Math-teacher-turned-model Pietro Boselli has already bared his booty in these pages. He’s also given some serious VPL (Visible Penis Line) and modeled an assortment of Speedos and underwear, such as here and here and here. Today, he gives us more of the same, as no one seems to mind when he doffs clothing and offers a glimpse of nakedness and nudity.
When I was a kid, I was very grateful that my birthday fell during summer vacation (August 24, in case anyone wants to start saving up, and you should). I couldn’t imagine having to spend your birthday in school, bringing in cupcakes for the other kids and having to share your special day with the masses. (I’ve also never been a fan of the big birthday party where all the kids are invited – I kept my gatherings to Suzie and one or two other people, quite happily.) What brings this to mind is the date: January 4. I suddenly and out of the blue recalled that this was the birthday of one of my childhood friends, Jill. I don’t remember how she celebrated or what sort of cupcakes she brought in to school, but I know she must have had a few birthdays at McNulty, as did most of the class. Summer babies were not as common as those populating the rest of the year given our two-month window.
Jill was one of the top students in the class, and she had a special pencil to which I attributed all her success. It was a simple #2 yellow pencil, the kind we all had, but it had been worn and whittled down to a manageable two-thirds of its original length – perfect for a kid’s smaller hands. It also had a worn and perfectly rounded eraser on its end – the whole thing achieving a darker patina and lived-in vibe that appealed to my search for comfort. A new pencil had to be broken in and used before it became comfortable, its sharper edges dulled to a softer feel. I coveted Jill’s because it glided with ease across the page, and she could make the neatest hand-writing with it. At least, that was the questionable reasoning I worked out in my head.
For months, I begged her for that pencil. Every time there was something I had that she wanted, I offered to trade it for the pencil. Snacks, markers, fancy erasers, a place in front of me in line – I tried all the tactics a school kid once used to get ahead in the classroom – all to no avail. Through my desperation she had seen the value of that magical pencil, and she held onto it all the tighter. I didn’t blame her. But I didn’t give up.
Eventually, I had something she wanted just as badly as I wanted the pencil. I don’t remember what it was – obviously it wasn’t anything that meant much to me – but she gave in and traded me for it. As with all similar stories, the magic left the pencil as soon as it was in my hands. My writing didn’t suddenly turn neater. My test scores didn’t suddenly change. Though I liked the way it felt in my hand, and the way it wrote across the page, it didn’t magically transform my life the way I thought, and expected, it would.
Still, it was a good trade, and Jill was a good friend. It’s a happy memory because it reminds me of how our school-day drama was once about a magical pencil and not a gun. It was about birthday cupcakes and bags filled with Valentine cards. It was, I fear to say it, a better time.
Here’s wishing a Happy Birthday to Jill, wherever she may be. (And thanks for the pencil.)
For far too many years I shunned charcuterie. It makes no sense – so much of it seemed to be about presentation and appearance – one would think it would be my cup of pekoe. Alas, I’m much more practical than most give me credit for being, and when it comes to food I’m not all that fancy. However, a few years ago Andy and I stopped at the Lucas Confectionery in Troy, and I ordered a charcuterie platter as a meal, and since then I’ve been a convert.
Lately, I’ve been working on eating a little healthier, and that means portion control. I found myself actually finishing one of the big dinner plates from Lanie’s (which normally last for two meals) and busting through waist sizes like every day was Thanksgiving. A simple collection of charcuterie, when chosen carefully and feasted upon in good time, is a good way to slow things down and remind oneself of the joys in eating. I’ve also come to embrace the precious nature of its display.
For New Year’s Eve, our extravagant plan was to stay home and do absolutely nothing. To add just the slightest bit of flair to such humble proceedings, I put together this charcuterie plate, which I served with our annual NYE Fondue Savoyarde. Along with the meats and cheese, I added some olives and cornichons. They may seem like frivolous afterthoughts, but I found them integral to the spread, right down to their cute little bowls. (Suzie would be proud of all the mini dishes.)
