angel Archives

Golden Boys Day

The day felt bright in the easy way travel sometimes does—no big plan, just a shared direction.

In Kyoto, the gold pavilion sat across the pond like something carefully placed in the world and then left alone to be itself. The water held it without trying. Pines leaned in at the edges, and the hills behind everything looked soft and patient, the way old places can.

We stood at the shoreline long enough for the scene to settle into us. Then we did what we always end up doing when we’re happy: turned the camera back toward our own faces and tried to fit the feeling into a frame.

It’s a small thing, a photo. Two sunlit smiles, a couple hats, round glasses. But I keep thinking about how moments like this don’t shout. They just hum. They say: you’re here, you made it to this particular day, and you get to carry it home.

“Golden Boys Day” isn’t really about the gold at all, even though the pavilion shines like a promise. It’s about walking side by side through a place layered with time, and realizing that the best souvenirs are the quiet ones—light on the water, warmth on your skin, and someone next to you who makes the world feel a little wider.

Happy Birthday Angel

There’s a particular kind of warmth that settles over a table when a birthday is the reason everyone showed up. It’s not loud, not staged. It’s in the small things: the shine of glassware catching low light, the quiet order of plates and folded napkins, the way people lean in toward one another as if the evening is a room you can step into and close the door behind you.

Happy Birthday Angel. A simple line, but it carries a whole soft history—shared meals, familiar jokes, the comfort of being known. At dinner, that feeling becomes tangible. You can see it in the relaxed shoulders, in the easy smiles, in the way the table feels lived-in before the first course even arrives.

Restaurants can be anonymous places, but nights like this give them a pulse. The wood grain under candlelight, the clink of forks, the paused moment before everyone starts talking at once—little ordinary details turning quietly meaningful.

Birthdays aren’t only about marking time. They’re about gathering it. Collecting a handful of people and making one evening feel like it belongs on a shelf in your mind, ready to be taken down later when you need something steady.

Here’s to Angel—celebrated well, surrounded by friends, and held for a moment in the gentle ceremony of dinner.

ZAMartz Best of 2018

| #2018bestnine #nye #boyfriendswhobestof

| ???

| Wow, What a year it has been. There have certainly been many highs and lows, but I’m going to focus on the positive, ZAMartz best of 2018, information to recap. I will be covering some of the best content and page views on the ZAMartz website as well as the best social media post of 2018 on instagram.

The most important addition this year is Dyson, our newest addition to the Family. He is now a 1 year old Rescue puppy. He is half hound dog and half Blue Heeler. The love of our life and definitely a highlight of the year. I have also now been at Eileen Fisher for a full year as Director of DTC Project Management.

Top 10 ZAMartz Pageviews of 2018

WordPress Extension Details

4181 Total downloads of two extensions (almost 3 times growth from last year)
Overall Rating 3.5 out of 5 stars

The Goodest Doggo

I want to specially point out the new addition to the family Dyson our beautiful puppy @dysoncyclone we love him to bits!!

Compare to 2017

Pleas follow this link to compare to the 2017 review https://zamartz.com/2017/12/31/zamartz-best-of-2017/

The two most beautiful thing this weekend in one photo

There are weekends that feel too big to hold in your hands, so you try to press them flat into something simple—one frame, one breath, one small proof that you were there.

In this photo, the red rocks sit under a heavy sky, muted by cloud and distance, the way landmarks do when you’re not trying to conquer them—only notice them. Below, rows of clay-colored roofs and soft green trees make their own quiet pattern, a lived-in grid at the edge of the wild.

And then there’s the other beautiful thing: the small human moment in front of all that ancient stone. Someone leaning in with a phone, framing the same view, saving it the way we all do now. Not to replace the memory, but to give it a place to live when the weekend is over.

I like how the scene holds two kinds of scale at once—the patient, unmoving rock and the quick, fleeting act of photographing it. The world pushes up against itself: wilderness and neighborhood, weather and weekend, permanence and a thumb tapping a screen.

Maybe that’s what makes the best trips feel settled instead of crowded. You don’t take the landscape home. You just let it follow you a little, like color on your sleeves.

Family bonding time

The photo catches a quiet kind of closeness—two dads stretched out together, the world narrowed to a couch, a soft black-and-white filter, and a puppy tucked in like a warm punctuation mark at the bottom of the frame.

There’s something about moments like this that feels bigger than it looks. No big plans, no perfect lighting, no reason to perform. Just the small weight of an animal settling in, the familiar angles of someone you love beside you, the unspoken agreement to stay still for a while.

Bonding can sound like an activity, like something you schedule or work at, but more often it’s these ordinary minutes that do the stitching. A shared look at the camera. An arm draped where it always ends up. A dog’s sleepy eyes, half-trusting and half-curious, as if it’s learning the shape of this home in real time.

Family bonding time doesn’t need much space. It just needs a little quiet, and the willingness to be there—together—until the day feels settled.

