Not be confused with a chocolate starfish, this is the starfruit. Aptly named from its appearance after being cut cross-wise, it’s a fun bit of fruit, slightly similar to an apple, but juicier and softer. The skin is edible as well, and it’s a good thing, as peeling such a geometric design would prove problematic for someone like me, who sometimes has trouble peeling an orange.
After a weekend in Boston, I find myself drinking a cup of green tea on a rainy Sunday night, and conjuring a quick recap. This week is a short one, work-wise, as we’ll be making our annual Columbus Day excursion to Ogunquit. Basically, that’s where my head will be at for the next few days, so things here may be even kookier than they usually are. But before that, a look back at the turn into October.
Rather than go back a month, I thought it was more interesting to go back a whole year and see where things were in September 2012.
I’m still addicted to Madonna.
FaceBook had its moments, and I had mine. (Yes, I will go full-frontal. Wait for it.)
Keeping things warm as we closed the book on September was the parade of Hunks, that continued with triple-threat Sam Harris, the naked backside of Chris Hemsworth, all three Jonas brothers, and Paco Leon.
Fall is a time for food – snacks, and full-fledged dinners of sea bass. And zucchini.
Two words that say hot and sexy: David Beckham.
Sometimes, even on a  Saturday night, one needs a little panda pick-me-up.
One of my supposed ‘friends’ on FaceBook reported this Instagram piss shot as ‘Nudity/Pornography‘. Miraculously, this has only happened a couple of times in all my years of posting racy shots.) Usually I’m not bothered by such an action, because I realize that some of my photos tend to push the envelope of what is acceptable on FaceBook. However, this shot? No. There’s no nudity, there’s no pornography. You may not like a picture of a stream of urine (if that’s even what you’re actually seeing…) but there is no way that this approaches porn or nudity (unless a glimpse of toes is now pornographic).
It turns out that FaceBook agreed, and they did not deem the shot inappropriate. Tasteless, perhaps, but nothing that could be characterized in the nudity/pornography category. As for the person who reported it, I have to wonder why they bother being ‘friends’ with me on FaceBook. Because if they’re bothered by this, they’re going to lose their shit over all the other crap that I will no doubt post over the coming years. (Oooh, shit… now there’s an idea…)
Let’s face it, this is not the last time I’m going to be vulgar, crass, and offensive. The only people getting worked up over it are the nameless stalkers who continue to visit my page, and that kind of tickles me. Besides, as soon as someone finds out that something I posted got flagged and removed, they go straight to ALANILAGAN.com to see what it was. You heard it here first.
Eww, I can’t even use that post title without cringing, and if you have a brother you know what I mean (and if you have a brother and don’t know what I mean, eww again). Here are the Jonas brothers, who recently gave a cover story interview to Out Magazine. I was surprised – mostly because I didn’t realize Out was still publishing. Less surprising was the fact that this previously-pious (and virginal) group was making the most of their muscles and kissing up to all those supposedly-expendable gay incomes (why can I not have one of those?)
Some of us are still reeling from that ridiculously-hot Instagram shot of Nick Jonas that went up earlier this year, or the way his backside fills out a pair of baseball pants. But let’s not give all the attention to the youngest, there’s also Kevin (the now-married oldest son) and middle heart-throb (in true Hanson tradition) Joe Jonas, who up until now had gotten much of the swooning-adoration.
Does it matter that I still can’t name one of their songs? Not to anyone here.
This is the kind of cheeky fare served up hot and spicy on my Instagram account, so follow accordingly. I’m about to hit 1000 posts on that new-to-me social media account (any requests on what the 1000th photo should be? And don’t say full-frontal.) I also invite you to join in the social media cross-pollination that runs across FaceBook and Twitter too, even if this website remains the basic source for most of the original material these days. It’s a social media-mad world, and I feel like Spencer Tracy.
Originally this was to be a recap of the month of September – and it still will be – but having just recapped a week, I don’t feel like rehashing that again, so instead, let’s look at September 2012 – one year ago. I seem to have an easier time in even years. Back in 2012, I was up to my usual mischief, haunting my usual haunts, and dealing with my usual nocturnal madness. It had been a summer encapsulated by the Speedo, but by September I was ready to hang it up to dry.
It was time to get all Sporty Spice with the World Series and the start of football season. (Was that right?)
