Author Archives: Alan Ilagan

Leaves scuttled along the street, dry against the cool pavement. The outline of a hat and the billowing shadow of a cape undulated on the pavement, as if in some dramatic trailer to a new superhero movie. Something about it portended danger or might, power or worry, and the wind that tugged and chewed at it carried a vicious bite. What mystery-figure stood so tall, shrouded in cape and millinery madness, on a strange October night?

A streetlight behind me set the captivating motion into relief, where it danced according to the whim of the wind. On this cool night, we had assembled as members of the Amsterdam Marching Rams for the Halloween Parade. I made do with a simple hat and a cape, and though I was small my shadow was larger-than-life, shifting in the waves of air beneath the buzzing streetlamp. It looked much cooler than it was. (When your everyday wardrobe is as outlandish as mine tended to be, Halloween is a welcome day off; amateur hour for the masses who didn’t have the guts on an average weeknight.) As I stood there, my shadow caught the notice of a classmate who remarked that it was “wicked cool.” Another pointed down at it and agreed. Secretly smug that even my shadow was cool, I soon wondered if it might only be my shadow. What if the shell was the best part of the package? What if no one liked what was inside? It was a split second of pride and doubt, and passed quickly. Soon I was consumed with the task of marching with an oboe and trying not to have a double reed get shoved down my throat or into an eye.

I’m not sure why I remember that moment before the parade so distinctly. Nothing of import or note happened – I don’t even remember anything after that first few minutes of assembly. Yet it has stayed with me all these years – and I attribute it to the power of an image. An image of mystery, something that hinted and whispered rather than screamed in perfect bright clarity. It was a notion, a nudge, a suggestion – and somehow it was more powerful and omnipotent because of that.

Elongated and larger than life, my shadow stretched deep into that night, overwhelming and overpowering everything in its path. That it came from such a small kid seemed unfathomable, and my young mind struggled to wrap itself around the idea that I might one day have such reach. I would simply have to remember: the world isn’t kind to little things.

A hat and cape might protect me one day.

Or they might just look cool when set into stark relief.

Settling into a new schedule takes some adjustment. I’d ask how you were enjoying the new set-up, but it’s not changing anytime soon so what’s the point? I dig it, a lot, and as a wise man once said I should be doing what makes me happy here, so let’s go over the last week in posts. Then I’ll see you on Thursday.

It began in earnest in the spirit of Miranda Priestley. 

Tom Ford offered something that was truly ‘Fucking Fabulous.’

Billy Joel gave us music for night-walking. 

Meet Matthew Olson, the shirtless violinist. 

Rose fireworks. 

Nyle DiMarco got butt-ass naked. 

A Boston mooning. 

October: the month that goes Boo!

A Tom Ford fragrance that won’t break the bank. 

Cameron Dallas takes his first bow as Hunk of the Day. 

The trumpet of an angel. 

When the spring becomes the rose. 

Send in the clown.

There’s nervousness and excitement in the air – it’s like the first day of school and the opening credits of ‘The Devil Wears Prada‘ all in one – and as tribute to that anticipation, let’s put a proper soundtrack into the background of this post: ‘Suddenly I See’.

New clothes. New accessories. New attitude.

A new Trapper-Keeper.

Every new school year was a chance to premiere a new persona. Back then I cared less for such opportunities for transformation; I was more worried about whether I’d get the same lunch hour as my friends, or whether somebody would scream out “faggot” as I walked by. The chance to be someone new and start all over again was something I wouldn’t appreciate until much later, but the nervousness of being the new guy is something that we all experience at one point or another.

That’s also when I tend to make the most lasting memories. Trauma does that. In a heightened state of awareness, the minutes seem to elongate and stretch out into a first-day-of-forever. I can recall almost every first day of a new job, even if I can’t remember the last.

I still remember the first day of my New York State career. It was at the Department of State, and I was hired as a Grade 5 Data Entry Machine Operator. I had no idea what it meant to be a state worker (some days I still don’t). All I knew was that I needed a job that had benefits and retirement and all sorts of accompanying bells and whistles, so I took the first one that was offered and found myself in the elevator of 40 State Street, riding up to the fifth floor. It was August of 2001, just a few weeks before 9/11 would change all of our lives, and all my worries pooled in that single elevator ride. I did what I always do in times of worry and doubt: I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders, and channeled Madonna, picturing her entrance to the ‘Drowned World Tour’ in which she greeted a hungry audience that hadn’t seen her perform live in eight long years. Raising my chin and erecting my posture, I stood tall in that elevator – at least as tall as my short frame could stand – and when I stepped onto the floor of my new job, I put on the guise of self-confidence, forced a smile, and faked it until I made it.

On all my first days, I’d invariably have a moment of doubt, when I freaked out a little and wonder if I’d ever make friends or be at ease simply walking through the office. And I would do the same calculation in my head – the comfort calculation – when I’d try to remember how long it took me to feel at home in each new position. It averaged out to about eight weeks. If you can last eight weeks, you can last any number of years. That was always the turning point – by then I’d have made a few friends or at least people around whom I could be myself and not worry about being ridiculed or ostracized. Isn’t that everyone’s worry underneath it all – the notion that we might not be accepted? Some of us are more frightened of it than others. I pretended not to care, and eventually it came to be. But not in those early days.

At the end of my first day, sitting at my desk, I examined the stark little cubicle. A corner of dusty wires hid behind the computer screen. A container of pens stood beside the phone. The calendar marked the end of August and the start of my state career. I would only stay at that department for a few months before taking a promotion, and I would do that over and over until settling into a career in Human Resources. Every time I took a new job, I felt the same doubt, fear, hesitancy, and excitement – along with the promise of something new. Every fall the feeling returns – and a chance to start over again is born.

Good evening! Welcome to the first night recap of the previous week of posts – truncated since we only just returned to blogging this past Friday. I’ll keep things short and sweet before breaking for a couple of days, as explained in this trying bit of logistical dreariness. Sweet dreams until Thursday…

I suppose we should go back to the last post of the summer, just to offer a bridge to where we are now. My return to blogging was bookended by ‘Dear Evan Hansen’, which I have yet to see, but the music speaks volumes for itself, particularly its take on friendship. 

This is my home, and you are always welcome here. 

The Madonna Timeline was back with ‘Body Shop’. 

Things got interesting while I was away, 20 Things to be exact. 

The deliciousness that is shakshuka. 

You can never do the same thing twice, no matter how fierce. 

Still in the business of naked-ass male celebrities. 

The one thing that almost brought me back from my blogging sabbatical early. 

The Hunks returned from their summer break as well, but they kept their shirts off. Notables included Nile Wilson and Gavan Hennigan,