All in all, it was one of my favorite meals of 2018; here’s to more of that this year.
There is nothing wrong with having chicken parmesan for breakfast.
What is chicken but a wicked old egg?
The New Year’s bang now a faded memory (and thank goodness), we can return to a hopefully peaceful start to 2019, and a renewed effort to bring some calm into this online world. I’m deeply enjoying ‘Heaven and Earth Are Flowers: Reflections on Ikebana and Buddhism’ by Joan D. Stamm – it’s part of the research for a new project, and is a wonderful rumination on quiet things of beauty and, if all goes well, enlightenment. A calm and bright beginning to a year in which kindness is one of my major goals.
Beneath the slumber of winter, there is work to be done. What we do now will lay the groundwork for what comes up in the spring and summer. Yet it is also a time of reflection and stillness. There is no rush to any of this, and sometimes you have to lose a weekend to sleepy lounging or appreciating the last few days of a beautiful Christmas tree. I came upon Andy sitting on the couch and looking at the tree, and was pleasantly reminded of the moments that matter, the moments that form the quiet in-between time of real life – the simple golden sheen of companionship and love – and I vowed to slow down a bit.
Going back to the simple and true is the best plan of action for the early days of winter.
A cup of green tea warms the hands.
A pot of soup simmers on the stove.
A spray of paperwhites perfumes the air.
There is beauty here, and comfort.
Sit, unwind, breathe and relax.
We will wind our way through the winter…
An apt symbol of a new year, the egg represents many ideas.
Mostly though, I just like to eat them.
The soft-boiled egg is a beautiful thing. I also find them easier to make than poached, fried, or even hard-boiled eggs. That may seem strange, but I’m a strange bird. (Scrambled eggs, whisked or otherwise, remain a specialty, so that’s still the simplest method I use, but these soft-boiled tips may make for an easy alternative.)
Here’s what I do: boil a small pot of water, using just enough water so it will barely cover the eggs. It should rise to a medium boil, bubbling but not too violently. Carefully lower three eggs into the pot, turn down the heat a bit so a low boil remains, and cover loosely. Start a timer for exactly seven minutes. When it’s done, carefully put the eggs into an ice bath to stop the cooking immediately. After the eggs have cooled for a bit, gently tap each with a spoon around the center to break the shell, and peel away. The seven minutes and medium to low boil seem to be the keys here. It took some practice, but now they come out pretty consistently. This is also the most delicious form of cooked eggs – the yolk is wonderfully runny, like some rich buttery sauce, and the white is tender and moist. It’s enough to sprinkle with a bit of salt and pepper for an easy protein-rich snack, or use them as accents on many sorts of dishes. I find them especially good for lifting up a plate of leftovers.
“I’m an absolute introvert. I do not like parties larger than eight close friends. I’m quite the loner. What I do publicly is a performance. It’s part of my job, and I’m good at it.” ~ Tom Ford
Last year we began with a bang, and though I usually like to change from one extreme to another, I’m going to go against my boomerang nature and aim for a double bang. Boom-Boom in the zoom-zoom room! Nobody booms bigger than Britney:
The double-sided tension that has run through this blog from its inception almost exactly sixteen years ago has largely been about what to share and what to hide. The public versus the private. How personal does one have to get on a personal blog? How distant and remote can one be before everyone moves on, bored by such practiced removal from anything too real? How much flagrant showing off and stripping down can one perform before the performance becomes the truth? I don’t think we’ve come close to uncovering the answer or reaching a reconciliatory resolution. Questions remain. Mystery begets mystery. The puzzle shifts, changing shape before our very eyes. Time, so celebrated in such a falsely defined structure (how else could humans cope with it?) comes to mind today, when we trick ourselves into thinking things can start all over again, as if the turning of a meaningless calendar page has any real bearing on the dirge of middle age.
