Never one to poo-poo an unorthodox food idea until I’ve tried it, I shall keep an open mind to the Ranch Ice Cream being released in a few days. First thought on this idea: abhorrent. Second thought: while not a ranch fan, I’m more open to this than the dill pickle ice cream that ran its course a couple of years ago. Third thought: I didn’t hate peanut butter on a hot dog, so why not? Ranch ice cream it shall be.
(If I end up hating it, I’ll just serve it to our next dinner guests without telling them what it is. That’s the kind of host I am.)
Oh winter, we knew you would pull this shit, saving your snowy nonsense for the end when we are all entirely over you. You’ll probably do your damndest this week, dumping a few feet on us now that we are ready for spring. It’s just the way of the world, so I’m going to embrace it because there’s no point in fighting it. Spring can begin in the heart, and if that’s how it has to be, so it shall. For the grand finale of winter, and its last full week, we not-so-eagerly await a doozy of a snowstorm. Let’s look back a week, and hurry through this one.
From the outside, the little wooden storage shed sagged like a well-worn face, caving in on itself with years of weight and rot and worry. Inside, it looked no better, with crooked shelves only half-heartedly hanging on, and piles of debris and rusty tools dangerously strewn about. The air in the dilapidated structure was still and stifling. Bits of dust floated in the light that managed to intrude through the broken windows hung heavily with spider webs; any bits of glass that remained were coated with grime. It was the perfect hiding place for a kid, or for a dirty book, and both were present on this summer day. It was also an unlikely location for an introduction to sex, but most of us don’t get to choose how we first brush up against that. Dropping my bike at the door, I shut the rickety thing behind me and began my furtive exploration of that word which suddenly tingled with illicit thrill and danger.
There’s things that you guess
And things that you know
There’s boys you can trust
And girls that you don’t
There’s little things you hide
And little things that you show
Sometimes you think you’re gonna get it
But you don’t and that’s just the way it goes.
Earlier that day, we’d been hanging around with my brother’s friend, who lived a few blocks away. Back then, we’d hop on our bikes before we even had breakfast, jump from pool to pool and house to house, and not return home until it was time for an early dinner. We were roaming through his friend’s house – nobody’s parents were home during the day then – playing hide and seek or giving chase the way that kids do, and at one point I found myself upstairs alone. His sister’s bedroom door was open and on the wall was a poster of George Michael in a skimpy white Speedo. All that I was supposed to feel toward a poster of Kelly LeBrock hit me when I gazed upon the hairy, lithe body of Mr. Michael, squinting happily from some beach in Greece, backed by a blue sky and flagrantly displaying most of his skin in wet, glistening form. I was transfixed and bewitched all at once, and I remember standing there stunned, caught by the surprise of all that I was feeling, and not understanding any of it.
I swear I won’t tease you
Won’t tell you no lies
Don’t need no bible
Just look in my eyes
I’ve waited so long baby
Now that we’re friends
Every man’s got his patience
And here’s where mine ends
Eventually, I roused myself from my visual inquisition, but soon made excuses to go back upstairs, where I surreptitiously indulged in more lustful gazing and looking. My awakening to a physical attraction was confusing, but came in what felt like completely natural form. This wasn’t something I had been conditioned to experience – if anything, I was waiting for the day when I found the same reaction to a woman, and that day would never come. This was a primal, powerful impulse that drew my eyes and head and heart to a handsome man with a teasing smile, speaking to something deep within, speaking to something I’d never seen portrayed in fairy tales or books or television. It was the same stirring I was starting to feel when our neighbor – some blond high school boy who seemed so much older than us then – doffed his shirt and ruggedly strode into our pool on the hottest summer days.
I want your sex
I want your love
I want your sex
I want your sex.
