Aug 11, 2017

N.C. Wyeth: Keeping Gay Desire Hidden

During the first half of the twentieth century, kids who got adventure books as presents, or checked them out of the library, were sure to find beautiful illustrations by N.C. Wyeth (1882-1945), like this naked warrior in a biography of Charlemagne.

The American regionalist illustrated over 100 books, including The Last of the Mohicans, Treasure Island, Kidnapped, Robinson Crusoe, The Yearling -- just about everything that boys read for pleasure during that era, making him as famous as Norman Rockwell or J.C. Leyendecker.

He also drew hundreds of magazine covers, advertisements, patriotic images, and murals, as well as a repertoire of 1,000 paintings.


N.C. (Newell) Wyeth belonged to the Brandywine School, known for its dependence on bright, vivid colors, realism to the point of grotesqueness, and serious, ponderous themes.  He frequently offered beefcake images -- two or three pictures in nearly every book display the interplay of muscles on a bare torso or nude backside.  But with two odd quirks:

1. N.C.'s nude men are almost always obscured, their faces hidden or their bodies engulfed in shadow, as in the illustrations from The White Company (left) or The Mysterious Island (below). It's as if displaying the face and physique together would be too dangerous, give too much voice to secret desires.



2. They are almost always in conflict, wrestling, fighting, attacking, subduing or being subdued, as in this illustration from Drums. It's as if he feared what would happen if two men approached each other in respect, friendship, or love.

In real life, N.C. was nothing like his stolid, stable, respectable illustrations would suggest.  He was an aesthete, a gourmand and a bon vivant, who held court in his house in Chadds Ford, Pennsylvania and summer home in Maine, partying with all of the greats of the Jazz Age, including Lillian Gish, Charlie Chaplin, F. Scott Fitzgerald, and gay novelist Hugh Walpole.  




There is no evidence that N.C. was gay, but lots of evidence that he worried about sexual identity. In those days people thought that gayness was an inversion, and he was "inverted," with a blustering machismo deliberately affected as a remedy to a "sissy" childhood, with refined, "feminine" tastes in literature, art, and music, and with many intense, passionate friendships with men. 

You mustn't paint the nude men directly -- they must always be obscured.  Or else who knows what feelings might be stirred up?

N.C.'s older brother Nat, who was gay, suffered a series of nervous breakdowns, was institutionalized off and on, and attempted suicide several times. 

Is that the end result of men loving men?  Better show them always in conflict.




By all accounts, N.C. and his wife provided a happy home for their five children, bright with art and music. Three -- Andrew, Henriette, and Carolyn -- became well-respected artists in their own right. Nathaniel became an inventor.

But N.C. constantly struggled with his demons. Self-recrimination because he was "merely" an illustrator instead of a great painter.  And something else...a nagging doubt.  

His oldest son Nathaniel, called "Nat" after his uncle, was also gay.

From father to son...

 N.C. sublimated through eating heavily, finally tipping the scale at over 300 pounds.  And  through frequent extramarital romances, most notably a long-term affair with his daughter-in-law Caroline, Nat's wife.  There were rumors that her fifth child -- named Newell, after his grandfather -- was actually his "love child."  



On October 19, 1945, a few days before his 63rd birthday, N.C. Wyeth and 4-year old Newell were killed when their car stalled on some railroad tracks.

He left just one illustration of a semi-nude man who is not obscured or in conflict.  Chasing a woman.

N.C.'s son, Andrew Wyeth, was more nonchalant about gay identity, and his grandson Jamie, also an artist, is a gay ally.

See also: N.C., Andrew, and Jamie: 3 Generations of Gay Art.

Larry is Spanked by an Alabama Boy

Huntsville, Alabama, November 1991

It's the weekend before my 31st birthday, and I'm in Nashville, Tennessee, 2,000 miles from West Hollywood,  taking classes in Biblical Hebrew and Protestant theology at Vanderbilt Divinity School.

Back home I would go to a museum during the day and then have a party, but I have no gay friends here except Larry, who just came out at age 35.  So he has no gay friends, either.

"At least we can do the museum," Larry said.

"Ok, well, I've already been to the Parthenon, and I'm not really interested in the Country Music Hall of Fame...."

"Something a little less country-western:  I'm thinking the Space Center down in Huntsville."

"Alabama?" I said dubiously.  "Isn't that a little redneck?"

"It's fine -- I go down there all the time for work.  And while we're in Alabama, I thought we could try to fulfill my biggest fantasy."