It’s been over a year since I’ve had a massage. No wonder I’ve been such a bitch. Someone pony up a Mandarin gift certificate stat.
I was seeing Madonna again, and remembering my very first time.
But my heart also belonged to Shirley, especially in September.
It’s not easy for me to apologize, not even to Anderson Cooper. But I did. (Thank him for getting shirtless too.)
My current culinary fascination actually began a while back, and it may have started with this Filipino feast. Family has a way of becoming important again in the fall, in every sort of way.
Having neglected a proper write up of this wonderful plant this year, I’m glad I did it back then.
Oh yeah, I was still getting my kit off. Because in September the sun still lingers, and the pool is still open. Far deeper than that, though, was the real nakedness – the kind that strips the soul bare. It makes all the other nudity superfluous.
But it was better when other guys got naked too, save for a few strategically placed hands – like those of the lucky lady cupping Adam Levine’s otherwise naked body,  the lucky lady being straddled by a very naked Prince Harry, the lucky lady being mounted by Ryan Phillippe, the lucky Speedo covering Tom Daley’s bits, the lucky hands of Ryan Reynolds cupping his naked self, and a bunch of Ben Cohen in his briefs, his boxer briefs, and with his huge hose. Oh, we can’t forget The Gronk, this battle of the butts (and its epic GIF rematch), and Jake Gyllenhaal’s naked ass too.
This week, September comes to its glorious close, and it seems to be going out in a beautiful blaze. For all of our complaining and whining about the end of summer, the start of fall offers more than compensatory beauty as a balm for what will inevitably come.
One of my favorite cocktails for fall is the negroni (which I prefer straight-up).
Nothing beats a cozy fall night in Boston with a dear friend, unless it’s a cozy fall night in Boston with a book (and no clothes). (And speaking of no clothes…)
Keeping things hot as we slide into cooler weather were the ongoing collection of Hunks of the Day. Shirtlessly strutting their stuff were the chiseled physical forms of Filipino television star Piolo Pascual, American television star Julian Morris, super-plucked footballer Cristiano Ronaldo, and the bouncing buttocks of Jude Law.
A kitchen renovation is in the preliminary planning stages, and though I’ve already made a number of major compromises (big ones, too), I predict a stressful few months ahead. Thank God none of my favorite cocktails require running water.
Sometimes even the most fashionable among us need a little reassurance.
No matter how far you run, or how hard you try, you cannot escape your childhood. Be ready for the journey.
Finally, the new season of the Cohoes Music Hall just opened with this stellar production of ‘Les Miserables’, so be sure to check it out before it ends its run on October 13.
A little bit of ‘Autumn Leaves’ for your Sunday brunch background by the Bill Evans Trio. Fall is here, and will be for a while. Best to settle in and enjoy it, reconcile ourselves to the season, and to not looking back. The summer will be ahead of us again, but at the moment it’s the last Sunday in September, and soon it will be October, rushing in on the night wind, no other way around it.
The sun in September is sometimes the prettiest the sun ever gets to be. The brilliance of the sky backs it up, and the leaves mirror its glory. It will not go down without a fight – a gorgeous, flaming, beautiful fight. But for now, put down the September sword. Set your tea upon this coaster. Take up your New York Times, being careful of the ink. Listen to the music, and watch for the falling leaves. The morning is young, and the show has just begun…
Everybody wants to blame the goldenrod for their allergies this season. That’s because it’s the most visible supposed-offender, heralding its presence with those bright yellow blooms, crying out every time the sun reflects its golden light. But it’s not the goldenrod that’s making you sneeze, it’s most likely ragweed. Dispersing its sneeze-inducing pollen at the same time, only more unnoticeably, it gets away with the mischief and lets the goldenrod take the blame. The ragweed pollen flies on the slightest breeze – not so with the goldenrod. Yet it’s always the flashy ones that get the blame. I know what that’s like, and it’s never fair.
The first step of our kitchen renovation begins in earnest this weekend, as we meet with our designer to settle on a final layout, and decide on which contractor’s bid to accept. Our estimated completion time for this project is sometime in January, with the real work starting in November/December, just in time for the holiday season! As such, our holiday party will be a little different this year. Picture hard hats and construction tape. But it will (hopefully) be worth it. If for nothing else, for some great blog fodder, because you know it’s going to be disastrous at times. I’ve already toyed with the idea of taking a leave of absence and high-tailing it to Boston for the weeks of construction, but that would never be approved, so my co-workers are on high-alert that my normally-bitchy bearing will reach levels of unbearableness. Such is the price of a new kitchen.
