back at The Hotel Zags Portland, I did what any reasonable, food-loving traveler would do: I started planning my next meal.

Thanks to Yelp, I discovered that less than a mile away is a Southern comfort food spot calling my name: Grits N’ Gravy.

And when I say calling my name, I mean it had me setting an alarm for 6am.

By 7am, I was there when they opened the door.

I ordered the “Country Boy Breakfast,” and I genuinely don’t have the words to do it justice. A buttermilk biscuit topped with fresh sausage and smothered in country gravy, served alongside scrambled eggs and fried grits.

Now, I’m not usually a grits person…but fry them and serve them with molasses? Suddenly, I’m all in. Clint is currently full as a tick and happy as a clam.

Every bite felt like a warm hug from my grandma, who made the best biscuits in the world. She never wrote the recipe down or taught anyone how to make them, so her masterpieces are lost to time. But the biscuits at Grits N’ Gravy came pretty close.

The flavors weren’t subtle or light.
But they were absolutely right.

Look, I know how this sounds. Pants getting tighter. Meals getting heavier. A whole lot of “I’ll deal with it later” energy.

But here’s the thing. Travel, for me, isn’t just about seeing new places. It’s about smelling them. Tasting them. Letting a place show me who it is through its food and saying yes to dishes I didn’t even know I wanted.

Maybe I’m a little too big for my britches right now. So I’m wearing shorts today.

It’s time to get this day going. Miss B and I are off to explore her new home town, enjoying good art, good books, and great conversations that remind me just how lucky I am to call her a friend.

Keep calm and carry on!
Clint 🌈✌️

FROM THE ARCHIVES

BORN THIS WAY ON THIS DAY

• 04-28 = John Paul Hudson (1928-2002) = American activist, writer, and actor 🌈

MAN CRUSHES OF THE DAY

“If somebody says you can’t do something, find five ways to do it.”
Drew Scott

“I don’t trust people who don’t like dogs.”
Jonathan Scott

Stepping off the ship in Seattle early yesterday morning, I breathed a sigh of relief. Not because I didn’t enjoy the cruise, but because I feel so at home here in the Pacific Northwest.

If it weren’t for the cold and rain, I could genuinely see myself living here. I may not tan, but I still need my sun, which is why Los Angeles has been home for so long. Even so, this city makes a strong case for itself: great food, genuinely kind people, and yes, an unusually high concentration of handsome men. I said what I said.

More importantly, it’s home to one of my favorite humans ever. My sister-from-another-mister, Miss M, who has built a life here with her not-so-little dog, Simon. Being able to spend a slow, sunny Sunday with them grounded me in ways I really, really needed. And the afternoon nap and tasty Chinese takeout didn’t hurt either.

That’s the thing about places like Seattle. It’s not just the skyline or the coffee shops or the water views. It’s the people who make the city feel like yours, even if you don’t technically live there.

Today, after rush hour dies down, I’m heading south. From Seattle to Portland.

It’s a relatively short three-hour drive that can easily turn into four (or five) if the traffic gods decide to be petty. I’m choosing to be both optimistic and realistic today.

Waiting for me in Portland is another chosen sister, Miss B. I’m excited to see her new home and spend some time in her new home town.

The plan is simple. And perfect. For me anyway.

Tomorrow, we’re going to visit to Powell’s City of Books, where it’s dangerously easy to lose track of time, space, and your budget. And the Portland Art Museum, because a little culture never hurt anyone.

We might do something fun tonight. Or we might not. It depends on how I feel when I get there and get settled into my hotel.

Two cities in one day. Two people who feel like home in different ways.

If there’s a theme to this stretch of the trip, it’s this: I’m learning to move through the world without outrunning myself. Most days anyway.

Some days that looks like doing the most. Other days it looks like doing less than I planned. Today, it looks like Seattle by morning, Portland by afternoon, and gratitude all day long.

Keep calm and carry on!
Clint 🌈✌️

FROM THE ARCHIVES

BORN THIS WAY ON THIS DAY

• 04-27 = Froy Gutierrez (1998- ) = American actor and singer 🌈

• 04-27 = Jack Cole (1911-1974) = American dancer and choreographer 🌈

• 04-27 = Luis Zapata (1951-2020) = Mexican writer 🌈

• 04-27 = Rachel Morrison (1978- ) = American cinematographer and director 🌈

• 04-27 = Russell T. Davies (1963- ) = Welsh screenwriter and producer 🌈

MAN CRUSH OF THE DAY

Though experience keeps proving otherwise, I like to believe vacations are a clean break. A neatly packaged reset button from whatever’s going on in my “real” life.