The dim, shadowy recesses of that house fade into memory here, and our little band of boys moves back outside, into the sun, into the heat, rolling down banks of green grass, horsing around as boys do, making the most of summer by doing the absolute least, and somehow exerting all our energy in the process. We found our way into that barely-standing wooden shed that was set nearer the road and away from the house. My brother’s friend beckoned us in and showed us a pile of paperback romance novels, some pages of which had been earmarked, and we took turns reading what would likely amount to some very tame sex scenes today. At the time, however, they were gleefully scandalous to our naïve eyes. More than that, they made room for the imagination to take over, and mine was thirsty, boundless, and bold.
It’s playing on my mind
It’s dancing on my soul
It’s taken so much time
So why don’t you just let me go
I’d really like to try
Oh I’d really love to know
When you tell me you’re gonna regret it
Then I tell you that I love you but you still say no
Sex, then, began as a matter of the mind. That’s where it was taking place, that’s where my notions of it were forming, and that’s where it felt most exciting. When reading about it in some cheap paperback novel, my mind focused on the man. Unforced and unswayed by all the hetero-normative shit around me, I still wanted to connect with the guy instead of the girl. My body, my physical and mental make-up, and my own baseline of emotion were all drawn to the male form. It was natural, it was elemental, it was where my first inklings originated. Only when social constructs and pressures came into play did I realize what I was feeling would be deemed wrong. That sort of shame was almost irrevocably harmful, and it’s the sort of thing that would shade many of my subsequent romantic relationships.
I swear I won’t tease you
Won’t tell you no lies
Don’t need no bible
Just look in my eyes
I’ve waited so long baby
Out in the cold
But I can’t take much more girl
I’m losing control
Back then, it was more innocent. Before the shame, there was only curiosity and the inquisitive pinprick of wanting to know more. The boys left the shed, but I lingered, telling them I’d catch up later. This was forbidden treasure, and I wasn’t ready to let it go. I quickly thumbed through the pages of the scandalous tome, re-reading certain passages to better grasp what was going on in all the metaphors and coded descriptions – the way humans sometimes do their best to disguise and beautify sex. I don’t even think I got a hard-on (surely I didn’t hop on my bike with a chub and gym shorts and ride through the streets of Amsterdam on that summer day) because it was more fascinating than arousing at such a young age. Still, I knew what direction I was headed in, even if I didn’t fully fathom the ramifications, and my cock was pointing me to men. I speak so frankly not in an effort to demystify sex, but to celebrate its integral and healthy place in our lives. That my first sexual explorations would be found in a book is fitting for someone who finds enthrallment and passion in a chosen cadence of words.
It’s natural
It’s chemical
It’s logical
Habitual
It’s sensual
But most of all
Sex is something that we should do
Sex is something for me and you.
Sex is natural, sex is good
Not everybody does it
But everybody should
Sex is natural, sex is fun
Sex is best when it’s one on one
One on one
Leaving the book in its run-down shed, I got back on my bike and rode away, rejoining the boys for whatever our next adventure was, and returning to the cares of a summer that felt endless and all-to-brief all at once. At night, alone in bed, when the air-conditioning gave off the slightest, softest moans, and I still couldn’t cool down, my mind would return to that poster and that book, and ideas of men started the beautiful haunting that would dog me for all the days since.
This powerhouse of an orchid has been in bloom since January 30 – that’s six weeks of this beauty going strong – longer than any other bouquet I could have purchased. Best of all, this marks its second blooming cycle with us, so double that number for the real flower power at work here. I thought I’d give an update, as no one has asked, because that’s what I do.
It’s just beginning to show some browning at the edges of some blooms, but this has held up remarkably well. I’ve been upping the humidity to prolong the blooms for as long as possible, and it seems to have helped. We will likely get a good two months of bloom, which is unprecedented in this house, where paperwhites and butterfly amaryllis and the odd Christmas/Easter/4th-of-July cactus are all that provide brief and unpredictable floral exhibitions.
Once upon a time my Sunday brunch libation of choice would have been a Bloody Mary, or perhaps a Last Word if I was feeling decadent. I never got into the mimosas, but in a pinch they would do. These days I still crave the bite of a Bloody, and that delicious horseradish burn, and thankfully it doesn’t require liquor to duplicate the taste, so the Virgin Mary is my current Sunday sustenance when I want something savory.