As for how I’m going to get through a full kitchen reno with my new passion for cooking in full swing, I haven’t quite figured out yet. As I said, I anticipate being out of town for every weekend this takes place, if not staying at my parents full-time. Andy is welcome to come along, but he won’t, and I don’t want to hear any complaints. All I want is a granite peninsula and all will be right with the world. How we get to that point… well, fasten your seatbelts – it’s going to be a bumpy night.
Every night my bed becomes something else. Sometimes it is a rocket, sometimes it is a plane, sometimes it is a hotel in London, and sometimes it is a desert in the Middle East. Lately, my bed has been a boat, sailing along the coast of British Columbia, skirting bears and whales and foraging food from the sea. I drift along, sometimes peacefully, sometimes violently, as storms and sun vie for coverage, all from the safety of this little ocean of cotton, bordered by banks of pillows and a cliff of cushioned-head-board.
I am reading ‘The Curve of Time’ by M. Wylie Blanchet, having the sort of mentally-immersive experience that only the written word can provide – something richer than what is found on the internet, something more tangible than reading off a computer screen – I can’t explain it, but a real book, held in my hands and contained in its entirety, somehow means more. Maybe it’s my secretly-Thoreau-like aversion to technology, or the cranky old man in me finally coming into his own, but I’ll always prefer a book to a Nook, paper to tablet, ink to pixels. It reminds me of the comfort of reading a book in bed.
In lonely falls and winters, I dive down beneath the sheets and blankets, until just my head and hands are left in the open air, and hold a book close to my face, reading the words, grateful for the escape. Reading has always been that sort of savior for me. In the darkest times, and at my most worried, I could slip into bed at the end of the day, and go somewhere – anywhere – else. If I fretted about wasting time, of not making the most out of every minute, I would stop and read. Reading was never a waste, and I always got something out of it. It calmed me. It stilled the raging rest of my life. Like a soft bed, it quietly and steadfastly worked its magic, chipping away at the worries of a day until the mind was occupied with a wondrous tale of far-off lands and adventures.
To this day, nothing can relax me like a bout of reading before going to sleep. If I’m fortunate enough to be home in the morning, there is nothing more enjoyable than staking out a comfy spot on the couch in which I can luxuriate in the waves of words, letting them wash over the wreckage strewn along the beach of my heart, raking away trouble and consternation, like the cleansing kiss of high tide.
When fall arrives, and the nights turn chilly, I don’t mind staying at the condo in Boston and cooking for a friend or two. This past weekend I had Kira over, and we had a tamarind fish curry dish (my new obsession), with steamed rice, and sautéed spinach in a black garlic bean sauce. We lit a few candles, opened a bottle of Riesling, and had more fun than had we gone out and spent the better part of a Franklin.
Time with Kira is always relaxing (you can tell – she’s the one who took the first photo here: one of the more unguarded photos taken of me in a moment of sheer giddiness). We talked of the past, of the future, of fun things and serious issues, and lots and lots of silly nonsense – the stuff that friends talk about that means nothing and everything at once.
Sometimes there is more excitement to be found in what is not seen.
And oh, if you could have only seen what you cannot see…
Here we are again, reconvening for a Monday morning recap of the previous week, because before we get on with new business we must revisit old business and put it to bed. And sometimes old business is a like a bad baby that just won’t go the F to sleep when it’s supposed to. Anyway, out with the old and in with the new, and let’s try not to throw this bad baby out with the bathwater in the meantime.
The mother of all summer recaps was a beast to post, given its endless list of links and references, but I gave you two booty shots for your wagging tongues.
Who knew it was possible to improve upon the vesper? The dogwood tried, but couldn’t touch it.
My Dad and I celebrated our Virgo natures.
It was a good week for those who like to eat (namely myself) with this plum oatmeal crisp, an outstanding tamarind fish curry, and one insanely good fig-arugula-goat-cheese pizza.
The Hunks were in effect, thanks to the shirtless efforts of Kit Harington, Godfrey Gao, and Gerard Butler.
Lemongrass. That’s all. Oh, and cock.
And the start of fall. It’s an under-rated season. That’s why I love it.Â
