Such a sad and sorry post, to signal the coming end of summer and its final full month. I don’t want it to go, I don’t want it to go, I don’t want it to… Repeating this like a mantra, like a prayer, I try my best to slow time. That’s the worst thing to do, as it always has the opposite effect. It is far more effective to focus on the moment, and making each one memorable. There’s too much to lose by being distracted by such mind games. On with the recap.
Ensconced in the Judy Garland Suite of the Lenox Hotel on my 40th birthday, I am in no position to worry about blogging or updating this website, so I’m pre-populating posts such as this one, in which a look back over the previous lovely week will have to suffice until my return to the hum-drum existence to which I’ve instantly become unaccustomed. While we normally do the weekly recap on a Monday, it’s a day late because of birthday shenanigans. On with the show…
Holy fuck, I’m 40. In what crazy-ass time-warped universe could I possibly be 40 years old? I was just 29 a few days ago… In some ways it’s unthinkable, in some ways it’s inevitable, but mostly the act of turning 40 is, for me, uneventful. It’s never been the number that’s bothered me. There are deeper forces than some arbitrary milepost at work, and that’s where my head is at right now.
‘The Big Chill’ was on television the other day, and watching that when you’re about to turn 40 is akin to watching ‘Leaving Las Vegas‘ when you’re about to turn 21 (I managed to do both, with various emotional landmines exploding around me). The first time I saw ‘The Big Chill’ I found it drab and dull, but what was once a big bore suddenly became relevant and relatable. The set-up is slightly contrived, but it provides the perfect backdrop for the ruminations of incontrovertible middle-age: following the suicide of one of their college friends, a group gathers and finds their lives far from where they thought they’d be. Here was a group of people who found themselves losing their way and grappling with the realization that while the time for dreaming went on forever, the time for action and for doing anything may have already passed. There’s a coldness to this, and a hardening of the heart that, once begun, is very difficult to slow or stop.
“I haven’t met that many happy people in my life. How do they act?”
~ The Big Chill
I’ve felt that chill recently. I don’t know if it’s turning 40, or simply the ripening of my situation. I’ve been with a loving gentleman since 2000, I’ve worked my way up to a decent position at work (after starting out as a Grade 5 Data Entry Machine Operator almost a decade and a half ago), I have a wonderful support group of close friends who’ve stayed with me for the better part of several decades, and I’ve been generally healthy for most of it. In so many ways, I have so much. Yet there’s been a gradual erosion of the spark and jolt of feeling alive, of new experiences and new places. I find myself looking back at previous periods of life and thinking how much more colorful and exciting they were, how much more passion and excitement and hope buzzed with the birth of each day.
Unaccustomed to such nostalgia, I was surprised by the worry and weight that was slowly building. There was a sense of general ennui, to the point of madness, in what followed a long, gentle, barely-discernible slope of sadness. Yet for all of that, I haven’t done much about it. I’ve been complacent, unable to muster the real ambition and drive to do anything other than vaguely complain or whine on occasion, finding substitute thrills in clothing or cologne or the same old trips to the same old places. I’ve wondered about those friends from high school and college, as I watch them expand their families on FaceBook, as I hear from them on birthdays, as we move further and further away from our youth, and from each other. I hope they are finding their own happiness.
“I just love you all so much. I know that sounds gross, doesn’t it? I feel like I was at my best when I was with you people.” ~ The Big Chill
Then I think the terrifying thought: what if it meant more to me than to them? What if everything I’ve ever believed in was a minor footnote in their lives? It’s so hard to tell whether we matter – whether we really and truly matter. A crippling doubt envelops everything then, and an insatiable insecurity – never quelled, never satisfied, never conquered – over-rides all the good I’ve ever tried to do in this world, and suddenly it all feels so pointless. We want so much to mean something to somebody. Anybody.
“A long time ago we knew each other for a short period of time; you don’t know anything about me. It was easy back then. No one had a cushier berth than we did. It’s not surprising our friendship could survive that. It’s only out there in the real world that it gets tough.”~ The Big Chill
I have to believe that it still matters, that we still matter, that what we went through together still means something, still holds a place of significance in our hearts. I have to believe that love doesn’t just disappear, doesn’t fade away even when time and place and circumstance keep us apart. I have to believe that even in the smallest, most mundane motions of a day there is meaning and magnitude and magnificence. If we don’t believe in that, if we don’t believe in something…
“Wise up, folks. We’re all alone out there and tomorrow we’re going out there again.” ~ The Big Chill
And so I greet 40 with gleeful defiance and happy ownership of everything I’ve done up until now, and everything I have yet to do. I will still be here. I will write, and I will take pictures, and I will read and garden and sing along to Madonna songs as loud as I like. I’ve done it since I was a child, I’ve done it as an adult, and I’ll do it until the day I die. I’m taking all the foolish baggage that comes with turning 40 and turning it into something to signify the start of everything. We are far from done here – and we always will be.