"What, a bondage scene?"  Larry had only just recognized an interest in BDSM a few weeks ago.

"Being spanked by an Alabama boy."

Beg pardon?

He explained:  For years his job had taken him through the small towns of Alabama.  He saw the hot Southern boys on the side of the road, with their slim chests and sweat-soaked t-shirts and bulging jeans, and he wondered what it would be like to be dominated by them.

In his fantasy, Larry was the stuck-up Northern boy who took a wrong turn through the woods, and came across three Alabama boys working on an old pick-up truck and drinking beer.  One was in his 30s, very muscular, with a hairy chest.  The second was in his 20s, smooth chest, short beard.  The third was a teenager with big hands and a big basket.

He stopped and asked for directions to Chicago.  They didn't know the way, so he insulted them, called them "ignorant barbarians wallowing in filth."

"Now that's not very neighborly," the older one said.  "I reckon we're going to have to teach you some manners."  The two younger ones grabbed him and tore his clothes off and tied his hands behind his back.  He tried to run away, but they tripped him and threw him down into the dirt.

"You're a naughty little boy," the teenager said in his hot Alabama accent, "So now you're going to get spanked."

[The rest of the fantasy is too explicit for Boomer Beefcake and Bonding}

That's quite an elaborate fantasy," I told Larry.

"I know -- I've been thinking about it for quite some time.  But maybe we could do the basics, just get an Alabama boy to spank me."

So we drove south two hours to Huntsville and took a tour of the Space Center -- not very interesting, driving past rockets 500 yards away.  We had dinner at a Chinese restaurant, waited around a few hours, and then hit Huntsville's only gay bar, Deja Vu.

Larry had no experience cruising and was too skittish to try, so he sat at one of the small red booths while I tried to find someone to fulfill his fantasy.

It was crowded, so there were a lot of prospects.  I figured that older guys were more likely to be BDSM tops, or at least open to the possibility.  So I systematically tried to make eye contact with the guys over 40, mostly gathered by the pool table and the jukebox.

No luck -- until finally an older black guy returned my eye contact.  In his 40s, taller than me, shaved head, sort of chunky.

Black guys were unlikely to be into BDSM, but I approached anyway, introduced myself, pointed out Larry, and said we were visiting for the weekend.

The full story, with nude photos and explicit sexual situations, is on Tales of West Hollywood.

Aug 10, 2017

A Gaggle of Shirtless Jeremys

Somebody found this blog using google search terms "Jeremy naked."  Jeremy who?  The only Jeremys I have posts about are Jackson and Lelliot.  But, just for fun, I put "Jeremy shirtless" into google images to see who popped up.

1. Jeremy Irvine of Stonewall, with his ridiculously huge bulge.  What's he packing, about four rolled-up socks?











2.  Jeremy Renner, who I first saw in Hansel and Gretel: Witch Hunters (2013).    Where did I get the idea that Renner was a twink?  He's 46.














3. 1990s teen heartthrob Jeremy Jackson still has abs.


















4. Steven R. McQueen.  Nice physique, but he's no Jeremy.

















5. Jeremy Bloom, a football player and Olympic skiier.  No wonder I never heard of him.

More after the break.














Cruising in New Mexico: The Twink, the Redneck, or the Gordito?

New Mexico, Summer 2004

Remember my trip to visit Larry in Santa Fe, New Mexico, in the summer of 2004? After four deplorable days, we had a gigantic argument, and I packed up my stuff and drove away, never to speak to or hear from Larry again.

During the next three days, I met three guys, and hooked up with one.  You have to guess which.

Hint: I hate losing friends, so I was quite upset, and not following my usual rules about public cruising or hooking up with complete strangers.

Day #1:  The Tucumcari Twink 

Tucumcari, an iconic town on Route 66!  The stuff of James Dean, Sal Paradise, Peter Fonda in search of America!

I arrived just before noon, had lunch  at the Pow Wow Restaurant, and explored.  Very run down, a lot of vacant lots and boarded-up buildings, old hotels with faded signs, a thrift store, a Chinese buffet, a boarded-up theater.  A community college, a single low adobe building.  I didn't see a downtown; there was no there there.

I stopped in Tee Pee Curios, a tee-pee shaped store that sold Route 66 merchandise: t-shirts, books, Stuckey's candy (whatever that was), license plates that read "Bad Girl" or "Billy the Kid," right-wing patriotic slogans, religious slogans.  Whatever.

But...the guy behind the counter was remarkable: in his 20s, thick brown hair, handsome face, tight muscular frame barely hidden beneath an orange t-shirt.  He was reading a Harry Potter book.  I approached.