In the face of the clock, as its hands wind around interminably, circling in on a stranglehold that never quite finds release or connection, the numbers advance and retreat, stationary but signifying movement. Time ticks and tocks, marking itself in rudimentary glee, its only purpose to make a map and mockery of itself. A new year begins, born like a baby, and already donning a top hat: the utter insanity of how we have erected the world. Dance, baby, just dance!
A step in time, fox trot or gavotte, Jack will be nimble and quick, and what he can do with a candle stick! Dancing through life, spinning through time, mixing metaphors and musical madness, we begin the year with a whirl and twirl. What will come of us in 2019? Just keep on dancing, baby, just keep on dancing…
And so we begin again – another chance, another start – and maybe this year I’ll open my rebel heart. May this one be the best ever! 2019 marks the 16thyear of ALANILAGAN.com. Ahh yes, my Sweet Sixteen. A lot of crazy shit happens when you’re sixteen years old. A lot of crazy shit happens when you’re 43 too. I might just have a midlife crisis and nervous breakdown RIGHT HERE ON THIS BLOG. I can do it. Just wait and see.
Happy New Year, kids. Come back for more…
Splitting up the year was our second annual summer break – so from late June to September this space went dark. It was nice, but I did find myself hankering to post a few times; this year we may be switching it up a bit, but that’s in the future. This post is all about the past, so let’s finish up this year and move on already. (Don’t forget to see Part One first.)
June 2018:
Our Broadway trip included a performance of ‘The Boys in the Band’.
Andy and I returned to New York for this magnificent show by Betty Buckley. More here…
The preciously elusive Jack-in-the-pulpit.
My favorite book of the year: ‘The Summer That Melted Everything‘.
A simple summer treat by the pool.
Pretty in sight and scent.
Meeting one of my favorite legends: Betty Buckley.
Two simple words, one tiny prick.
Summer rain calls for this underwear.
Central Park in the summer, fading like a flower.
The danger zone: showing off my rear for the very first time.
Everyone’s favorite guest blogger Skip returned with this post.
Threading an olive with a garlic scape.
We prepared for summer break with this oldie.
A haunting summer song: ‘Mer Girl’ by Madonna.
Visiting a castle in Amsterdam with the family.
A summer tale in NYC: Parts One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven and Eight. (Because I can draw anything out.)
A summer trip to Boston and Cape Cod.
Adam Rippon finally got naked.
Everybody needs some time all alone.
A summer recap within a Year in Review.
In case you missed all these hunks, catch up and re-explore them here.
Summer always brings back memories of my brother.
Saying goodbye for another summer.
August 2018:
A lone secret post from the middle of the night.
September 2018:
Before Autumn regained its throne, Summer had one more three-part show in which to shine: Part One, Part Two and Part Three.
A new Tom Ford frag: Fougere D’Ardent.
The birth of a new feature: #TinyThreads – An Insignificant Series.
Of Speedos and men and such.
Simon Dunn got all naked and sexy again.
Behind the curtain, under the veil.
October 2018:
Stephen got married, while his Mom turned 80.
Sleeping within earshot of the fountain.
Madonna may be at her best in the fall.
The PVRTD Project, officially announced.
Most things begin with blood.
VPL: Visible Penis Line.
Not necessarily for consumption.
Trumpet taps for a trumpet flower.
A secret cologne indulgence: SJP.
I tried to get back into YouTube, and I failed.
Seeking treasure with the Ilagan twins.
That time I made a water aerobics class move to Madonna.
Vermont weekends in the fall.
Ben Cohen got back in the sexy for a calendar shoot.
For Halloween, I dressed as Mr. M.
November 2018:
November was all about the release of PVRTD.
Without further ado: PVRTD.
The Starbucks on Pearl Street still sucks.
We saw ‘Come From Away‘ and loved it.
New York City with the family.
This was my advice on how to get through the holidays. I did not follow it, and I paid dearly.
My attitude here simply did not last.
Fading and falling, like particles of dust.
December 2018:
Ahh yes, the Holiday Cards… in all their questionable glory.
This year’s holiday card was nothing short of perverted.
Into the maelstrom of retail.