Most weekends, however, aren’t calling out for a savory breakfast treat, and so a simple decaf latte will do, when I’m not doing the usual tea. It’s a treat in which I indulge for those lulls in life when you just need a little dose of self-pampering. A spell of solitude in the local cafe, idly scrolling through your phone or reading a book, is one of life’s greatest and easiest pleasures. Happy Sunday morning to you.
I grew up in a world where I couldn’t see myself or anyone like me anywhere in my little/large world. There were no other bi-racial kids in my classes at McNulty Elementary School. There were no gay couples in the books I read or the television shows we were allowed to watch. There were no other boys who loved gardening and Madonna and ‘The Facts of Life‘. Having grown up in the 80’s and 90’s, I didn’t have the internet as news source or creative outlet. Two decades ago the world looked and felt like a very different place. It was a time before FaceBook or Instagram or Twitter or social media as we now know it.
This website became a daily diary, framed by the confines and freedom of being in a public all-access format. It became a place to bare the body and the soul – both equally terrifying and thrilling, and both in the service of attempting to find some greater meaning at work. As the years progressed, it became less about me and more about the process of finding oneself, and what had been working in my life. I went from cocktails to mocktails, from naked and nude to a contemplative mood, and from loathing kids to doting on my niece and nephew and godson. My friends and family, along with the people who were going along for the online ride, became this little community of characters which in turn became part of the story of ALANILAGAN.com.
Twenty years later, I’m still finding joy and fulfillment in telling our stories.
Incorporating a daily meditation practice into my life has kept me more or less calm during a time in our collective lives that would have broken or damaged a previous version of myself. The past three years or so have been traumatizing for all of us – and I mean all of us. Anyone who has been alive and aware on this planet for the last three years has experienced the trauma of a worldwide pandemic, and I fear no one is fully acknowledging and confronting the demons unleashed through this. Rather than bringing us together, it feels like things are splintering further apart. Maybe we need to break down completely before we rebuild for real. Humans are so often stupid that way, and I mourn for our nonsense.
When confronted with that dismal realization, and how awful we can be to each other, I tend to retreat a bit, to return to our home, and to the centered and calm heart of the day, which is my meditation practice. Whatever bothersome thoughts race across the mind at the start of the session eventually slow and still and dissipate, so that by the end of it, after the focused deep breathing, the stillness and silence, all that remains is a blank space of peace. The worries and concerns return, of course – that’s the reality of life – but they feel blunted, their power diminished, their hold not as paralyzing. That’s the magic of meditation.
Tore up and wore up from the floor up, this past week has been troubling and trying and totally typical of a full-moon week. While the proverbial shit hits the fan, I’m simply going to open up a rainbow-colored umbrella and carry on. That’s what the weekend affords: the nonchalant walk-away.
Don’t I make it look easy, baby
When I do what I do? (Uh-huh)
Don’t I make it look easy, baby?
Well, I’m foolin’ you
I just posted a picture, read all the comments Hearted the good ones if I’m bein’ honest, uh-huh I mighta spent an hour on it…
You won’t ever see me cry (I’m not cryin’) ‘Cause I’ve got a filter for every single lie
It’s not easy to make them look after all these years, even if it’s second nature by this side-to-late stage of my life. Still, it passes the time. It makes a day. And in this Meghan Trainor bop it forms the thrust of the narrative.
You think I live that lavish life, happy life? But you don’t know I’m up all night Worry ’bout my body type I wonder if I’m what they like? But I should just say “fuck it,” right?
Oh, and you won’t ever see me cry (I’m not cryin’) ‘Cause I’ve got a filter for every single lie
The faces and bodies we present on social media – the clothes and personae we present to the world – they make it look however we want it to look, but how much is real? How much is authentic? On our worst days, even on our only-somewhat-trying days, no one knows what’s really going on in our lives. Spouses and family members have only slightly more of a clue. Sometimes the mere act of showing up takes more effort and mental energy than performing in front of a crowd of thousands. You just never know when it comes to people.
