Since we’re revisiting ‘shades of gray’ and all things written long ago, here’s a featured pic to remind everybody that I’m out of fucks to give, and if they have a problem with it they can kiss my ass. My attitude seemed largely the same way back in 2004 as I re-read some of my thoughts then – sometimes shadows transcend time. Now on with our tranquil recap of the previous week…
Much like the way ‘Vulgar’ energized last summer with a chaser of ‘Popular‘ (before the summer all went wrong), this season’s surprise gay jam comes courtesy of Kesha, whose ‘Joyride’ is stampeding across all the social media trendsetting scenes. It’s providing the precise level of stupidity and ridiculousness – the very breath of fresh air – that this moment requires. Having fallen into a bit of a funk lately, I’m doing what I can to stay emotionally afloat, and this nonsensical ditty was designed as an escape, led by an ear worm that’s crawling about in my head and driving me absolutely crazy.
That’s the kind of hubris for which I was once hailed, hated and harried. That’s the cheeky side of me that once charmed and seduced and thrilled. If it was all in my mind it was no less successful for its escapist salvation. And that’s the sort of spirit that seems to have slowly drained from me over the last year. Sometimes the silliest trifle of music brings us back to ourselves.
I’m just looking for a joyride, JOYRIDE I’m just looking for A GOOD TIME TONIGHT Baby, I want you to rev my engine ’til you make it purrrr KEEP IT KINKY, but I come first Beep beep bitch, I’m outside. Get in loser for the joyride. Making every motherfucker turn Fell from heaven no, it didn’t hurt Beep beep BEST NIGHT OF YOUR LIFE Get in loser for the joyride Joyride GET IN LOSER for the joyride
Blaring the music in the air-conditioned confines of my Mini Cooper, lip-syncing this song saucily and trying to convince myself that it’s all super-duper, summer passes more swiftly than I think I want it to pass. I’m not sure if I’m happy or disappointed by that. Last summer I just wanted to speed through it.
And so summer heals – in a sunny day, in a silly song, in a simple swim. You laugh again because you can, and there are still funny things in this joyride of a world. Maybe your laughter isn’t as loud or as long as it once was, so you turn up a song like this as high as it will go, until you can’t hear yourself think those bothersome thoughts. You lean into what silliness you can find, grasping at whatever easy comfort or fun falls like a feather from the sky, and you pray to not go through something sad again, knowing what a futile prayer it will eventually prove to be. You lead with a laugh, desperate to trigger happiness, even if you have to enter from the end, even if your laughter is false and forced; sometimes the physical act is enough to elicit an echo of all the happiness that real laughter once inspired.
Joyride, joyride I’m just looking for a good time tonight Baby, I want you to rev my engine ’til you make it purrrr Keep it kinky, BUT I COME FIRST Beep beep bitch, I’m outside. Get in loser for the joyride. Making every motherfucker turn FELL FROM HEAVEN no, it didn’t hurt Beep beep best night of your life Get in loser for the joyride
I don’t speak French, but anyone can translate anything on the interwebs, and it appears this song is a summery seaside tale of looking back on summer days by the sea gone by. It’s a bit early for that sort of melancholy take on the season, but such is the space of a coquette summer. And one can’t go very wrong with a song by Brigitte Bardot playing by the pool.
Sur la plage abandonnée Coquillages et crustacés Qui l’eût cru! Déplorent la perte de l’été Qui depuis s’en est allé On a rangé les vacances Dans des valises en carton Et c’est triste quand on pense à la saison Du soleil et des chansons
Pourtant je sais bien l’année prochaine Tout refleurira, nous reviendrons Mais en attendant je suis en peine De quitter la mer et ma maison
Le mistral va s’habituer À courir sans les voiliers Et c’est dans ma chevelure ébouriffée Qu’il va le plus me manquer Le soleil mon grand copain Ne me brûlera que de loin Croyant que nous sommes ensemble un peu fâchés D’être tous deux séparés
The mesmerizing spell of summer transcends the boundaries of language. It works its magic through melody and sound, atmosphere and environment, sun and water. A bit of escapism is welcome here. Slowly, I’m finding my way back into the pool after largely avoiding it last year. I sink underwater and listen to that quiet again. A bit of a French bop, some coquettish decadence, and the indulgence of a pool day conspire to captivate the senses. Somehow, in their distracting magic, they remind me to inhabit the moment, to enjoy what is at hand rather than worrying about the past or the future. Only and all of which we can be certain is now – this moment.