"You must hear about Route 66 so much you get darn sick of it."

I'll bet he never heard that from a tourist before.  He looked up with a big smile.  "You have no idea, sir!  Route 66 this, Route 66 that.  We've had an interstate through here since the 1970s.  Get with the 21st century!"

"Like Harry Potter?"

Embarrassed at reading a "kid's book," he tried to hide it.

"Oh, I'm a big fan.  I especially like how Harry and Ron are so devoted to each other, like a romantic couple."

"Hm...you know, I never really thought about it, but maybe you're right."

"Fan fiction is loaded with Harry-Ron shipping."


Day #2: The Roswell Redneck

The town made famous by the 1947 UFO crash was about three hours south of Tucumcari.  I was surprised by the contrast: a beautiful, vibrant downtown with trees and green spaces.  Restaurants, shops.  A used bookstore.  Mexican restaurant for lunch.

The Museum and Art Center, with an excellent selection of Southwestern Art.

Around 4:00 pm, I visited the International UFO Museum. As a long time devotee of the UFO phenomenon, I didn't see much that I hadn't seen a hundred times before.

There were only a few tourists.  Later I discovered that a big UFO festival had just ended, so all of the true believers were gone, leaving a nuclear family, a teenage boy and girl holding hands, and a guy by himself, looking at an exhibit with some very muscular classic grey aliens.

"Who knew that aliens worked so hard on their delts?" I asked.

He laughed.  "And their abs."  He was his 30s, shorter than me, round face, a little beard, solidly built with respectable biceps and a smooth chest visible beneath his half-unbuttoned short-sleeved shirt.

"Maybe there's a Gold's Gym in outer space."

"They've got to do something to pass the time., what with no willies and all."

"I'd think I'd rather have a willy.  Especially on Saturday night," I added suggestively.  This was definitely a cruising conversation!

"This is Sunday," he pointed out.

"Even worse.  Sunday night is the loneliest night of the week."  That came out a little more depressed than I intended.

"I hear you, buddy.  You traveling by yourself?"

"I was visiting my friend in Santa Fe, but we kind of had an argument."

"Well, maybe it's time for you to make some new friends."


Day #3: The Alamogordo Gordito

Around 11:00 am, I arrived at Alamogordo, a "big city" of 30,000, including the nearby air force base.  An old army town with broad streets and low mountains in the distance.

I went to the New Mexico Museum of Space History, stopped for lunch at the Country Kitchen, and then headed out to the White Sands National Monument, a vast sea of sand dunes with nature trails for hiking.

And, apparently, cruising.

I was staring at a multicolored snake, wishing I was back in nice, safe Wilton Manors, when a tall, husky older guy approached (top photo).

"He's harmless -- as long as you don't get too close."

"Don't worry, I have no intention of saying hello."  I turned -- he had a flat clean-shaven face, a little double chin, a barrel chest and thick biceps.  Hair was peeking up over his t-shirt.

"Pretty cool, huh?  I've been hiking all over the state, but this is my favorite trail.  Near dusk you can see bobcats and coyotes."

"I just hope they've had dinner before they see me."

"It's all about the adventure, isn't it?  I'm retired Air Force, enjoying life and trying out new things.  Meeting new people, too."  He held out his hand to be shaken.

Day #4

On to Albuquerque!  I was feeling better, having seen some interesting sites, met three guys, and spent the night with one.

Can you figure out which?

a. The Tucumcari Twink
b. The Roswell Redneck
c. The Alamogordo Gordito

Answer, along with the uncensored photos, is on Tales of West Hollywood.


Paul Newman and Rocky Graziano: Somebody Down Here Likes Me


Paul Newman and James Dean met in 1952, when they were studying at the famous Actors Studio in New York.  They began a passionate affair.

But there were problems from the start: Paul didn't like sneaking around under the nose of his wife, and he wanted exclusivity, whereas Jimmy had a roving eye (Paul had the same problem when he dated Yul Brynner a couple of years before).

In 1953, they both auditioned for the roles of the twin brothers in East of Eden -- check out the homoerotic screen test on the Eddi Haskell blog.

Jimmy got the part, but Paul lost out.  He was devastated, and the relationship cooled.


After James Dean's tragic death on September 30, 1955, Paul was offered several roles that had been earmarked for him, including  Somebody Up There Likes Me (1956), a biopic of boxer Rocky Graziano (top photo) based on his bestselling autobiography.