Don’t I make it look easy, baby (Uh-huh) When I do what I do? (When I do what I do) Don’t I make it look easy, baby? Ah (Ah) Well, I’m foolin’ you Don’t I make it look easy, baby? (Ah; uh-huh) I’m good at keepin’ my cool (I’m good at keepin’ my cool) Don’t I make it look easy, baby? Ah (Ah) Well, I’m foolin’ you
So here’s to all the people who put on the pretend just to get through the day, the ones who make it look easy when they feel like it’s all crumbing on the inside, when they aren’t sure of anything other than how to make it look good.
I know I ain’t the only one who feels like this Gettin’ good at hidin’ all this mess (Gettin’ good) I’m tired (She’s tired) Oh, Lord, I’m tired (Yeah, she’s tired)
One of my favorite artists also happens to be a favorite friend: Kevin Bruce. A pillar of Albany’s artistic community, Kevin is one of the most entertaining and supportive artists in the Capital Region, happily contributing work and time and energy to many causes and events over the years. I first wrote about him in this post, and a few years later he was named Dazzler of the Day because a more worthy person of that dazzling moniker simply doesn’t exist.
His work is whimsical and witty, imbued with knowing winks and nods, and laced with deeper meanings and layers of innuendo. There are cheeky, sexier aspects present too, coupled with humor and offset with innocent exuberance. A fantasy, a flight, a defiance of rules and boundaries – all in the name of artistic freedom and release. Bruce finds the wonder of a moment, then bends and transforms it into something magical, plucked from the realm of imagination and make-believe then made into gorgeous scenes that suddenly feel like possibility incarnate.
By grounding his subjects in everyday, relatable situations (one of my favorite works of his is a masterful depiction of the crowd at the downtown Albany Dunkin’ Donuts) he is able to employ more fanciful elements in the outfits and actions depicted. His alter-ego Whiskey Sour saw us through those first few tumultuous home-ridden months of the pandemic, doing what she always did best in the form of madcap entertainment and indomitable enthusiasm. We need more of that kind of spirit in the world, and I’m happy that Kevin Bruce is here to provide it through his artwork and in his inspirational existence.
{Check out his FaceBook page here, where he regularly posts pics of his work. It’s a joyful addition to the otherwise-drab social media landscape.}
All of these informed the days of Madonna’s ‘Like A Prayer’ album, and in that incense and patchouli-scented period of time, a classic pop moment was born. At the age of thirteen I was just awakening to the world around me, and my place in it. Such a heady time needed a dramatic soundtrack, and ‘Like A Prayer’ was it.
Through the ensuing years, the album has matured and endured, growing more resonant with the passing of time, ageless with its themes of family, love, empowerment, spirituality, and self-discovery. With Patrick Leonard and Stephen Bray, Madonna crafted one of the finest pop albums of the 1980’s, topping off the decade that she ruled and setting up the pinnacle of her pop culture reign. ‘Like A Prayer’ was the first time the world began to understand her legacy and place in musical history.
Sometimes, though, that albatross of the past, and all the controversies that would come, weighed heavily on the heart and mind. It’s been over three decades since ‘Like A Prayer’ was released, and trying to encapsulate an understanding or summary of such a stretch is a daunting endeavor. Sometimes I just want to put on the music and let it take me there…
When confronted with the quest to find a defining song for this website, I turned to the children in my life – their answers will be forthcoming in the next few months, but it seemed unfair to task them with such a daunting challenge when they’ve only known me for the short duration of their lives thus far. How dare I ask someone else when I haven’t narrowed it down myself? And so let’s begin a little collection of songs that I would put on a mix tape if I’d met you when we were both teenagers in love. Up first, ‘Grace Kelly’. Ca-ching!
Do I attract you? Do I repulse you with my queasy smile? Am I too dirty, am I too flirty? Do I like what you like? I could be wholesome, I could be loathsome, I guess I’m a little bit shy Why don’t you like me, why don’t you like me, without making me try?
