Yearly Archives:

2015

The First Recap on the 2nd of March

The snow-covered tundra of upstate New York greets this crazy month with, what else, some more snow. Poo-poo to that frou-frou. I’m still recovering from the tornado that was having my niece and nephew stay over on Saturday night. Yes, it takes that long. Remind me never to serve French toast or anything that requires syrup again as the entire house was sticky for the whole next day. But enough about that, onto the recap…

The first surprise was the unhyped and unheralded return of the Madonna Timeline with this hush-hush song that instantly brings to mind the first guy I ever kissed.

The last week of February marked my brother’s birthday.

Madonna was dragged down but did what she does best: got back up and rose like the phoenix. You can’t keep a good woman down.

The great crepe caper.

For the first time ever, there was a three-time Hunk of the Day ~ Ronnie Kroell – as voted on by you. (And me.)

Flowers can lift the darkest days, and that’s a very good thing at this time of the year.

Fashion can do that too, and when in an emotional pinch I head to the closet and find something like this to cheer me up.

Mark MacKillop is still promoting (and perfecting) his latest book, Rm. XIV.

The Special Guest Blog is still going strong, with this entry by one of my besties, Ann Agresta. (Applications for your own Guest Blog are currently being accepted – just do it!)

The month of March is still wild.

And Tom Daley is still in a Speedo.

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The Lion Comes In

March. Month of miraculous transformation. How we have waited for you to turn the page on winter. Oh yes, I realize with much chagrin that there are still a few weeks to go – and likely the most difficult ones. Every winter snowstorm that arrives after this becomes more and more trying, testing the patience and endurance of the most jaded Northeastern denizen. I’m thoroughly sick of this shit, and have been for some time, but I’ll hold on because we’re accustomed to it. We can manage.

To commemorate this first day of the month in which spring finally pokes through the snow, a look back at March moments from the past. Let’s begin with the most recent of them, such as this two-parter when I was Boston. Part One simply must happen again, and Part Two most definitely will. I miss Boston immensely in this winter of frozen dreams and snow-bound streets.

The Ass Menagerie.

I Love Bois.

March is a good month for gingers. (Like every month, really.)

It was also the month that found the release of ‘Like A Prayer’ by Madonna.

More importantly, it’s the month of change.

Going back two years, March moments included the Magic of Mann, the wonder of ‘Ray of Light‘, the magnificence of Scott Herman, the amazing Alex Minsky, and this erotic erection collection. March also rang with music, and the music of spring always touches a deeper part of the heart.

March also means Easter bunny mayhem. (Still recovering…)

One final March post is from 2012 when we were in the throes of MDNA madness. We’re almost there again, thanks to Rebel Heart. Hold tight…

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Voodoo, Taboo, Sex & Juji: Special Guest Blog

{There are a few people in this world who have literally saved my life. Back in my high school days, that was Ann Agresta. When I was on the verge of suicidal madness, and my own family didn’t know what to do with me, I found solace and refuge in my friendship with Ann. She too was an outsider, she too felt like she didn’t belong, and when people like that are lucky enough to find one another at their lowest moments, the attraction and the need is instant and gratifying. Her Mom became a surrogate Mom to me (as so many did for reasons I’m still fathoming) and her friendship became a lifeline for some of the roughest years to follow. Whenever I’m feeling upset or overwhelmed by the world, I think of Ann. I think of our craziest and silliest times and it always manages to lift me out of the funk. When I asked her to write something for this blog, I expected something funny, but I didn’t exact to be so deeply moved too. Here is her entry, and an incriminating photo of the time I wore handcuffs and ladies lingerie. Some things never change – and I hope they never do.}

SPECIAL GUEST BLOG

By Ann Agresta

What can I say about a man I have been friends with for over 25 years? So many memories flood back to me when I think of all the years we have known each other. The bond between true friends never breaks, and I consider Alan to be a true friend. We can go years without contact, but the minute we see, email, text, Facebook or Instagram each other, it is like no time has passed at all. And that is when you know you have a true friendship. I just mentioned all the forms of social media one may use to keep in touch with friends, but my favorite is still old fashioned physical MAIL! And I like to think that Alan instilled that love of mail inside of me! The packages that I received from Alan while attending RIT caused quite a stir and I loved every minute of it. There was glitter, questionable pictures, some things I may have even blocked out of my memory. But while I was away at college and still very homesick, getting mail from Alan would cheer up any bad day I may have been having.

The closeness that I had with Alan started in high school. Missy and Alan were my best friends. We were the three musketeers, we always did everything together. High school in general wasn’t my favorite social place; I was not part of the popular groups, I was very overweight, constantly made fun of for that, never had a boyfriend and never attended a prom or senior ball. But the one thing I did have was a few true friends that never judged me. We had a bond that wasn’t based on looks or popularity. There are things that I have told Alan that no one else in the world knows about me and I would trust him with my life.