Two dads cuddling with puppy, framed in a simple snapshot, says what a lot of words can’t: this is what “home” looks like when it’s alive.

Great Dinner in PA with my cutie

Dinner in Pennsylvania always seems to arrive the way weather does—quietly at first, then all at once. We stepped out into the evening with that small, earned kind of happiness: full plates behind us, a little warmth in our cheeks, and the sense that the night didn’t need to be anything more than what it already was.

I keep thinking about the way places hold you. A restaurant table, a familiar street, the soft clink of silverware and glass—ordinary things that still feel like a marker in time. It’s the same comfort I find in old houses: not perfect, not staged, just lived-in. You can almost hear the room breathing around you.

After dinner we paused for a photo, standing close like we always do when we’re not trying to make a moment out of it. Two patterned shirts, an easy smile, the dark shutters framing us like a memory you can step back into. The window behind us caught a little glow, as if the inside of the building was still holding onto the evening.

I don’t remember every bite, but I remember the steadiness of it—how good it feels to share a meal with someone who makes the world feel a bit brighter and a bit bigger.

Great Dinner in PA with my cutie, tucked away like a small keepsake.

Presidential Photobomb

There’s a certain kind of quiet inside the Lincoln Memorial—stone and echo, like a room built to hold its breath. And then, of course, there’s us: bundled up, leaning in close, trying to fit a whole day into one small frame.

We snapped this photo and only later really noticed how perfect the timing was. Lincoln sits behind us in his permanent, patient stillness, looking like he’s tolerating the modern ritual of the selfie with the same calm he gives everything else. It feels like a photobomb, but the slow, presidential kind—less “gotcha,” more “remember where you are.”

Washington, D.C. has a way of doing that. You walk around with coffee in your hand, chatting about where to go next, and suddenly you’re standing in front of something you’ve seen your whole life in textbooks. The scale of it doesn’t hit you all at once; it comes in pieces: the cold air, the marble, the softness of light on white stone.

We came for a photo, but left with that lingering feeling that some places are bigger than their monuments. They’re built out of memory, and the quiet pressure of history, and the strange comfort of being very small for a moment—together—while something enormous sits watching from the background.

30th Bday with Bae, My 2017 Birthday Celebration

| #birthday #party #boyfriendswhobirthday

| ???

| For my 30th birthday in 2017, I was told I had to “do it big”. A concept I have never really been into for my birthday celebrations. However, being the big three zero, I decided to give it a shot.

Weekend means Morning Coffee so Gimme

| ☕️?? | #coffee #boyfriendsWhoBrew #weekend @gimmecoffee

| Gimme that coffee please! Angel and I have been in our new apartment for several months now and we have been an a quest for a new coffee place.

Book Boo in BK

There’s a particular kind of quiet you can find in Brooklyn when you’re near the water—busy, but softened. A long stretch of boardwalk, the river breathing beside it, and the skyline set back like a thought you can’t quite finish.

He sits with a book open in his hands, cap pulled low, knees folded in. The page has that steady pull that makes the rest of the world feel optional. Around him, the city keeps its own pace: distant footsteps, a few voices drifting past, the metal rails holding the edge between land and water.

It’s an ordinary scene, which is why it feels like a small miracle. The kind of moment you don’t plan for, but later you remember the light and the space and how simple it looked to be completely elsewhere without leaving.

I like the way places can live alongside us like that—how a walkway, a bench, a view of towers and clouds can become part of a memory without announcing itself. Brooklyn doesn’t always give you room to exhale, but sometimes it does, and you take it when it comes.

Book Boo in BK, paused mid-chapter, with the whole city behind him like background noise.

Boys in the Jungle

There’s a certain kind of quiet you only find in a room full of plants. Not silence exactly—more like a soft, green breathing. Leaves cut across the light like slow-moving shadows, and everything feels paused for just a second, as if the city outside is holding its noise at the door.

Boys in the Jungle is what we called it, which sounds dramatic until you realize it’s just two of us standing close, half-hidden behind long blades of green. A mirror selfie, sure, but also a small record of being together in a place that asks nothing from you except to look.

The plants do what old houses do: they make the air feel lived-in. They hold onto warmth. They turn the ordinary—glass, fluorescent light, a phone held at chest height—into something a little more like a scene you’d remember later.

We’re in Brooklyn, but the image doesn’t insist on location. It insists on texture: patterned shirts, hats pulled low, the bright wash of indoor light, and the bold interruptions of leaves in the foreground. The jungle isn’t wild; it’s curated. Still, it has that same effect—making you feel smaller in a good way, like you can step back from yourself.

Sometimes that’s all a photo needs to do: prove that a moment existed, green and uncomplicated, before you walked back out into the day.

End of Summer Cuteness – New Jersey Shore

| ?️⛳️?

| #minigolf #boyfriendswhobeach #avalon

| Angel and myself ended the summer with a trip to the New Jersey shore with my parents (Donna and Ray).

angel