It was a Hollywood rags-to-riches story, with a juvenile delinquency twist.  The young Rocky is abused by his father, joins a street gang, gets into fights, is drafted into the army but goes AWOL, is sent to prison, finds a new life as a boxer, and finally triumphs over an evil rival (real boxer Tony Zale).






Oh, and there's a requisite hetero-romance, but there's a strong gay subtext between Rocky and best buddy Romolo (gay actor Sal Mineo), plus the gay symbolism of a blackmail plotline.






The story doesn't end there. The real 37-year old Rocky appeared as an adviser, and he and Paul hit it off. They were often seen socializing together off the set.

I couldn't find any information on whether they became lovers, but since Rocky also hung out with the bisexual Marlon Brando, it's a possibility.









The t-shirts are from Grossinger's Resort in the Catskills.

Paul went on, of course, to become the most famous actor of the 1960s and a master of gay subtexts.  Rocky Graziano had a respectable tv career and opened a restaurant.

Aug 9, 2017

Getting Even with the Overly-Friendly Banker

Wilton Manors, August 2003

I HATE the question "Got any big plans?" or "Got any exciting plans"?

It makes me feel like everybody else on Earth spends every night in a Mountain Dew commercial, going hang-gliding and scuba diving and running at breakneck speed to grab cans of soda from an ice chest to guzzle while they're singing songs around a campfire at the beach with 35 of their closest friends.

How does everybody on Earth find the time to plan and go on these gigantic gatherings every single day of their lives?

And if I'm not rushing around like a lunatic through vast crowds with fireworks and laser shows and throbbing music at least 6 hours out of every 24, I'm a failure.

That's a lot of guilt to put on someone.

Besides, I'm an introvert.  I don't like crowds, or lights, or loud music.  Granted, in West Hollywood I was out at the bars 2-3 times per week, but they were gay bars, and not the crowded, noisy ones.

And even then, I preferred quiet evenings with a boyfriend, or at a small party: dinner, DVDs, conversation, party games, and sex.

Besides, I'm 56 years old.  Having gone out something like 2000 Friday and Satuday in a row, I deserve some time off.

What's so wrong with taking a little break, relaxing at home while the rest of the world is frantically trying to be stimulated?  Chinese delivery, Netflix, a Grindr hookup -- perfect!

That's a lot to explain to the checker at the Food Co-Op or the student worker who swipes my card at the gym.

But the worst is my bank.  There are two people, one who accosts you on the way in and interrogates you about what you want to do, and the other who actually does it for you.  Both of them take "being friendly" to crazy, intrusive extremes.

One day in the late summer 2003, when I was living in Wilton Manors, I got even:

The ATM was broken, so I had to go inside the bank and endure...shudder...the obnoxious over-enthusiastic over-friendliness of a bank teller.

Under other circumstances he might have been cute: mid-twenties, short, slim, dirty blond hair, round face, wearing a blue shirt and red tie (I always find business clothes erotic).  But his faux smile and overly chipper banter was just too annoying.

"HI!!!!  How are you today?"

I don't like that question, either, but I dutifully said "Fine, thanks...." His name tag read Mason.  "So, Mason,  I'd like to..."

"I hope everything is going just fabulous!," he interrupted. "What wonderful service can we offer you today?"

"I'd like to withdraw some money.  The ATM is broken."

"I can certainly offer you wonderful service with that!" Mason squealed.  " Just fill out this withdrawal slip.  "So, do you have any big plans for tonight?

I wasn't about to get judged by some twink for not having Big Plans involving lights and noise and 30 of my close friends, so I ignored the question. "Ok, it's all filled out."

But he wouldn't let it go!  "Just a minute, let me verify.  So, any big plans for tonight?  Anything exciting."

To distract him, I handed him my driver's license.  "Here's my ID, in case you need to verify my identity."

He read it.  "Boomer!  What a cool name!  Any big plans for tonight, Boomer?"

"....And I'd like $50 out of my account, please," I said, trying hard to keep from answering his prying questions.

Mason grinned.  "I can certainly help you with that.  Any big plans for tomorrow? Anything exciting?"

I stared at Mason the Intrusive Bank Teller, my mouth agape.  He stared back with his blank robotic grin.  This was a battle of wills!  Only one of us was going to make it out of here without a very public humiliation!

"Could I have that in tens, please?" I said, in one last feeble attempt to retain my dignity.

"I can certainly help you with that."  Mason typed a bit on his computer, pulled out a receipt, and opened the cash drawer.  But instead of counting out my $50, he looked up and said "Any big plans for Friday night? Anything exciting?"