When we all went our separate ways to college, I knew we would still remain close. And Alan’s love for traveling kept our friendship alive. One of my first memories of college was Alan telling me he was gay. Now, he did date Missy in high school which is a story for a different day! But when Alan told me the news I didn’t blink an eye. It wasn’t news to me because sexuality doesn’t define anything in my eyes. It didn’t change how I felt about him. The one thing it did do was make me feel proud that he trusted me enough to tell me. I remember a lot of dark emails from Alan in our early years in college. I think we all went through dark times but Alan’s talented writing skills made his emails seem so mysterious and made the dark times seem even darker. I did worry about my friend, sometimes he seemed so alone at Brandeis. The only thing I could do for him was offer an ear when he needed to talk and have a blast with him when he visited me in Rochester. And oh boy, did we have some good times. A few highlights include: scaring children at Ponderosa because of the outfit Alan had on, me walking Alan on a leash in a grocery store in Potsdam, NY while he was wearing a pink bra as a belt, us rushing onto the dance floor at a drag show when ‘Be My Lover’ by La Bouche came on over the speaker, us cracking up together at the most inappropriate times. With just one look, Alan could make me laugh until it hurt! I do recall Alan ran over a curb in a parking lot while visiting me in Rochester and almost tore off the entire bottom of his car, but I had no part in that incident.

One of my most cherished parts of my friendship with Alan is his friendship with my mom. Because we spent so much time together, my mom loved Alan so much. She would do anything for him and with him. Case in point, she bought him the Madonna ‘Sex’ book when it came out because we were not old enough to get it! She posed for countless pictures and photo shoots with Alan. We have the pictures to prove it. I just found one the other night from the 1990’s where Alan is in a cape and my mom was taking pictures of him outside at night. And that all seems perfectly normal to me. No matter what kind of picture Alan asked any of us to pose for, we did it. I am not sure why, but it was just sort of an unsaid thing – Alan wanted pics, we did it! I posed in front of a ‘Sunset Boulevard’ poster in NYC and mimicked the pose of the character on the poster because Alan asked. Seemed perfectly normal to me. And again, that is what a good friendship is – doing things that your friend asked, no questions asked! Well, there were some more questionable moments that I probably should have not went along with, but we won’t get  into that here!

When my mom had brain surgery, Alan stopped by the house to visit while she was still recovering and her face lit up. Moments like that are never forgotten. That was a very stressful time for me, but just one look from Alan, one private joke, and we reverted back to giggling children.

I could write for days about all the memories I have with Alan. The bottom line is we will be friends forever, through good and bad, and I know that if I needed Alan at 2 AM he would be there for me and vice versa. I can hardly believe we will both be 40 years old this August. At times when I am reminiscing with Alan, I feel like I am 16 years old again. The memories bring me back to the days when life seemed simple, when the biggest decision we had to make was what color feather boa we were going to use in our photo shoot. As I type that, I am laughing because life may be more complicated now, but Alan is still deciding what color feather boa to wear in the next photo shoot!!! And that is just one of many reasons why I love him so!

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When In Doubt, Do A Daley

Tom Daley, that is. He hasn’t been here in a bit, but whenever a few new Speedo shots come out, he’s worth another post. After all, he’s one of the few select gentlemen (and woman) who constitutes his own Category. [See also David Beckham, Ben Cohen, Tom Ford, Andy and Madonna.]

Former Tom Daley posts include this one of him in a Speedo, this one of him in a Speedo, this one of him in a Speedo, this one of him in a Speedo, this one of him OUT of a Speedo, this one of him in a Speedo, this one of him in a Speedo, and this one of him in a Speedo.

Oh yeah, and this one of him in a Speedo.

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Mark MacKillop: The Solitary Masterpiece

“You do not need to leave your room. Remain sitting at your table and listen. Do not even listen, simply wait, be quiet still and solitary. The world will freely offer itself to you to be unmasked, it has no choice, it will roll in ecstasy at your feet.” ~ Franz Kafka

The empty room.

The sound of solitude.

The languorous shifting of light.

The art of being alone has produced works of staggering beauty. Only when faced with ourselves can we get to understand what we are really like. You have to be all right with being alone before you can be good company for anyone else. There’s a gorgeous irony in that, and it’s explored pictorially in Mark MacKillop’s coffee-table book ‘Room XIV.’ Released a few months ago, Mr. MacKillop has been making the book tour rounds and putting in appearances at bookstores to spread the pretty word. Reaction has been supportive and enthusiastic.