I tried to be like Grace Kelly But all her looks were too sad, So I tried a little Freddie, I’ve gone identity mad!
After knocking about this planet for forty-seven-and-counting years, I’ve got bruises and black-and-blue memories and tales of thrashing my brain and body against all sorts of odds and ends. At this point, perhaps a turning point, or a midway point, or a point of contention, I’m more willing to be unwilling to change for anyone or anything. The grace of Ms. Kelly and the brazen boldness of Mr. Freddie were never for me, despite my early Norma-mantra of ‘I can play any role!’ Wishful thinking, powerful enough for the younger years when one could coast on a wish and a prayer and the sheer will to make it so. One person’s confidence is another’s delusion.
I could be brown, I could be blue, I could be violet sky I could be hurtful, I could be purple, I could be anything you like Gotta be green, gotta be mean, gotta be everything more Why don’t you like me, why don’t you like me? Why don’t you walk out the door?
And so for many years – too many years – I tried to be everything I thought everybody else wanted. After several failed attempts at romance, and being too needy and quick to rush into a relationship, I learned all too slowly and painfully that people didn’t want that, and so I became someone who didn’t want or need anyone. Hardening off the heart and numbing the brain, I deadened my exuberant thrill and giddy excitement at meeting someone who fascinated me. Those were the rules, and to try to play outside of them simply didn’t work for me. Once I played that silly game, I could get the guy. Even if I couldn’t keep him. It was maddening.
Getting angry doesn’t solve anything…
So I became smarter. And harder. And cared even less. And I got a few more guys, and some stayed longer than others. And still I knew it wasn’t me. I couldn’t tell you what was me – I couldn’t even tell myself that then. I simply didn’t know, even if I was sure I did, and the blind-faith of youth was more blind than faithful. Left with gaping holes I covered with velvet and chiffon, in the manner of Grace Kelly herself, I hung the rusty sharpness of all my crooked nails and wonky screws with fancy duds and witty theatrics. Hiding in all the fantasy of black and white dramas, thinking I could outsmart the world and trap any bachelor with a penchant for other bachelors – I put myself above all others as a gambit, knowing full well there was nothing behind it. When there is nothing behind your image, you can be anything and everything – and it still amounts to nothing.
How can I help it, how can I help it? How can I help what you think? Hello my baby, hello my baby, putting my life on my brink Why don’t you like me, why don’t you like me? Why don’t you like yourself? Should I bend over, should I look older, just to be put on your shelf?
I tried to be like Grace Kelly, But all her looks were too sad, So I tried a little Freddie, I’ve gone identity mad!
The first whispers of humility, of acknowledging my failures and imperfections, sounded in the distance, but I didn’t heed them. Certain that I could be what everyone else wanted, if they would simply tell me what they wanted, I made a vow to mold myself into someone desirable. Shedding styles and modes from season to season, every new person was a chance to become someone new myself, and every time I gave something up, I moved further from who I was.
I could be brown, I could be blue, I could be violet sky I could be hurtful, I could be purple, I could be anything you like Gotta be green, gotta be mean, gotta be everything more Why don’t you like me, why don’t you like me? Walk out the door!
Let’s have an orchestral moment – for pomp and circumstance and the bombast of youth. We are so sure of ourselves for such a very short time. Only the very foolish keep their delusions. The very foolish… and maybe the very happy.
Say what you want to satisfy yourself, hey But you only want what everybody else says you should want You want
A moment of mourning, then, for that foolishness. For that innocence. For that young man who knocked himself about like we all do in our early twenties. Because once I knew a little more about life, and loss, I wanted to be a little better. Slowly, the awakening began, and every day I felt a little more awake, a little more like myself. Understanding that, and seeing for maybe the first time that every day would not bring more knowledge, but more questions, began informing the way I lived. It wasn’t the answers I needed to find, it was the acceptance of all that I couldn’t and wouldn’t come to know.