From the grandest of intentions, to the most dismal of realities.
A Happy Holiday Stroll saw us take Boston early, and in lovely form.
This year’s Christmas tree came from our front yard.
Beautiful boxes make beautiful gifts.
Within the heart of a Christmas tree.
An inevitable holiday burnout.
But with a little holiday levity…
And a few (lot) of children to bring back the spirit…
They turned Christmas around, and reminded me of what it was all about.
I got a nude attitude.
The secret Russian Christmas tea revealed!
Rounding out the year of our 15th anniversary were 15 favorite posts.
Sexy Christmas hunks, and their naked links.
How to smell like the holidays in a year like this.
A Filipino feast of seven dishes.
Social media madness (and my naked ass all over the place).
All the hunks of the year in one link-littered post.
While the world watched itself burn, this site put forth its best efforts at being an escape, and for its fifteenth anniversary I am compiling two end-of-the-year posts, because looking back is never all that it’s cracked up to be. (And why would we want to crack something anyway?) Here we go!
January 2018:
It began with a fuchsia top hat, as any good year does.
Back to basics with David Beckham in his underwear.
So much of my life has been subconsciously inspired by this movie.
The best sandwich of the year.
A cologne to combat the winter. And a meal to warm it up.
Michael Phelps in his underwear, and Ricky Martin out of his.
Pati Jinich has changed my life for the better.
This is how I smell Fucking Fabulous.
Grand Budapest magic.
A favorite friend, a favorite city.
Bringing back the cocktail hour with Lawrence Welk.
How I make social media bearable.
February 2018:
Winter water and its accompanying robe.
Justin Timberlake loses his trousers.
The Blushing Betty.
More nostalgia… and still more nostalgia (thank you ‘Dawson’s Creek’).
A winter dinner party as hosted by my brother; it turned out quite well.
Taking stock in the snow.
March 2018:
We celebrated the 15th anniversary of this website.
Madonna celebrated the 20th anniversary of ‘Ray of Light’.
Darren Criss flashed his naked ass.
This movie wrecked me in the best possible way.
The day Skip turned 40.
For the love of ‘Love, Simon’.
Things stayed snowy in March.
My first By Kilian foray brought me Straight to Heaven.
April 2018:
Full-frontal foolishness.
Date night in Saratoga with my husband.
Shortly after this scathing story, the place closed.
A classic cocktail: the Aviation.
It’s all about the fizz.
I’m so super fun when I have the flu.
Boston get-together with Suzie, Emi, and Mom.
Parading through Easter Sunday.
An ‘American Life‘ anniversary.
My silly way of getting through life.
My take on ‘Harry Potter and the Cursed Child, Parts 1 and 2‘.
Another hint of Madonna, because certain Madonna Timeline entries deserve a big build-up.
Ladies and gentleman: strike a pose. (Vogue!)
Magic in NYC with Andy, a perfect spring day, and cocktails with family.
May 2018:
On certain days and at certain times, Albany is deeply beautiful.
The night I robbed a Wal-Mart.
Double birthday: Parts One, Two and Three.
A multi-post celebration of our wedding anniversary.
On Broadway with Mom, Parts One, Two, Three and Four.
Underneath the cherry snow.
A goal realized, but not to last…
Zac Efron filling out his Speedo.
{The second, and last, part of this Year in Review arrives later today… come on back.}
Tangled paper clips are a cakewalk compared to tangled Christmas tree ornament hangers.
Listen to me, like I have anything to do with either of those things.
When Facebook sucks (as it has for the past three years) and Twitter gets too politically-abrasive (thanks to people like me), I turn to Instagram, where things are carefree, light, and occasionally naked. Those are the shots that populate my Top Nine of 2018, because people are still thirsty and these days I’ve got extra junk in my trunk to give away for free. There’s also my YouTube account, which I thought I was going to get into but was way wrong because I just can’t be bothered.