Ahh, August. Favorite month of all the months, for so many reasons – and not just birthday ones. August is the last full month of summer. August is the last month with no school. August is the last month when there are more days in the pool than out of it. August is heat and sun and fading flowers. Most of all, August is happiness. Contentment. The calm before the storm. And I don’t want it to end, so let’s go back in time, just a week, and do it all over again.
Introducing my publicist, Ginny! Also known affectionately as Gin-Gin (as so many lovely Virginias in my life have been) she is responsible for my Twitter fan-handle @CircleOfAlan. How can I not get on board with that kind of vainglorious tribute? If ever I rise above the small-town trappings of Loudonville, let @CircleOfAlan become my officially unofficial outlet for news and gossip.
As for Ginny, she will be playing Liz Rosenberg to my Madonna as I extend these flights of delusional fantasy into real-world nonsensery. (I’m even making words up now, so don’t bother to dictionary it.) On a more serious note, she’s become a lovely friend in her own right, and we recently held a retirement party for her at our home. It was the least I could do for someone who helped me out at work and made every day a little more fun and enjoyable. (And now that she’s retired she’ll have that much more time to devote to the online Twitter promotion of yours truly.)
It was a testament to her heart and engaging personality that so many friends from her work world showed up to celebrate. It’s also an indication of how fun she is that she was game enough to don an Alan Ilagan original head-dress to greet her guests (at least until she fell over in her chair). All in a day. All in a party. All in a publicist.
When I look back over the friends I’ve made over the years, many of them were motherly in certain ways. Some were mothers of my friends, others were simply older women who played a motherly role in my life. I’m not sure why I’ve searched for mother figures, or what role of healing they filled and continue to fill in my life. I’m just glad they’re there. We seek out what we need to survive.
Like my wit at its best, this has been a dry week. The gardens are scorched. Stretches of ostrich ferns have browned up and shriveled off. We are headed incontrovertibly into fall. Sorry, but it’s true. Face the facts or extend your denial. Still, it’s summer, and it will be for a number of weeks, so I’m stepping outside by the pool and soaking up every last moment. August is a beautiful month.
The last week saw a fitting Speedo post, as that’s the preferred attire for certain men of a certain build.
It also saw the first glimpse into Madonna’s Rebel Heart tour. My excitement was waning, but now it’s back to where it always was, and there’s no better reminder of that than this collection of previous openings.
One city that the Delusional Grandeur Tour will NOT be visiting is Las Vegas. Though several pages of the Tour book were shot on location there, I do not enjoy the city in the least. It had some good points: for a hotel worshipper like myself it was a treat to visit the ornate lobbies and extensive grounds of some of the finer hotels (even if they were miles apart and one had to trek in 110 degree heat to get there). The Wynn and Encore were two of my favorites – even more-so than the Bellagio and the Venetian. On my last day in the sinful city, I spent much of my time roaming the hallways of the former, and winding down my trip with a quiet cocktail at the relatively hidden Parasol Lounge.
This secret gem was lit by the bright afternoon sun, but offered shady respite (in fitting fashion given its namesake). Enormous parasols in rich jewel tones hung overhead, and one descended in a curving escalator to reach the secluded space. Had I discovered the place earlier in my stay I might not have ever left it. Perhaps it’s better that I didn’t.
There are surely ways to make Las Vegas magical, but I didn’t have enough money to find them. Instead, I found sanctuary from the heat beneath a bunch of parasols.
The second question (after the more obvious,’What exactly do you do on a tour?’) is always, ‘Where are you going?’ For my final tour I’ll be keeping things relatively open as far as destinations go. I’ve made a life of planning far into the future, but this time I’m flying by the seat of my pants. It’s produced a feeling of exhilaration and terror, and I’m digging it. That said, there are concrete plans for the next few weeks, and a couple of Tour Stops already etched in the itinerary. First up is a Boston and Cape Cod jaunt to meet some new friends from Britain. JoAnn is hosting the Brits, and this will mark my first time meeting this wonderful group of people I’ve heard so much about. Following that is my 40th birthday weekend in Boston, a quiet affair with Andy in the Judy Garland Suite of the Lenox Hotel.