“I’ve been most surprised by people’s love of the book, MacKillop explains. “It was a really fun project that when I started it had no real intention for it to become a book or continue like this. I love that people are interested in seeing my life touring with a musical depicted in hotel rooms. I don’t think anything really bothered me about this process because that’s all part of the learning curve of trying something new you haven’t done before, like publishing a book. It’s all been a really cool learning experience.”

“You can get help from teachers, but you are going to have to learn a lot by yourself, sitting alone in a room.” ~ Dr. Seuss

The book itself is a beautiful study on the human form, but also the human condition of solitude. There is a loneliness at work, but a contentment in that loneliness. There is also a sense of connection, or trying to make some connection. He reaches out with his gaze, seeking to impress with a pose, and the end result is a complex examination of the human condition, veiled in the gauze of beauty. According to MacKillop, it was an invitation: “Very rarely do people get a glimpse into the life of a touring actor’s day-to-day life.  I wanted to be able to share that with my friends who were across the Atlantic and any new friends that I met on the road. It was my way of being creative and letting people into my world.”

“When you get into a hotel room, you lock the door, and you know there is a secrecy, there is a luxury, there is fantasy. There is comfort. There is reassurance.” ~ Diane von Furstenberg

In a world of social media overload and online-only interactions, a physical book feels old-school and quaint. It lends a warmth and sturdiness to the experience, something that will never quite be matched by the cold glare of a computer screen. A photograph on paper somehow resonates more than an image on screen. It demands a bit more.

“I love the physical appeal of a heavy book,” MacKillop admits, offering insight into the technicalities of the creative process. “There’s something awesome about physically turning pages, feeling the texture of the paper. That was an important factor when I was choosing what textures went into my book. I chose a paper that had some weight and feeling to it. I didn’t want a high gloss page I wanted the book to feel like it was from a different time, the pages really soak up the ink of the image. That being said as much as I love traditional books the Internet has made it so incredibly easy to share new images instantly so there’s an appeal for both, my love for the physical and the instant.”

That juxtaposition has made the marketing for the book an interesting amalgamation of teasing shots, evocative video, and traditional in-person bookstore signings.

“I used to live in a room full of mirrors; all I could see was me. I take my spirit and I crash my mirrors, now the whole world is here for me to see.” ~ Jimi Hendrix

When confronted with the question of whether he is happier alone or surrounded by people, MacKillop straddles both states. “Everything in moderation,” he says. “Sometimes I crave the interaction and conversation of others. Although sometimes after a long day nothing is more nice than being alone. They say you can’t truly be happy with others till you are happy and content by yourself.”

“All men’s miseries derive from not being able to sit in a quiet room alone.” ~ Blaise Pascal

Which brings us back to that room, where a man stands by himself, gazing out at the world, at the mirror, at the camera lens. It is a moment of reflection, of solitude, of seeking out some understanding of his place here. It is his way of connecting, through the portal of a look, a photograph, a book.

“Being alone was the premise of the project. The year on tour with ‘West Side Story’ was a demanding year both physically and emotionally. It was a big year of personal and artistic growth. I spent a lot of time alone thinking. People always comment, ‘Oh you look deep in thought in the photos.’ That’s what I wanted to capture, that moment.”

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I’m Having a Fashion Moment

Picked up my crown, put it back on my head

Some days you just have to get into a silly get-up and strut your own fabulousness ~ even, and especially, if no one else is around. Such was the case with this quick photographic moment. I’m supposed to be working on a new project, but I’m a little rusty, so I took this jacket out for a spin in front of a black backdrop.

As always, the best part came when I got to take the tie off. That’s usually the best part of any day.

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An Antidote for the Bleakness

Having previously pooh-poohed the notion of flowers on Valentine’s Day (cologne will always be the wiser choice) I had forgotten how much a bouquet of bright flowers can lift the darkest spirit in these bleakest of winter days. When we recently had a few people over for dinner, I went out and bought these flowers, and they’ve made a noticeable difference in the house. For such a simple thing, the rewards have proven to be substantial. Maybe I’m just so starved for greenery and flowers anything would have made this magnificent difference. Whatever the cause, I’m enjoying the little burst of spring and boost of spirits.

It’s amazing the power that a flower can hold over the countenance and the mental state of those of us starting to feel the winter blues. I spent a while just staring at each of the blooms here, studying the veins of each petal, the curves of the stems, the texture of the leaves.

It was the color that inspired me the most. Rich, vibrant, bold and beautiful – the perfect remedy for a gray and white landscape. Sensory overload in the best possible way. A moment of visual giddiness.

This is why we need a garden room. So many ills could be instantly cured by a few hours in such surroundings. Beauty is a balm for the most restless of hearts.