He was holding the $50 just out of my reach.  It was quite clear that he wouldn't hand it over until I answered a Big Plans question.

What happened next is too risque for Boomer Beefcake and Bonding.  You can read it on Tales of West Hollywood

Kevin Zegers: Former Teen Idol is Trans-Friendly

Only a few teen idols have achieved such fan accolades that there are websites devoted to detailed descriptions of every scene of every movie, tv, and theatrical appearance.  Luke Halpin of Flipper.  Jonathan Taylor Thomas of Home Improvement.  And Kevin Zegers.

Born in 1984, the Canadian actor didn't have a sitcom to bring him instant tween fame; he had to build a fanbase from movies: the boy-and-dog Air Bud series (1997, 1998, 2001, 2002); the boy-and-unicorn Nico the Unicorn (1998); the boy-and-monster Komodo (1999); the boy-and-chimp MVP: Most Valuable Primate (2000).  

By 2000, Kevin had muscled up and was thoroughly established as a teen beefcake star, in spite of the lack of a weekly series (not counting the teen soap Titans, which only lasted for 13 episodes).

Some by-the-book young-adult horror followed, such as Wrong Turn (2003), Fear of the Dark (2003), and Dawn of the Dead (2004).

But also serious dramatic roles about unconventional young men, sometimes with gender-atypical and trans interest.


The Incredible Mrs. Ritchie (2004): a troubled teen befriends an elderly woman and doesn't get a girl.








Transamerica (2005): a gay hustler goes on a road trip with his biological father, a MTF transwoman, and oddly enough gets a girl.  (Movie producers believe that gay men, like "all men," fall in love with women.)  But at least he gives a glimpse of some impressive frontal nudity.

It's a Boy-Girl Thing (2006): a boy and a girl, next door neighbors, swap bodies. Woody (Kevin Zegers), inhabited by a girl, likes boys, and is mistaken for gay.



Although he also plays a lot of heterosexual characters: his Damien in Gossip Girl (2009-2011) is into both Serena and Jenny, and his Vampire (2011) only drinks the blood of suicidal young women.

Not a lot of buddy-bonding roles, but The Colony (2012), about the survivors of a new Ice Age, is worth a look for the bond between two men (Kevin, Lawrence Fishburne) answering a distress call from another colony.

I haven't seen The Mortal Instrument: City of Bones (2013). In the original paranormal young-adult novel, Alex is gay.  But knowing Hollywood's skittishness about letting juveniles know that gay people exist, I wouldn't be surprised if in the movie version, he's gay-vague, or straight.

See also: Kevin Zegers: Teen Idol

The Top 10 Flandrin Nudes

Every apartment in West Hollywood had this painting somewhere:  Jeune homme nu assis au bord de la mer (1835-6): a curly-haired young man, naked, sitting on his clothes on a rock overlooking a desolate ocean, his arms wrapped around his knees.

The painter, Jean-Hippolyte Flandrin (1809-1864), was studying in Rome, and his scholarship required him to send back paintings in various genres.  This was, in effect, his homework.

It caused an immediate sensation, lauded as a depiction of the allure of southern Italy: barbaric, primitive, yet beautiful.  The original hangs in the Louvre.

Flandrin painted mostly conventional portraits for the rest of his life.

An 1887 engraving gave the painting widespread popularity, especially in the gay subculture of the Belle Epoque.  It has remained a gay icon ever since.  Nearly every gay photographer has reproduced it.

I don't understand the attraction: there's no penis, and instead of strength and power, the young man displays fragility and helplessness.  It's actually rather a depressing view of the futility of human endeavors.

How did it become a gay icon?  In an article in The Journal of Homosexuality, Michael Camille argus that it is "a a sign of our separate and secluded subject positions and our community's unwillingness to radically alter older imposed and inherited classical stereotypes."  In other words, the guy is isolated, alone, and despairing, therefore gay.



WilhelmVan Gloeden, who also specialized in the allure of southern Italy.  At least his model had a muscular back.









Guglielmo Pluschow (1852-1930), another photographer of southern Italian men.  The model is rather skinny, but he displays a penis, and his facial expression is one of self-satisfaction rather than despair.










Lindsay Lozon, author of Boys Uncovered (2004).  Wearing underwear and socks immeasurably decreases the model's vulnerability, and he gazes out at us while we gaze at him, with an aggressive sensuality.

More after the break.