Early September will bring about a vacation in Seattle, WA -my first time in that fair city since 1998. Along with the flagship Nordstrom store, I always want to see some sea-life – whales or octopus – and perhaps a museum or two. Oh, and Starbucks. I need to see how their stores should really be operating, because I think the Albany locations have some serious issues.
After that, I’ll set up more definitive plans for New York, Washington, and Ogunquit. This tour is going places. Watch and see.
While The Delusional Grandeur Tour: Last Stand of a Rock Star is out of travel status until next weekend, a word on those portals and passages that bring us into other worlds. They are the doorways to different lands, the paths to new destinations. I’ve always been fascinated by such points – the transitory marks that bring us from here to there, and occasionally back again. Whether it’s a car or a plane or a boat, whether it’s a bridge or a road or a hallway – these are the hubs of transformation. A hotel lobby is the perfect, and infinitely fascinating, example of this. Airports, too. The places where people are in motion and flux, going or coming, running to somewhere or running away from somewhere else – these are the in-between states where most people aren’t really themselves, but in which I find myself most true and real.
At its worst, it results in what I see as a tourist’s frame-of-mind. Those frazzled or simply seemingly-mindless people who don’t know where they are or what they’re doing, who suddenly forget how to walk when out of their usual routine, who forget simple human decency because they’re so preoccupied with figuring out how to order a cup of coffee outside of their own kitchen. When I see stuff like that and I’m annoyed, I call it stupidity, but really it’s more of a distracted, out-of-place confusion that many people aren’t accustomed to coping with, at least not well.
Oddly enough, it’s a state I rather favor. I find comfort in not being bound to the usual trappings of home and tradition. Yes, it can be upsetting if you’re stuck in your ways and resistant to change, but if you open your mind to new experiences it’s nothing but exciting.
Those thresholds are my comfort zone. They are where and when I feel the most alive and energized. Part of me fantasizes about working in a job where the majority of time is spent in travel status, on a train platform or at an airport gate, waiting and anticipating the next rush of motion. It’s why I’ve never minded a lengthy layover (which are far preferable to the ten-minute gauntlets thrown down in an airport that’s five miles long) and why I consider a train ride or road trip a destination unto themselves.
It need not be a world-spanning flight or cross-country jaunt – sometimes the simple length of a pool is enough to clear the mind and bring about a new sensation. Sometimes it is even simpler: a doorway, the same doorway you’ve walked through your entire life, can be the starting point for a new beginning. It’s all in how you choose to go through it. The life you knew before can change in that single instant. Make it the one that you want, and don’t be afraid to leave certain doors behind.
Within the metallic mesh fence that protected the vegetable garden, I peered into the leafy jungle. Slightly fuzzy leaves rose along a bamboo framework, and nestled inside, dangling in the shady nooks, the green beans hung. Having been dispatched by my Mom to pick some beans for dinner, I’d ventured into the garden in the hour before eating. It was quiet and still. The morning cacophony of bird calls and waking had given way to the riotous pool splashing of high noon, but now the day had settled into itself. In other countries this would be the time for a siesta.
The act of harvesting instills a sense of contentment and accomplishment. I don’t usually grow vegetables, and there’s a difference between a decorative plant that produces beauty all season long, and a vegetable which produces something that physically nourishes you. Both have their purpose, both have their merits. I’ve just always sided with the prettier choice.
On this summer afternoon, however, I find peace in picking beans, in the stillness of the garden. My hands are soon filled with beans, which I drop into a bag which soon fills as well. I walk over to the tomato cages and rustle through their fragrant hairy foliage. The fruit (or vegetable, let’s not debate it) is not quite ripe. Same with the eggplants and peppers. For this day, the green beans will have to do. That’s the way summer goes.
We’d left Seattle in the morning, having loaded most of what Suzie had into the big white Volvo not quite worthy of the name Bessie. The start of our whirlwind cross-country trip, transporting her back East after a year of food prep in Seattle, was on a sunny day in August, auspicious with its bright skies, but quickly overbearing in the heat once we distanced ourselves from the West Coast. Such heat came on strong, and left the oversized Volvo gasping for overheated breath. Do you know what you are supposed to do when a car overheats? Turn on the heater. Yeah, I know. Me in a Volvo, in the high heat of summer in Montana, with the fucking heater on. It was 85 degrees outside, and 90 degrees inside the car. I was not having it, and but for Suzie I would have ditched the whole idea and high-tailed it to the nearest airport. But Suzie has a way of making even the unbearable a worth-having adventure. After a few hairy pauses to let Bessie cool off, we glided into a beautiful afternoon.