Until that day, a bouquet will have to suffice… and, somehow, it does.

 Flowers really do intoxicate me. ~Vita Sackville-West

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The Great Crepe Caper

(Try saying that three times in quick succession.)

This is neither a disaster nor a striking success story – it falls somewhere between the two and involves my first attempt at crafting a crepe. I’ve never really been a fan of the fancy pancake – my mind has never quite gotten itself around where it’s meant to fall on the sweet versus savory spectrum (I love a good spectrum). I know there are both, but I like something a little less malleable in my food options. At any rate, I found a quick and easy (and quite basic) recipe in a recent New York Times magazine, and it went like this:

UNMEASURED CREPES

Very adapted from ‘Ratio’ by Michael Ruhlman

1 vessel whole raw eggs

1 vessel all-purpose flour

1 3/4 vessel whole milk

1/4 vessel sweet butter

Dash to pinch of salt

1. Beat eggs. Add ingredients and whisk. Add salt and taste.

2. Heat nonstick pan or lightly oiled one on medium heat. Add ladleful of batter, just enough to thinly coat bottom of pan. Cook until edges begin to brown, maybe 30 seconds. Flip, with conviction, and cook ten more seconds.

3. Cook as many as desired, stacking on plate and covering with cloth towel until ready to serve.

4. Savory variation: chop up fresh herbs – parsley, mint, and/or dill – and add to batter before cooking. (As much as you like.)

I gave it a whirl and it didn’t turn out badly. I love a simple recipe with a simple preparation. This time around the trickiest part was flipping the damn things, but even that went better than expected. Only two didn’t quite work out, and that’s because of early hesitation on my part. You have to commit to the flip. It has to be certain and definite, and a little bold. Any fear or hesitancy will not go over well. After a few tries, I found that the higher the crepe went in the air, the better chance I had of landing it perfectly. At first I was trying to keep it low and close to the pan. Go for the gusto and you’ll be fine.

As for the end result, I was pleased but not blown away. The first attempt was too thick – I’d used too much batter – and the crepe was a bit rubbery. After that, I cut down on the batter, keeping it very thin and spreading it around, at which point the traditional light and fluffy crepe consistency was achieved. My only complaint was that with such a quick cooking time, I still tasted a bit of raw flour. I wouldn’t have minded this so much with a sweet version, but in a savory style (I’d opted to add the fresh parsley) it was mildly annoying. (I know nothing about crepes – eating or making them – so I’m sure there are mistakes I made that contributed to the general ho-hum aspect of the whole process.) Perhaps FUSSYlittleBLOG or Carl can help a novice out with some tips…

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Lifted Me Up & Watched Me Stumble

It looked bad. Very bad. At the top of a tier of stairs, she leaned back and some hapless dancer pulled her cape before it was completely untied. She stumbled backward, down a few steps and fell hard onto the floor. For anyone else, it would have proven disastrous, if not a reason to stop the show. But Madonna’s never been anyone. She is Someone. She is The One – the one who carried on. She caught her breath, got back up, and kept going.

I defy anyone who dares to mock her after that to do the same. You know you wouldn’t. You know you couldn’t. She’s Madonna, and you’re not. (I’m not either, and if I took a spill like that I’d still be lying where I landed.)

As for the aftermath, it feels eerily like the fall-out of similar “disasters” ~ the Playboy photos, the ‘Like A Virgin‘ MTV Awards performance, the ‘Like A Prayer‘ controversy, the ‘Justify My Love‘ brouhaha, the ‘Sex‘ book, the adoptions, the younger boyfriends, and the audacity to continuing to do what she wants to do ~ so think for a moment about how those things turned out. In the end, Madonna’s latest song ‘Living For Love’ (her, ahem, 44th Number One Dance single) is the final word on the matter.

I let down my guard, I fell into your arms
Forgot who I was, I didn’t hear the alarms
Now I’m down on my knees, alone in the dark
I was blind to your game
You fired a shot in my heart

Took me to heaven and let me fall down
Now that it’s over I’m gonna carry on
Lifted me up, and watched me stumble
After the heartache I’m gonna carry on

Living for love
Living for love
I’m not giving up
I’m gonna carry on
Living for love
I’m living for love
Not gonna stop
Love’s gonna lift me up

I could get caught up in bitterness

But I’m not dwelling on this crazy mess
I found freedom in the ugly truth
I deserve the best and it’s not you

You’ve broken my heart, but you can’t bring it down
I’ve fallen apart, I was lost, now I’m found
I picked up my crown, put it back on my head
I can forgive, but I will never forget…