Turns out, my brain doesn’t give a single fuck about vacations.

So instead of heading out on my first excursion and doing the whole “touch grass” thing yesterday, I ended up staying on the ship. Not by choice. But by necessity.

Another anxiety attack struck me down after I posted my blog. Somewhere between breakfast and getting ready to leave, my optimistic mood turned upside down.

For those lucky enough to have never experienced one, an anxiety attack feels like your body hit the emergency button for no clear reason.

My heart races, my chest tightens, my thoughts scatter, and every part of me is convinced something is wrong, even when I know it’s a false alarm. Logic doesn’t really work in those moments.

The only thing that seems to work for me is to breathe and just let it pass.

I’ve been having anxiety attacks at least every other day on this trip. Fun. Not exactly the kind of souvenir I had in mind when I planned it out.

But given my history of mental health challenges, it’s not exactly surprising. Still, that doesn’t make it any less frustrating. Or exhausting.

So I skipped the excursion, stayed in my room, and rode out the storm.

Not glamorous. Not impressive. Maybe not even worth writing about. Except I know I’m far from alone in this, and there’s no shame in the mental health game. Beating ourselves up about it doesn’t help, and pretending they don’t happen doesn’t make them go away.

At least my latest happened before the excursion instead of during it. Somewhere private. Somewhere safe. No audience. No added layer of embarrassment or need to explain why I suddenly couldn’t function in a group setting.

Small wins count, even when they don’t feel like wins.

A bigger win is what’s waiting for me on the other side of this trip. I’ve got my first session lined up with a new therapist I feel really good about. Not just someone to vent to, but someone who might actually help me get a handle on these attacks instead of just surviving them.

That matters to me more than any excursion I missed.

In about thirty minutes, I’ll be disembarking the MS Noordam in Seattle. Like my new friend Tina, I’ve been ready to get off for a few days. Great food and some lovely people, but it’s just not the right cruise ship vibe for me.

What’s awaiting me on dry land is way better. I’m heading back to spend another day and night with my sister from another mister, Miss M. Then, tomorrow after rush hour, I’m driving to Portland to spend a couple of days with another chosen sister, Miss B.

They know me. They get me. They don’t require a polished version of me.

If there’s one thing this trip is reinforcing, it’s this: mental health doesn’t clock out just because I booked a getaway. The scenery can change. The food can be great. The views can be unreal. And still, my brain can manage to spiral…even in paradise.

That doesn’t mean the trip is a failure. It just means it’s had some detours and diversions that I hadn’t planned for. So I didn’t hike the trails. Or take as many photos as I had hoped. Or check all the boxes on my “to-do” lists. Oh. Well.

But I got through another adventure, another storm. I faced my demons head-on, slayed the ones I could, and I stood up to the ones I couldn’t. I didn’t run. And I didn’t pretend it wasn’t happening. I held my ground and felt every feeling.

Right now, those small wins matter more than I ever gave them credit for before.

The struggle is still mighty real. But so am I.

Thank you for being a friend!
Clint 🌈✌️

ICYMI = IN CASE YOU MISSED IT

• SUNDAY = Embarkation Approaches

• MONDAY = 'At Sea' (For Me) Day

• TUESDAY = Catch Me In Ketchikan (If You Can)

• WEDNESDAY = 'The Best Camera Is The One That's With You'

• THURSDAY = Relaxing + Relating + Releasing

• FRIDAY = Five Cruise Lines Ranked

• SATURDAY = Time To Touch Grass, Y'all

FROM THE ARCHIVES

BORN THIS WAY ON THIS DAY

• 04-26 = Lily Parr (1905-1978) = English athlete 🌈

• 04-26 = Ludwig Wittgenstein (1889-1951) = Austrian philosopher 🌈

• 04-26 = Ma Rainey (1886-1939) = American singer-songwriter 🌈

MAN CRUSHES OF THE DAY

“There is a price to pay for most of our actions. For every action, there is a reaction.”
Giancarlo Esposito

“If you’re in public and standing still, don’t take a phone call. It’s that simple. All you’re doing is holding those around you hostage to a one-sided conversation.”
Sean Evans

“I like being in new places and seeing new sights.”
Tom Welling

Today’s my last full day on the MS Noordam, and I’ve decided to celebrate by going on my first-ever excursion. Treat yourself, right?