Such is the tattered state of my social media world as the year reaches its close. Largely bored by it all, I’ll admit to coasting a bit of late. To counteract that, I’ll be searching out inspiration and working on a new project which will hopefully result in some images to kickstart my Instagram world. Until then, enjoy all the nudity posted in the last year.
As a gift to my father (who has never had a big desire for Christmas presents) I offered to make this year’s Christmas Day dinner, and I decided to add a few items to the staples I know how to cook, resulting in seven traditional Filipino dishes. For the most part, they turned out well, and despite some sketchy deep-frying danger (the pork skins were maybe not quite dry enough when they entered the hot oil) no one got hurt (aside from another minor knife cut to my finger). Here’s what we had:
As I mentioned, three of these were brand new to my repertoire, so I was extra careful about getting them right, or at least edible. The showstopper may have been the Embutido, a Filipino meatloaf of sorts that incorporates hard-boiled eggs, Vienna Sausage, ham, peas, ketchup, sweet relish, raisins, cheese and pork in a dish that is so much more than the sum of its parts. I was super skeptical when putting it all together. (The Vienna sausage alone was enough to draw groans.) Surprisingly, it worked, and with its accents of eggs it made for a visual feast that most meatloaf doesn’t match.
The pancit is always a lot of prep work – cutting and chopping and soaking – and then there’s a balancing act on how to get it moist enough without being too runny. It barely came together at the last moment, but that’s all that matters.
This was only my third or fourth attempt at lumpia, and thankfully the wrappers decided to cooperate (always a crap shoot). I’d made the filling the day before, and rolled them in the morning, making for an easy fry-job just before guests arrived. (If you cover them with a moist paper towel and some foil or plastic wrap, they keep quite well in a cool place, such as the garage when the fridge is overrun with other items.)
I made two dipping sauces for the lumpia – the first was a soy sauce/vinegar/chili pepper mix with some scallions for good measure, and the second was a sweet and sour concoction of rice vinegar, sugar, and, wait for it, ketchup. I’ve long since stopped turning my nose up at ketchup as an additive. From beef stew to Embutido to this dipping sauce, a little of the red stuff can work wonders.
If I recall correctly, lechon was one of my Dad’s favorite dishes. We had it for special occasions only, and he loved the skin the most, so when I saw pork skin in the market, I picked up a pack, soaked it in some brine, and boiled the hell out of it. It dried out overnight, and my plan was to fry the skin as an appetizer and serve it with a traditional liver-based sauce that goes with lechon.
Apparently they hadn’t dried quite well enough, and soon after the pieces were dropped in the hot oil, mini-explosions started happening that brought Andy running in from the other room. No one was injured, but the oil was everywhere, and we only got a few pieces out of it. They’re an acquired taste anyway, so Dad got the whole small plate to himself.
The rest of the lechon turned out better than expected. Keeping the skin on left the meat moist and tender – a trick I’ll be sure to repeat when doing pulled pork in the future. (I could only find pork with the skin still intact at the Asian Market – the folks at Price Chopper had never even heard of such a thing, which means we are on to something good.)
By far the most polarizing dish was the Amapalaya – bitter melon. Even after scraping out the pith, soaking in a salty bath, and squeezing out the excess bitterness, these were still bitter as hell. And I like bitter. More than earning its common name, this bitter melon was sauteed with onions, garlic and tomatoes, then flavored with soy sauce and almost tempered with a healthy dose of oyster sauce.
The latter’s sweetness was not enough to combat the bitterness, however, so this is not a dish for the faint of taste-buds. In small doses it works well, particularly when we were otherwise lacking on the vegetable front. They’re supposedly packed with vitamins and nutrients (even if some were leached out in the prep and cooking process).
Though only three are on display here, there were actually four sauces created for this dinner. The aforementioned pair for the lumpia, then one for the Embutido, and one for the lechon. I knew one day all these bowls Andy bought would come in handy, and this was that day. We broke bread with the family in celebratory Christmas fashion, closing out the holiday in happy fashion.
Suzie and I were just texting about this other day: is the Erie Canal still operational?
Low bridge, everybody down.