There would be days when I would get ahead of myself, when the hubris of history and all the beautiful barriers I’d erected for decades would get the better of my decent intentions and send me hurtling back to a place of cruelty and fear and smallness. And then there would be days when I made all the right decisions, when the world smiled back if I ventured to smile first, when I met someone magical like Andy who taught me things and allowed me to teach him things too.
I could be brown, I could be blue, I could be violet sky I could be hurtful, I could be purple, I could be anything you like Gotta be green, gotta be mean, gotta be everything more Why don’t you like me, why don’t you like me? Walk out the door!
Is there such a thing as a happy ending? I don’t know. The older I get, the more we seem to lose. Beauty. Youth. Health. People we love. The closer we approach our own ending, the less happy life seems to get. I think it may have to be enough to find a tiny bit of happiness for which to be grateful at the end of every day – whether that’s in a stubborn patch of snow that finally melted, a violet that throws off an unexpected bloom, or a cookie that a co-worker brings you. If we find our happiness in the simple and grand glory of living out an average day, then that may be our happy ending.
Well… this was not what I intended to write when I chose this song, but some songs guide you differently as you write things out. This was going to be as colorful and brash as the explosion behind me in the accompanying pictures. It was meant to echo the driving defiance of ‘Grace Kelly’ and Mika’s impassioned delivery. Instead it stands in stark contrast to that, a monument to my failures and mistakes, an ode to imperfection and everything wrong, and a reminder to embrace it, make it better, and then let it go.
I could be brown, I could be blue, I could be violet sky I could be hurtful, I could be purple, I could be anything you like Gotta be green, gotta be mean, gotta be everything more Why don’t you like me, why don’t you like me? Walk out the door!
Viva Empanadas is one of the delicious vendors at Galleria 7 Market in Latham, and I introduced Suzie to their glory at dinner last night. I first tried these empanadas this winter, on a quiet Saturday before Andy woke up. I was going to save one for him, but they didn’t make it. The filling and the sauces were just too good.
Suzie and I ordered a variety of four each – I’d only had a dry turkey sandwich that day, or so I justified it. A plate of three would have sufficed, but some dinners should be an excess of goodness, especially at the end of winter. It wasn’t difficult to finish them all. Suzie managed to save one.
One of the Capital Region’s most venerable and vital resources for the community of LGBTQAI+ Black, Indigenous, and People of Color is celebrating its 25th birthday this year. In Our Own Voices, Inc. has been providing programs and services to the community for a quarter of a century, and gloriously heading up the helm of that organization is the ever-fabulous Tandra LaGrone. With a warm and welcoming smile that ignites whatever room is lucky enough to have her in it, Tandra is one of those magnetic characters who draws all people toward her infectiously enthusiastic spirit. The sparkle and pizzazz of her personality is matched only by her prowess and power in making things happen. While she is working on preparations for the silver anniversary of IOOV, she also has her eyes keenly focused on this summer’s BlPOC Pride Celebration, with planning sessions taking place in the days and weeks to come. Visit their website here for more information. It’s always a joy to name someone I actually know as Dazzler of the Day – and knowing Tandra is a joy unto itself.
{The 25th Birthday celebration for In Our Own Voices, Inc. will take place on Saturday, March 25, 2023 at the State Room in downtown Albany. Tickets for this event are available here.}
Billed as one of the bestsellers in stores that sell such items, the Billionaire Brownie comes in many variations. For my first attempt, I used a recipe from the Magnolia Bakery cookbook, which uses a brown sugar shortbread as the base, a layer of caramel, and then a brownie on top of that. They said more caramel could be added on top, but I’ve never been a big caramel fan, so I veered away from that – and honestly there was more than enough in the middle layer (a whole cup).
The results were spectacular for what was a rather simple recipe. The only time-consuming part was making the shortbread base and letting it cool before all the caramel and brownie mix can go on top. I was worried about double baking the shortbread, but it didn’t burn at all – and the brownies actually had to bake for fifteen minutes longer than the recipe time indicated before they were done (I lost track of how many dirty toothpicks gave their lives for this enterprise).
These sorry photos don’t do the sweet goodness half its due justice.