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The Madness of Men

While the doors of ‘Downton Abbey‘ are nearing their close for the season, the window to ‘Mad Men’ is about to open. This trailer for the final episodes is riveting, playful, and just the slightest bit sexy – a perfect encapsulation of the series as a whole. The party is not quite over… 

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My Baby Brother’s Birthday

I’m not quite sure how it began or who started it. It was a Saturday in winter, and neither of us had anything to do. I sat in my bedroom. Across the hall, my brother sat in his. Blind to what the other was doing, and behind our closed doors, we did what ten or eleven-year-old boys do: he probably marched plastic soldiers over his rust-colored carpet while I likely watered a plant on my windowsill and waited for it to grow. Though we often played together, on this particular Saturday we were doing our own thing. Somehow, though, in the way that only brothers realize, we were keenly aware of the other going about his business – and when one of us opened his door, he found a gift from his brother.

As I said, I don’t know who started it, but soon it was a bit of a game, and a rare bit of unabashed affection. I opened my door to find a wrapped piece of candy that he left. Out of the blue, and without reason or explanation. I rummaged through my room and found a toy, tip-toed across the hall and placed it outside his door. A few minutes later his hand crept out to retrieve it. Inside my room, I smiled and beamed, and felt one of the most pure feelings of love I’d ever experience. It was the love of giving, as much as the love one brother felt for another.

A little while later, I opened my door and there was another gift. The game went on for a few more rounds, as we scrounged for presents and tried to surprise the other without being heard. It’s a simple memory, but one of my favorites. I’m not sure my brother recalls it – I’ll have to ask him. It always reminds me that, when left to our own devices, we always fared rather well.

Today is his birthday, so I’m sending out this virtual wish for a happy day – and a happy memory that, up until this moment, only my brother and I shared.

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The Madonna Timeline: Song #111 – ‘Secret’ ~ Fall 1994

{Note: The Madonna Timeline is an ongoing feature, where I put the iPod on shuffle, and write a little anecdote on whatever was going on in my life when that Madonna song was released and/or came to prominence in my mind.}

This post has already been written. When the lead single to Madonna’s 1994 ‘Bedtime Stories’ album was released, I was at the start of my sophomore year at Brandeis. I was also about to kiss the first man I would ever kiss in my life. In others words, a whole lot of crazy shit was about to go down. As such, it’s a period that I remember more clearly than almost any other, and I’ve written about it a number of times. What follows, at least in the first portion, is the recounting of the time period that formed the backdrop to Madonna’s ‘Secret’ song.

 

Things haven’t been the same

Since you came into my life

You found a way to touch my soul

And I’m never, ever, ever gonna let it go

If you’ve only kissed girls all your life, the first time you kiss a man is a shock. A rough shock. Literally. My face feels like it’s being shredded by some ridiculous grade of sandpaper. He holds my head in his hands, and this will not be the only way he hurts me. For now, though, it is completely what I want.

In the afternoon light of September, in an apartment on the steep incline of some side street in Beacon Hill, I am sharing my first kiss with a man. The year is 1994 and it’s the start of my sophomore year at Brandeis University. The room is small, and comprises both the bedroom area and the kitchen. A bathroom is outside off the hall.

The sheets on the bed are white, or the lightest of gray, and he doesn’t seem to have many worldly possessions. I’ve always envied that sparse sort of set-up, and those not bound by attachments or material goods. Even in a few short weeks I manage to accumulate things, my closet over-stuffed and scarce of empty hangers. Here, just a small collection of plates and kitchen utensils dries in a wire dish rack. A lone towel hangs on the doorknob. By the window a cluster of books stands on a table.

He excuses himself to take a quick shower, and I am shocked at his simple, instant trust of me, having only met a few hours before this. Already jaded before I’ve even been hurt – or maybe there’s some sort of hurt that I can’t even remember anymore, a phantom pain from not feeling loved or protected – my suspicion lies hidden like a dagger, hidden but always present, ever-ready to strike, to slash, to slay.

He returns wearing only a white towel, and in the light of the bed my summer-tanned body lies atop of his, the cool bright sheets blocking the slight breeze from the half-cracked window. I wonder what the other people on the street are doing in their apartments on this afternoon.

My face and lips feel raw after sliding against his stubble. It tickles and stings and troubles in a dangerous, intoxicating way. He admires me like no one has ever done before, but I’m still uncomfortable as he watches me pull my pants on. It seems odd to just leave, but he mentioned something about his shift, and it’s even stranger to think of staying, so I depart after leaving my phone number.