Fields of sunflowers lifted their faces to their namesake. Golden and resplendent in the light, it felt a little like Oz, and my wonder at the world, in of all places Montana, raised my sweaty spirits. I was racing back to see a boy I barely remember, and at the time barely knew, but we’d had a very enjoyable first date, and at my age I was ever on the verge of being crazy in love, and wanted nothing more than to believe that this was The One. I didn’t tell Suzie that was the reason for my hastily avoiding every stop or proposed diner-pie moment. I was in no mood for the dinosaurs of Pee Wee’s Big Adventure, and if I have the slightest regret in my life it may be in not stopping along the way.
We ducked behind high outcroppings of rocks that hid us in shadow, but there were no trees to shade our way. It was so different from the East Coast, and I was fascinated and entranced. We had driven most of the day, and most of it through Montana. Vast, unyielding, relentless Montana. The name still conjures endless vistas of clay-colored rock, and unmitigated sunshine. As it neared sunset, we started to feel a little peckish for dinner and a place to lay our heads for the night.
A silly pop song – the song of that summer – played on the radio, and neither of us had a boy to call our own. Not yet. My heart hoped, of course, like it always did, and who knew what rumbles of yearning ran through Suzie’s hidden emotions, but we were happy enough just being together on the road, in that enormous Volvo, and suddenly panicking that we might not find a hotel even this far removed from the great National Parks below us. Eventually we did, just as the light left the sky. A sad and sterile Motel 6 or Super 8, whose worst affront was not the small pack of fruit flies near the bathroom sink but the sheer dullness of such massive mediocrity poised unspectacularly in the midst of our sprawling country. This was why people killed themselves, I thought briefly, before giggling at the drama of it all.
We slept well that night. The sleep of summer is often misunderstood to pale in comparison to the warm slumber of winter, but I’ve always known that summer sleep is the deepest sleep, especially after a day at the beach, or the pool, or an overheated car. The next morning we were speeding east, leaving Seattle in our memories, hurtling toward a few more summer memories-in-the-making. Like the season itself, our cross-country trek was over much too quickly. Like college. Or my relationship with that sweet boy. Or those endless fields of sunflowers that now only occasionally tease and taunt me with their whorls of seeds to come.
The first time I went to a production at the Mac-Haydn Theatre in Chatham, NY was the day I told my parents that I was gay. Well, it was the day they read the first draft of a letter-to-the-editor in which I said I was gay. It was also the day they told me they wished I wouldn’t publish it. That night, my Mom had tickets to some musical revue at the Mac-Haydn, purchased and planned at a prior time, so we took the long awkward ride into the beautiful rolling hills of Chatham. It was a quiet drive, one in which I contemplated keeping silent to appease my parents, while struggling with the very real need to reveal who I really was.
We drove along the verdant roads, past tall fields of corn on the verge of being harvested, by ponds dotted with wild geese. Nodding umbrels of Queen Ann’s lace drooped after the hot sun of the day. Fuchsia-tinged thistles lifted their sharp leaves upward. The sky was a bright blue, holding a few puffy clouds, and the air was still. In the heat of high summer, it was better not to move too much. It was easier that way. More comfortable. The effort of sending out ripples sometimes feels more onerous than letting things lie.
I don’t remember much of the performance that evening. One thing that does stick out in my head was the oppressive heat, still lingering even after the sun went down. Sweat was pouring off the performers. One must have wiped it off between numbers a little too quickly and carelessly, as he returned to stage with a big piece of paper towel still stuck to his forehead. It was all I could focus on; my mind was entirely elsewhere. Bothered by the expected, but still unexpected, lack of support by my parents, bothered by the confines of upstate New York, which seemed to stretch out and sprawl forever, but held onto its small-minded lack of acceptance as if it was all that mattered, I couldn’t pretend to care about singing and dancing. I wasn’t that strong yet.
At intermission, I mulled around the little lobby area, lingering until the last possible moment. The lights went down and we were shrouded in darkness. The show began again, and for another hour we could pretend that nothing was wrong. And really, what was wrong? The simple fact that I was gay? Or the act of me wanting to tell the world? It was probably a little of both.
The ride home, in the kind of all-enveloping darkness that can only be found in the country, was equally quiet.
The next day I hand-delivered my letter to the local newspaper. I was directly defying my parents’ wishes. I was deliberately disobeying the two people who raised me. I felt guilty, and sad, and hurt – and like the biggest weight had just been lifted from my shoulders. It was one of the best decisions I’d ever made in my life – and it saved me. When you can’t count on anyone else to do it, sometimes you have to save yourself.