Le train m’emmènera vers l’automne Retrouver la ville sous la pluie Mon chagrin ne sera pour personne Je le garderai comme un ami
Mais aux premiers jours d’été Tous les ennuis oubliés Nous reviendrons faire la fête aux crustacés De la plage ensoleillée De la plage ensoleillée De la plage ensoleillée
Once again, I almost missed World Naked Gardening Day, probably because it’s such an awkwardly-named and awkwardly-designated date. The first Saturday in May apparently rings in this non-holiday holiday, and I’m usually celebrating our anniversary in Boston when it falls, so I often miss out on it happening until it’s too late to drop anything. Maybe next year I’ll try to keep it in mind and pre-populate a post (God knows I needed some pre-programming this weekend).
Anyway, Happy World Naked Gardening Day! Despite the difficulty of the date, it has been celebrated here before, and more than once if you’ll take care to click and pay homage. It’s a little overcast at the moment of this writing, so I’m not taking a nude photo in the garden right now, but I’ll dig up some past images that give a glimpse of male nudity. ‘Tis the damn season. Stay safe if you’re going to honor this day the right way. Bits and baubles don’t like thorns or dirt.
Lamenting the advance of age, lately I’ve been ruminating on how music and songs and most forms of entertainment fail to elicit the same thrills they did in my younger years. Most of my friends in this same age bracket have voiced similar concerns and realizations, bogged down as we are by the typical traipsing through our middle-aged years with stultifying routine and unsurprising regularity. It does make Jack a dull, dull boy indeed.
Not self-deprecating I hold my head high most of the time Like the candle I lightest of breezes He changes the seasons Is it gettin’ hot in here?
Oh, he’s so attractive, could never be him I think he might break if my hand touched his skin I’ve never been so close to such pretty things And it hurts to be only of earth
Mr. Porcelain doll Mr. Instagram scroll Mr., flatter me enough just to keep me on my toes Does it ever get lonely up there on the wall? To be looked at, but never to hold Mr. Porcelain doll
I could never Oh, I could never Oh, I could never He wasn’t made to hold
I could never I could never I could never
Remembering one’s youth can be dangerously tricky, as it so often comes along with dreams and wishes of recapturing one’s youth, or revisiting spaces and scenarios in order to do them right. That is territory I don’t like to tread. When I see people I know and love wading into those treacherous waters and flailing about in despondent despair, as if held down by a spell, drowning in their own fears of growing old and desperately attempting to hang onto youth in whatever warped way they can, I’m reminded that maybe I should be in my own state of panic. For me, though, that panic takes the form of apathy, and the inability to muster the same passion I once did for songs and melodies and movies and theater. When I mourn the passing of youth, that is the loss I mourn most – more than any physical attributes and ease, more than fitting into a 29-inch pair of jeans, more than staying out all night and not looking any worse for wear the next morning.
He can’t be mine to hold on for a minute
Did he mean to say that? Mistook me for an ex that he meant to text back My heart’s beating out my chest I think he said
You’re so attractive, where do I begin? I think you might break if my hand touched your skin I’ve never been so close to such pretty things And it hurts that you’re so down to earth
Mr. Porcelain doll Mr. 20 years old Mr. Flatter-me-enough as if I didn’t know Does it ever get lonely, a rose on the wall? To be looked at but never to hold Mr. Porcelain doll
I could never Oh, I could never Oh, I could never He wasn’t made to hold
I could never I could never I could never He can’t be mine to hold
At such times, it’s also useful to note that one’s youth is filled with folly and foolishness, and I’m grateful to have always understood this, to be as bothered by all that I didn’t know and understand, which in turn led me to desire something deeper, something more than being young could ever deliver. From my very first memories as a child, all I ever wanted was to be older. Wishes, like beauty and youth, don’t always bring us what we really want.