 

 

Happiness lies in your own hand

It took me much too long

To understand how it could be

Until you shared your secret with me

 

Something’s comin’ over

Mmm, mmm, something’s comin’ over

Mmm, mmm, something’s comin’ over me

My baby’s got a secret

I step out of the stale smell of the old brownstone row, and back on the street I look up to his window. He is there smiling and waving. I wave back and walk down to the bottom of Hancock Street. Across the way is the site of a former Holiday Inn that my mother once stayed in with me and my brother. We saw E.T. in the movie theater there that no longer exists. Part of me still feels like that little boy, but as I board the train I catch my reflection, and, aside from the backpack, it is the visage of a young man.

How to explain the heady giddiness of my heart in those early days of fall? Every phone call with him carried me further away from the campus, away from the silly dorm antics, the childish college pranks. I wanted no part of that carefree fun, looking down on my fellow school-mates and disconnecting from that world irrevocably, in a way that risked future regret and silly behavior long past the point when it should have been out of my system. I was far too serious for my own good, thinking I was setting up my life for happiness at some time far in the future, putting off a good time in the moment and mistakenly eyeing what was to come, what was always ahead. I gave it away for him, as I would do for countless others, but in the beautiful light of that flaming September there was nothing else I could have done.

Somewhere there is an old 35-mm photograph of me, taken while I was on the phone with him, showing a rare unguarded moment where the camera was set up just as he called, the sun was setting, and my face betrayed not happiness, but worry. High in Usen Castle, in our semi-circular dorm room on the top floor, I sat on the bed talking to him. He was squeezing in a conversation just before his shift started at the hotel restaurant, from a pay phone no less, back when there were still pay phones around. He must care, I thought.

Every place he moved through held meaning for me. Across the street from the fancy hotel at which he worked was a park. An unlikely oasis in the midst of downtown Boston, it was quiet there, and workers in business suits and sneakers sat on benches reading books. I spent a lot of time in that park. Even when we weren’t meeting, I sat there, reading or writing or just watching the few people who meandered along its walkways.

Sometimes we did meet, for dessert or dinner, and there was a night when we kissed in the shadows of the Southwest Corridor, before the condo was even a glimmer in my eye.

In his apartment, we spent most of the time in bed. The flickering light from a tiny television glowed on the stark white walls. Night air drifted in from the window, along with some muffled shouts and street noise. I asked him how you could tell if you were truly in love with someone. He told me he once heard it said that if you were really in love with someone, you could envision spending the rest of your life in a tent with them and be perfectly content, never wanting for anything more, and never wanting to leave.

Sometimes I tell people that I could envision the two of us doing just that – other times I express doubt that anyone could be happy in such a situation. I never tell it the same way twice because I still don’t know how I feel about it. How could someone who was capable of being so hurtful possibly know anything about love? I trusted in his years of experience, putting a blind faith in simple human decency, only I never let him know. In my silence was acquiescence and the assumed aloofness that would destroy so many chances. I did not know that then – sometimes I don’t know it now.

You know when you’re not supposed to be with someone. It starts with a pang so small you’re not really sure that the doubt is real, but as the days and weeks pass, the pang becomes a full-fledged throbbing, and every moment you’re with them threatens to suffocate with its worry. When it happens for the first few times, you do not yet have the sensitivity to feel it coming, nor fully experience the hurt it leaves. At least for me, this was the case. I liken it to the first time you’re really hung over. You swallow and swallow as the saliva mounts in your mouth, and you know you don’t feel right but you still don’t know how not right, so you trudge along to work or school and from sheer ignorance or refusal, you do not stop to vomit and end it all quickly.

When his calls stopped and the lingering light and warmth of fall gave way to the harsh chill of October and November, I didn’t know enough to feel the pain of having such affection withdrawn. I also didn’t know how to cling or hang onto someone, to emotionally obsess and hold onto something that was already dead. This may have been what saved me – my ignorance of how to feel that pain, how to access that hurt. It would be the last time I didn’t know.

My parents invite me along for a weekend in Chatham, MA and I gratefully accept. In the air is the misbegotten notion that he might miss me, when my absence would only bring relief at the most, if it registered at all.

The weekend is gray and cold. There is no going back to any hope of summer throwback days – we are too far gone. The first thing I do as my parents settle into the room is to walk to the forlorn, empty beach. It is dark and windy, and the town and beach are deserted. Wind whips wildly around in a savage attack, sparing no bit of shelter or respite. I pull my coat closer around me. In the sky is the promise of an imminent storm, but I don’t care. Dark clouds threaten, the cruel wind stings, and as I arrive at the beach, the sand and salt water shoot stinging pin-pricks into any exposed skin.

Part of me wants to walk into the ocean, numb myself with its cold, be helplessly drawn out with the undertow, and let come what may. What else could a thinking person want on such a dismal, gray day, in such a dismal, sad world? Of course I don’t, deliberately walking up and down the shore instead, dodging the tide and peering behind at footprints that will come to nothing. The weekend passes in a sad blur. I return to Boston alone, and think over the previous weeks.