One of the best (and worst) things about being on this cruise is my limited internet. The WiFi package I paid for won’t let me anywhere near streaming services. Which means my almost all-day, all-night YouTube Premium habit has been forcibly paused.

I can’t even respond to comments on my own YouTube channel. It’s a weird, humbling experience, to say the least.

But honestly? It’s not all bad.

I can still peek at “news” headlines and social media. But I’ve been limiting my online time more and more lately. Frankly, ain’t nobody got time for all that bullshit. So a quick check, then I go offline before the toxicity sinks in.

I spent enough years doomscrolling and shitposting my way through the first Chump administration, convinced that being chronically online and outraged was the same thing as being engaged and helpful. It was/is not.

At some point, “staying informed” turned into “staying angry.” Don’t get me wrong: I still believe in speaking up and doing what I can, when I can, and where I can.

But at some point, I also realized that yelling into the social media void 24/7/365 doesn’t actually help anyone. If anything, it just keeps my stress levels high and extends my dependency on multiple high-blood pressure medications.

All that noise doesn’t just burn us out, it can make us resent even the people we agree with. For me, it’s too much fucking noise, all the fucking time.

Maybe instead of constantly reposting bad news, channel that energy into actually doing something that makes a difference? Or focus on finding more stories that make us feel connected and hopeful?

In the immortal words of Iyanla Vanzant, “Make a different choice!”

I’m guilty of this knee-jerk, circle-jerk bullshit too. So please don’t think I’m wagging my fingers at anyone in particular.

But in an effort to protect my own peace and mental health, I have to ration how much time and attention I give it anymore. So I do a little preaching to the choir here and there. But I’m not trying to win the Comment Section Olympics.

If constant outrage actually fixed things, we’d be living in a utopia by now.

Which brings me back to the cruise and doing something new and truly radical today: touching grass.

Back in 2008, on my very first cruise, me and my friends only had a few hours on Victoria Island. So we did what young folks on a budget do: We walked everywhere. We popped into the Empress Hotel like we belonged there, grabbed a few drinks at random pubs, and generally treated the city like it was our own private playground. It was fun. And exhausting.

Fast forward to 2026. I’m older, slower, and hopefully wiser now. So I had to get more realistic and strategic. This time around, I booked a proper excursion to The Butchart Gardens. No power walking across town. No more pretending I know where I’m going. A tour bus will be picking a small group of us up in a couple of hours and taking us to one of the most famous gardens in the world.

Fifty-five acres of curated, colorful, intentional beauty. The Sunken Garden. The Rose Garden. The Japanese Garden. Spaces designed to help us slow down and smell the roses. Then we’re off and to the Victoria Butterfly Gardens to appreciate…butterflies.

No “news” or notifications. No comment sections or hot takes.

Just flowers doing what flowers have always done, completely unaware of whatever nonsense is trending online. This is the kind of reset my doctor recommended a long time ago.

There’s something a little ridiculous about needing a cruise ship with limited internet to remind myself how to be a person in the real world. But here we are. And if the tradeoff for missing a few uploads and comments is getting a few hours of actual peace and quiet, I’ll take it. Gladly.

Because the internet will still be there when I get back. Loud as ever. Mad as ever. Trying to convince us all that everything is urgent, everything is broken, and everything requires an immediate emotional response.

But a garden doesn’t ask anything from you. It just exists.

So for a few hours on Victoria Island, I plan to unplug and touch grass.

Hope you choose to too, boo!
Clint 🌈✌️

FROM THE ARCHIVES

BORN THIS WAY ON THIS DAY

• 04-25 = Andy Bell (1964- ) = English singer-songwriter 🌈

• 04-25 = Anja Pärson (1981- ) = Swedish alpine skier 🌈

• 04-25 = Cy Twombly (1928-2011) = American-Italian painter and sculptor 🌈

• 04-25 = Graham Payn (1918-2005) = South African-English actor and singer 🌈

• 04-25 = Jonathan Bailey (1988- ) = English actor 🌈

• 04-25 = King Edward II (1284-1327) = King of England 🌈

MAN CRUSH OF THE DAY

“I’d say I’m not openly gay. I’m just gay.”
Jonathan Bailey