He’s so beautifully perfect on everyone’s phone To be looked at knowing he’ll never call Mr. Porcelain doll
I could never I could never I could never He wasn’t made to hold
I could never I could never I could never (I could never)
When I pass by a porcelain doll today, all those pretty young things just starting out on their own journeys, making a mess, a muck, and a magnificence of their own youth, I don’t envy them. Envy was never a good look on anyone, least of all me, and happily I have largely been able to avoid it. Perhaps it would have been different if I hadn’t been fortunate enough to enjoy few porcelain years of my own. And perhaps I’d mourn them if I enjoyed them more.
Way back in 2008 blogs were changing their dirty reputation into something that would crest and soon enough ebb as all social media tends to do over the long arc of time. For me, it was a little boost and boon of viewers and readers, but not something that I particularly cared about or sought out, as this site has never made me a dime. I’m here because I like to create and share and work out my own demons through whatever expression I find works best.
This year is the 21st year of ALANILAGAN.com, so yay for me and everyone who has helped along the way (and there are many, as I still know little to nothing about programming or HTML or even if that’s used anymore). Last year we had our celebratory 20th anniversary, as seen in the following list of links that honored two decades in the navel-gazing/blogging business. Revisit them as you like on this snowy Sunday.
Celebrating his birthday (#62 if you can imagine such fitness at such an age – I cannot, given my struggles at #47) Chris Meloni is a prime example of someone at their, well prime. This birthday-suited post from Matthew Rettenmund at BoyCulture reminded me of the sacred hotness of this date. Meloni has been featured here as Dazzler of the Day before, but it’s always nice to honor someone on their birthday. Check out his smoking-hot Peloton ad below where he works out in the nude because when you’re Chris Meloni you can work out naked and no one’s going to complain about anything.
Let’s begin with a man whose very name is indicative of his talents: Stuart Reardon. He’s never been shy about turning the other cheek, and it’s only right that he should lead things off here.
Sometimes I sip it, sometimes I spill it, but regardless of its outcome, the tea here is piping hot. That’s because I put it in the kettle and don’t take it off the stove until it whistles, all sputtering steam and screaming from painful heat. This is the way you get to the truth of the matter, the way you force it all out. Putting oneself on exhibition and show in a public website is treacherous business at best, especially when everyone is so ready with an opinion or critique. Dragging friends and family and former lovers into the storyline is risky too, even if their influence and import in my life is unquestioned. When tea gets spilled, it can be an awful mess – but a glorious one, steeped equally in history and histrionics.
My journey here hasn’t been all pretty poses and posies, as evidenced from these photos taken about two decades ago, in which I had a goatee for God’s sake. Mistakes have been made. Stumbles have been taken. Failure has become an art form. But so has living – and in a way this blog is a living and breathing work of its own art – a new form of expression in the time of social media. Sometimes messy, sometimes too emotional and personal, and sometimes just an utter disaster, all the foibles and fumbles of life’s imperfect zig-zagging have formed the backbone of its two-decade trajectory. Throughout it all, I’ve managed to document the days in regular fashion, treating this space as some sort of online diary, a repository of what has happened – the good, the bad, and the goatee-ugly.
Tea time has been held on the regular, and for a number of years I posted at least once a day for 364-days each year (we always went dark on 9/11). That sort of consistency takes discipline and effort, but this has been a labor of love, something I’d do for two or two million hits. In the end, it was more of an exercise in journal-like analysis – a place where I could seek out refuge or solace in words, in putting things down just to get them out of my head. To that end, it has and continues to serve a purpose in my life.
The beauty of it being a public place is that others have found something that resonates with them, and so my tea has become tea for at least two. Every once in a while I’ll hear from someone who wants to say hello and say that they too have felt what I expressed in a post or photograph. At those times, it feels like we have shared something, that we are not entirely alone.