To this day, I can point out which bench I was sitting on when we first spoke. I want to pretend it doesn’t have that power, that it no longer matters, but the memory won’t let me. It comes back, haunting and pulling me out of whatever momentary happiness I have found. I always return to that moment, and it always starts up again…

 

You gave me back the paradise
That I thought I lost for good
You helped me find the reasons why
It took me by surprise that you understood

You knew all along
What I never wanted to say
Until I learned to love myself
I was never ever lovin’ anybody else

Happiness lies in your own hand
It took me much too long
To understand how it could be
Until you shared your secret with me

Something’s comin’ over
Mmm, mmm, something’s comin’ over
Mmm, mmm, something’s comin’ over me
My baby’s got a secret

In Copley Square, before the rising spires of Trinity Church, there are just a few benches that face each other. I pass them first, and then pass him. His eyes, sparkling and blue, glitter in the September sun, and I can’t do anything but stare into them. And so I turn around and settle on one of those benches, pulling out the book I’m reading, ‘The House of Mirth’ by Edith Wharton.

I was not meant to be in Boston today. I was supposed to be at a school newspaper meeting at Brandeis, but halfway through it I knew I would never like being told what I had to write. I snuck out as they were touring their make-shift office space and got on the commuter rail to the city.

It is a beautiful September day – a little on the warm side but when faced with what is to come, quite welcome. For some reason the city seems quieter, and despite the recent influx of college kids, less crowded. Maybe it’s because I can only focus on him.

I read the same page about three times before I acknowledge him sitting on the bench before me, and he is the one who speaks first. It would always be the other guy who speaks first because I will always be too afraid.

He asks if I want to walk with him, and I nod. We turn toward the river. I had never been this way before, and if there’s one thing that makes an indelible impression and memory, it’s discovering some new part of a city you thought you always knew. We must have meandered along the Esplanade, past the Hatch Shell, in the dappled light of the changing trees. I remember the walk, but it is dim and vague, and the only thing I could focus on at the time was him. We are going back to his place, and while I had never done anything like this before, somehow I knew what to do, what I had to do.

 

At the tender age of nineteen, how could I have been so sure? This was before the ubiquity of the Internet, before ‘Will & Grace’, before Ellen. No one had ever told me it was okay. He was no exception. He told me nothing. To all my questions, he gave out no answers, at one point snapping viciously that he didn’t want anything to do with “this education crap”, that no one had helped him to come out, and he was not about to help anyone else figure it out. But all this had yet to come.

There is no use recounting in detail how our weeks together passed. He was callous and cruel in ways that cut me deeper since it was my first time, and because of that it would take years to thaw the icy boundaries I erected to deal with it. The bigger person I sometimes try to be wants to absolve him of his guilt, but I can’t forgive him for how he treated me.

I am now almost the same age he was when he met me, and I still can’t fathom treating another person like that. At first I thought I might, when I reached this age, but it’s not an age issue. My introduction to the gay world was a cold, cutting, every-man-for-himself attitude that should never have been. There were other atrocities too, darker things that I will never put into words, but I’ve written enough about him already, and it’s not fair to post just one side of the affair – God knows I’ve never been an angel. For now, I am done, and the story ends here.

I wish I could say that it didn’t affect me, and that I was mature and knowledgeable enough to chalk it up to an isolated individual, but I can’t. Even if was just one bad seed, it happened to be the seed I tasted. You can’t get rid of that so easily, no matter how intellectually you understand it shouldn’t matter.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

That was all I wrote about him for some time, until I revisited the scene of that fall in these posts. Some kisses change your life. That was one of them. There was no going back. I had a few more entanglements with women, but my heart had to admit that I was gay, even if I couldn’t express it. I was so young then, so alone, and it was a secret that I couldn’t share. Not at that time. Instead, with a mixture of shame and heartache, I went through it all by myself. I don’t have many regrets, but that may be one of them – not so much that I did it all on my own, but that I felt I had to.

To carry a secret like that can be very damaging. Secrets are by their nature insidious, and one secret always begets another. It would take me a few years before I could come out, and even then some people still wanted me to keep it quiet. When it’s your own family, that hurts a little bit more.

Enter the woman who had just taken the critical and popular beating of her lifetime: Madonna, in the aftermath of the ‘Sex’ book and ‘Erotica‘ album. She had fallen from her lofty perch and faced derision and vile press. Rather than hide away, she did what she had always done best, and released a fantastic album. A mid-tempo acoustic guitar-strummer, ‘Secret’ brought her back near the top of the charts, and is a song about finding the happiness within yourself. For Madonna, ‘Secret’ restored her to herself. The ‘Bedtime Stories’ album got pretty good reviews, and the next single would bring her back to number one with a bullet. She found her way back from a very dark place, and that was the lesson I took from the proceedings.