Aug 8, 2017

The Gay Photographer in Eastern Kentucky

In 1964, gay documentary photographer William Gedney, known for documenting the Bohemian subcultures of New York and San Francisco,  traveled to the Blue Diamond Mining Camp in Pike County, Eastern Kentucky, about 60 miles from where my mother's family lived.

He wrote that he was looking for poverty and despair at the collapse of the mining industry, the "mental and physical depression of the people, almost complete lack of future and hope"






He met Willie Cornett, recently laid off from the mine, and ended up staying with Willie, his wife Vivian, and their twelve children in Big Rock, Kentucky.

He found poverty and pain, but not a "lack of future and hope."

He found resilience and strength and beauty.












He found a complex masculinity: cars, guns, country-western music, and redneck machismo, but also tenderness, physical intimacy, strong emotional bonds.

And, a thousand miles away from the gay community of New York, a blatant homoeroticism.













Photographs from his days with the Cornett family were displayed at a one-man show at the Metropolitan Museum of Modern Art in 1968 and 1969.














Gedney stayed in contact with the Cornetts, and photographed them again in 1972.

He didn't publish the photographs during his lifetime, except for one of the girls in the kitchen, for $35.













They were private, depicting the unexpected joy he found in the hills of Eastern Kentucky.
















Gedney died of AIDS in 1989.  Today his reputation is based chiefly on the moments he captured in the Kentucky photographs.












Aug 7, 2017

My 16 Boyfriends

Quick, are these guys friends or partners?

There's no way to tell without asking them.  In gay communities the boundaries between friends and romantic partners are blurry.

You have sex with friends, and often you don't with partners.

You sometimes live with friends, and sometimes live separately from partners.

Looking in from outside the relationship, it's hard, sometimes well-nigh impossible, to tell them apart.

But inside the relationship, you know.  He is a romantic partner, with emphasis on the romance.  You are in love with him.  It is intense, passionate.  You want to spend every moment with him, to walk by his side into the future.

The beginning of a friendship is fun.  The beginning of a romance is thrilling.

The end of a friendship is sad.  The end of a romance is devastating.

I grew up with dreams of a life-long partner, one boy to wake up next to every morning through the years and decades.  But living in gay communities takes a tremendous amount of work and a lot of luck -- apartments are expensive and jobs are scarce.  So after six months, or a year, or five years, he moves away, or you move away, and you become ex-boyfriends, relegated to occasional visits at Christmas or spring break.

And suddenly you're 56 years old, and you've had 16  romantic partners:

College

1.  Fred the Ministerial Student.  About six months in the spring of 1980, my sophomore year in college.  When he moved to Omaha to take a church, I moved with him.

Why it ended: He got controlling, and I didn't like him cruising other guys, so I left.  We stayed friends.

2. Peter the Greek Orthodox Priest.  Actually an ex-priest, now an insurance salesman.  About two months in the fall of 1981, my senior year.

Why it ended: I couldn't take his drinking or his weird pushy mom, who kept asking strange questions and once burst in on us in the bedroom..

3. Jimmy the Bodybuilder on Crutches.   A grad student in social work.  About three months in the fall of 1983, when I was at Indiana University.

Why it ended: He dumped me for another guy.

The full list, with nude photos, is on Tales of West Hollywood.

The Top 10 Beefcake Murals of U.S. Post Offices

The people who deliver your Netflix envelopes and Amazon boxes were once responsible for a lot more.  They brought paper copies of your bills, magazines, and even messages from friends.  If you wanted to send messages of your own, you had to go to a building called a "post office" and buy a "stamp."

There are still post offices around -- older people still use them.  And if you happen to drop into one, you might get a surprise: naked men!

1. A muscleman felling the forest in Kenova, West Virginia.






During the Depression, Franklin Roosevelt's New Deal put dozens of artists to work painting murals and friezes on the walls of thousands of post offices all over the U.S..  They were very serious, naturalistic works, showing extremely muscular pioneers taking their shirts off to "tame the wilderness" and go to work in in agriculture or industry.

2. A boatswain in Plymouth, Pennsylvania.







3. A rugged farmer making hay in Hammond, Indiana.









4. There are naked men, too, mostly muscular Indians who are solemnly handing over their land to the white settlers.  This one in Des Plaines, Illinois depicts Spanish conquistadors impressing the natives with...um, I guess cloth.






5. Though sometimes the Indians are memorialized as violent savages: this fully-naked dude is trying to defend his land...um, I mean attack a wagon train in Melrose Park, Illinois.

More after the break