If there’s a song that personifies what my website has been doing for almost an entire double-decade, this may be the one. Courtesy of the adorable Meghan Trainor (who doesn’t get enough credit for her song-crafting skills) give a listen to ‘Made You Look’ which is all about the bait-and-switch of the superficial versus the substance, and that battle has been gloriously waging here since we first went up way back in 2003.
I could have my Gucci on
I could wear my Louis Vuitton
But even with nothin’ on
Bet, I made you look (I made you look)
Given that timeframe, this blog has been doing its thing since before Instagram, Twitter or FaceBook even existed. Those social media outlets took the work by storm, and I use my accounts mainly to drive visitors here, to these blog posts, and the daily writing and photographic rituals that have been cathartic artistic outlets. How to get noticed in an increasingly-fractured and splintered world, where content turns over within seconds, and the average lifespan of a website is under three years. The lifespan of a personal blog is probably much lower. Simply being here, almost twenty years now, is a feat in and of itself, and the recipe for my success is simply making this a labor of love and creative expression. That said, it’s always more fun when guests visit, and to make that happen I’ve employed a simple thirst-bait-and-switch formula, where provocative images draw the viewers in, and then the words, ideally, get them to stay for a bit.
I’ll make you double take
Soon as I walk away
Call up your chiropractor
Just in case your neck break
Ooh, tell me what ya, what ya, what you gon’ do? Ooh
‘Cause I’m ’bout to make a scene
Double up that sunscreen
I’m ’bout to turn the heat up
Gonna make your glasses steam
Ooh, tell me what ya, what ya, what you gon’ do? Ooh
Sadly, I realize that ideal scenario is preciously rare; it’s a losing game trying to convince even my closest friends to stop by these parts. That used to bother me, before I understood how it drove my pathology and inspired me to create things that were worth reading, that would get even those weary and worn down by my antics to take a moment and check in. That was also the sort of guy for whom I fell, over and over: the one who wanted nothing to do with me. When the people who matter most to you don’t seem to notice anything you do, you learn to thrill the world, or you give up on it. For all my jaded cynicism, I haven’t given up on anything.
When I do my walk, walk
I can guarantee your jaw will drop, drop
‘Cause they don’t make a lot of what I got, got
Ladies if you feel me, this your bop, bop
(Bop bop, bop)
I could have my Gucci on (Gucci on)
I could wear my Louis Vuitton
But even with nothin’ on
Bet, I made you look (I made you look)
Yeah, I look good in my Versace dress (take it off)
But I’m hotter when my morning hair’s a mess
But even with my hoodie on
Bet, I made you look (I made you look)
And once you get a taste (woo)
You’ll never be the same
This ain’t that ordinary
It’s that fourteen karat cake
Ooh, tell me, what ya, what ya, what you gon’ do? Ooh
When I do my walk, walk
I can guarantee your jaw will drop, drop
‘Cause they don’t make a lot of what I got, got
Ladies if you feel me, this your bop, bop
(Bop bop, bop) ohh
This little bop reminds me of a simpler time, back when the internet was a safer, softer, sillier place. It gives off a sense of superficial glam, only to reveal something sweeter and slightly more substantial – the hat trick of what has kept this blog going. A bit of a tease, a bit of a please, and a bit of the bee’s knees. Nothing too serious, unless you look beneath the surface. Most won’t bother making it this far, but for those who do, and those who continue to return, I’ll do my best to make it worth your while. If I happen to fail, which will sometimes occur, then I will play this song and try to remember the fun in life, the frivolity, and all the foolishness that once made the world go round.
I could have my Gucci on (Gucci on)
I could wear my Louis Vuitton
But even with nothin’ on
Bet, I made you look (said, I made you look)
Yeah, I look good in my Versace dress (take it off, baby)
But I’m hotter when my morning hair’s a mess
But even with my hoodie on
Bet, I made you look (said, I made you look)
For my final act this summer, I give you this magical case of the disappearing suit, because this fall I am metaphorically burning all my past trappings to ash. That begins with the onerous albatross of forty-plus years of fashion and sartorial splendor coming off, an exercise in revelation that has been one of the greatest lessons I’ve tried to glean through this blog for the last two decades. Taking it all off here has never been about gratuitous nudity, all category names to the contrary; it’s easier to be physically naked than emotionally so, but this summer we let go of all inhibition – something that could only happen at this mid-stage of life.
