The thing that limits analog watches is the exact reason I wear one.
They only do one thing — tell time.

I’m writing to tell you that you were right.

Spring Equinox.
Finally.
But after weeks of waiting, it arrives as just another quiet Friday.

When I’m worn out from the day, I don’t reach for something new. I reach for an old friend.

The outfits had to work for real life: airport to office to dinner. So the brief became: professional-leaning business casual — not too fancy, not too casual, and comfortable enough to instill confidence.

Two weeks before the spring equinox.
USDA Zone 6b — two long months before the last frost date.
Still too cold to get into the garden.

The work trip occupies an odd space: structured days, unfamiliar environments, and hotel rooms that never quite feel welcoming.

Packing becomes less about efficiency and more about maintaining a sense of ease, authority, and minor but meaningful comforts.

The real issue, though, is my pompadour. Priorities remain, fellas, even at the bottom of February.

I could easily pull on a cute beanie hat to protect my little earlobes. But a hat is a full commitment. Once you’ve smashed a proud pompadour under a hat, there is no recovery.

Bottom of Winter. Somewhere in the Heartland. Mid-morning.

The leaves underfoot no longer crackle. Long months buried under frost, then snow, have weathered them. Softened them.

You know the feeling. That’s why your boots carry you into the forest.

Sunday afternoon. Late Winter. Outside, the snow swirls lazily past the windows. Then — the gentle pop of the cork.

Spring doesn’t have to arrive all at once — not in the air, and not in my closet.

The snow is gone, though winter still lingers in the wind. The ground is dark with melt and the sky holds its gray.

You’ve got a few errands to tend to — and a standing date with yourself at your favorite coffee shop.

This is why clothing is such a big deal to me.  So many times clothing is actually a reflection of what’s on the inside. 

Here's a simple evening ritual that will take 5-10 minutes and will enhance your memory of your day while also keeping your life less cluttered.

I wrote this poem several years ago. I had spent months slogging through session after session with my therapist trying to make peace with my childhood. Really, I was trying to finally believe that it was alright to be queer.

I remember the first time I heard the word 'butch.'  Not just heard it. The first time someone called me butch.