So heavily-laden is the song with the affiliated time period, I can’t enjoy ‘Secret’ on its own musical merit, no matter how great a song it is. Yet as the years pass, the feeling I get isn’t bitterness or anger or sadness – it’s more of a downtrodden ennui. It makes me exhausted, so I don’t often dwell on it. It exists as a talisman of a time that was powerful and necessary, but one that doesn’t have a place in my current world. I had to go through there to get here, but it’s nowhere I’d like to visit again.

It took me much too long to understand how it could be…

SONG #111: ‘SECRET’ ~ FALL 1994

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After the Oscars, A Recap

Oddly enough, this recap will have little if anything to do with the Oscars. Barring some catastrophic fashion moment or live mishap, I’m not going crazy with the award shows this year. Maybe that will change come Tony time. Or depending on the brilliance of Neil Patrick Harris. Or both in the event that he hosts again. Onto last week’s shenanigans now…

It started on a sultry note, the anti-thesis of all the wintry nonsense that just won’t quit. Here, the hot body of William Levy just won’t quit either.

The scent of winter, turned on its head in delightful fashion, thanks to L’Eau d’Hiver by the ever-elegant Jean-Claude Ellena.

A hunk of worldwide fame and acclaim, and hailing from my ancestral islands, the newly-crowned Mister International Neil Perez.

This is my ultimate fantasy, and it’s a hot one.

Speaking of hot, here is Robbie Amell flexing his pecs.

Blow this.

With Cole Monahan, it’s all about the hair. And the body. And the butt.

A hazy winter memory.

How Hudson Taylor hadn’t been named a Hunk of the Day until this past week is one of life’s mysteries, now put to rest.

Despite my cynical, jaded countenance, I still succumb to feel-good moments like this.

Get your red-hot ginger GIFs right here, in the form of Bryce Eilenberg.

Tom Ford made a splash in LA, and all I wanted to do was be there in ‘Lavender Palm.’

The Special Guest Blog this week was written by a cat. Really, it was. Millie purred and preened and showed off the proverbial power of the pussy.

The imagination of dragons set to song.

Once upon a time I wanted shit on a condom. Vote for this site anyway!

Oh, and Neil Patrick Harris got into his tighty-whities in front of a billion people, which was the best part of the Oscars.

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Neil Patrick Harris in His Tighty-Whities

Because there’s nothing hotter than a fit guy in white briefs, especially when he’s hosting the Oscars. (Quite frankly, this was the highlight of the Oscar ceremony – and it’s not even over yet.) Neil Patrick Harris has been here practically naked before, in this racy Rolling Stone cover shot, as well as shirtless in his first Hunk of the Day honor. He also wore nothing but glitter here, as was befitting of his turn as Hedwig. As for his Oscar-hosting debut, I thought it was safe and classy (as classy as you can get in your underwear) – and the perfect way to be invited back (though I may be at odds with the world on this one.)

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Vote For Me & I’ll Show You My Wee-Wee

“I’m sorry, but this is not a democracy.” ~ Madonna

In spite of those words, and the utterly-false promise of the post title, I’m still gunning to place on this year’s Metroland Readers’ Poll 2015. If you live in the Albany area, stop by and click on their Readers’ Poll section and give the voting a whirl. (If I had my wish, I’d be up for Best Local Blog for www.ALANILAGAN.com…hint, hint, oh-so-heavy hint.) An incentive: you need to see the acceptance speech I have planned in the unlikely event I make it to the top. Let’s just say it will have to be done via video. Yeah, it’s that precious.

In all seriousness, this is your chance to let the local small businesses shine, and excise the chain gangs once and for all (well, at least on a readers’ poll). It’s always disheartening to see something like D’Raymond’s get trounced by an atrocity like The Olive Garden, but that’s the problem when you put taste into the hands of the masses. I’m an acquired one, so I’m pretty sure I don’t stand a chance, but there are businesses and people who really deserve this, so click away and let your voice be heard.

(Minor side-note anecdote: I contributed one article to Metroland, over a decade ago. It was for their Sex issue that year, and it was a lament on how clean and sterile gay sex had gotten. They made me take out one line, and it happened to be my favorite line of the whole piece: “I want shit on the condom.” Out of context it doesn’t work as well, but damn it feels good to finally say it.)

“And if you don’t vote, you’re gonna get a spanky. Cut.” ~ Madonna

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