Climb up the ‘H’ of the Hollywood sign, yeah
In these stolen moments
The world is mine
There’s nobody here, just us together
Keepin’ me hot like July forever
‘Cause we’re the masters of our own fate
We’re the captains of our own souls
There’s no way for us to come away
‘Cause boy we’re gold, boy we’re gold
And I was like…
Take off, take off
Take off all your clothes
Take off, take off
Take off all your clothes
Take off, take off
Take off all of your clothes
When I was a kid, I’d have no problem running through the neighborhood in my underwear, and even came off a brutal pantsing relatively unscathed. Once our teenage years hit, and adolescence and puberty piled shame upon shame for nudity and nakedness, I was supremely self-conscious, not even wanting to doff my shirt for a summer swim. It was the descent of societal propriety, ending the God-given freedom of the natural state of being nude and putting in its place the buttoned-up armor of my ultimate mask: a wardrobe. That ‘robe’ and ‘war’ should play such pivotal parts in the mixed-up way I was pursuing my path in the world seems oddly fitting now, even if it never really fit me then.
They say only the good die young
That just ain’t right
‘Cause we’re having too much fun
Too much fun tonight, yeah
And a lust for life, and a lust for life
And a lust for life, and a lust for life
Keeps us alive, keeps us alive
Keeps us alive, keeps us alive
Through the ensuing years, my wardrobe took many varied forms, and eventually skin itself would provide just another guise, another layer of armor. Sometimes it would prove the most potent outfit of all. Nothing set more tongues wagging than a peek at what was underneath. It became a study of human nature, and a treatise on what a gay male could get away with – the power balance, the disconnect between reality and perception, the crux of supreme insecurity and almighty confidence. It was more than a battle within myself – it was setting up to be a lifelong war. Only now, as I begin to look back at the totality of the past forty or so years, in the way that middle age and the slow acquisition of a modicum of wisdom reveal such things, can I see faint glimmers of the long arc of these travels – and the journey I’ve been taking in front of the whole world, at least the little bit of the world that decides to visit me here. We cannot truly know where we are going until we figure out where we have been.
Then, we dance on the ‘H’ of the Hollywood sign, yeah
‘Til we run out of breath, gotta dance ’til we die
My boyfriend’s back
And he’s cooler than ever
There’s no more night, blue skies forever
‘Cause we’re the masters of our own fate
We’re the captains of our own souls
So there’s no need for us to hesitate
We’re all alone, let’s take control
At the closing curtain of this wondrous summer, I’m doing a reverse Gypsy Rose Lee act. Taking the damage off and leaving it behind. Letting it burn. As F. Scott Fitzgerald once wrote, “No amount of fire or freshness can challenge what a man will store up in his ghostly heart.” We hang onto things for too long, storing up our hurt and heartache, waiting to wield them in some other form, to make us feel better in some harmful way, when really we should be letting it all go. That’s a frightening concept to embrace. Old habits become sources of comfort, and no one wants to be uncomfortable. But even the brightest of summers must come to a close, and the fiery opening of fall must begin…
According to Wiki-freaking-pedia, today is World Naked Gardening Day, which is hilariously described as “an annual international event generally celebrated on the first Saturday of May by gardeners and non-gardeners alike.” As a gardener, I’m all for celebrating gardening events, though I will say that gardening while naked is foolish at best, and quite dangerous at worst. But as the past has proven, it’s not that perilous to take a few photos pretending, and this is the sort of harmless quasi-holiday that deserves more celebration. Particularly in a time when staying home is the new going out.
The post-shower towel shot serves several purposes. First and foremost is the clickbait aspect that typically gains more viewers when anyone takes their clothes off. Second, there is the bait and switch aspect for which this site should be better known. A post fronted by gratuitous nudity that ends up being about meditation and mindfulness is one of those twists that keep me interested in this nineteen-year-old website. Third, taking a shower is a mundane everyday moment that is ripe for mindfulness, so these photos go along with that idea, and give me a chance to expound upon a beginning practice in meditation and mindfulness, which some friends and family have asked about.
I’ve been making my way through Matthew Sockolov’s ‘Practicing Mindfulness’ book, a collection of ’75 Essential Meditations to Reduce Stress, Improve Mental Health, and Find Peace in the Everyday.’ The most recent meditation I tried is ideal for anyone looking to begin a meditation practice, and I wish I’d happened upon it sooner in my journey. It’s about resting the mind, which seems to be the most difficult part of meditation for almost everyone I’ve talked to about this.
Sockolov recommends this easy ten-minute practice as a way to calm the thoughts that invariably creep into our heads as soon as we stop moving and sit still. In today’s world where information and distractions are thrown at us non-stop from the moment we wake to the moment we fall asleep with our phones in our hands, still mindlessly scrolling like automatons, this is especially challenging to do. We are conditioned to be in a state of constant stimulation, and that is wreaking havoc on multiple levels. The best and easiest way to break this cycle, and the addiction of the phone, is to step away from it, and insist on carving out time and space for simply sitting still in silence. Not the most comfortable place for anyone to be anymore, but if you give it a chance you may find the rest of your life begins to calm down too. It worked for me.
Begin by finding the time and place to do this. If you are one who worries about time (like my Virgo self), set a phone alarm for five or ten minutes so you’re not constantly looking at the minutes passing by. Find a quiet place of solitude, even if it’s just a bathroom to escape. Ideally you have somewhere better to go where you can be comfortable. The practice is to sit or lie down and begin deep breathing. One slow breath in and one slow breath out. Then again. And again.
Once you are doing this, you will find a number of thoughts start creeping into your head. What you are making for dinner, what time you need to pick the kids up from practice, what you need to get from the store, what outfit to wear for next weekend’s get-together, who you need to call back, who you don’t want to text back – a myriad of life’s nonsense will suddenly impede on this moment, and that’s ok. Allow the thoughts to come, acknowledge them, and let them pass by. Eventually they will stop. If they don’t, it’s good to find something else to focus on to maintain the quiet posture. Sockolov advises on holding a couple of phrases in your head:
May my mind be at ease.
May I be at ease with my mind.
On each slow inhale, you can focus on the mantra ‘May my mind be at ease’ and on each slow exhale repeat it again ‘May my mind be at ease.’ On the next inhale think of the next one ‘May I be at ease with my mind’ and doing the same on the exhale. It provides a basic framework and focus that may help in pushing other thoughts from the mind, and achieving that divine blank space in your head is the purpose here. When worrisome thoughts are eradicated, it’s difficult to worry. This magic is something I wish I had discovered earlier, because it bleeds into the rest of life.
If you can manage five to ten minutes of this each day, you will find it easy to increase by a minute or two until you’re getting in a good fifteen to twenty minutes of meditation, and that’s when things get even better. It allows you to be more fully present, and leads into the practice of mindfulness, inhabiting the most mundane moments of the day, such as a simple shower, or the act of getting dressed. These things are typically rushed and blown through without thought, other than worrying about what comes next. By being present to the task at hand, you may find a joy in the process itself, and focusing on each step of a task is another way of pushing worrisome thoughts from your headspace.
{Naked selfies not required in a shower situation; I’m only here to illustrate and illuminate.}
Listen, I didn’t make this up. It’s Feast of the Ass Day, some religious commemoration that takes place on January 14, to mark donkey shit or something – not literal shit, I mean that as donkey stuff. It’s religious, I swear. See here. At one point the Catholic Church condemned the celebration, so I’m all for it. Feast on, my assified friends!
In these parts, and on this website, Feast of the Ass means something wholly different. I won’t get into specifics, but you get my drift, you get my notion, you get my causing a commotion. At such a time, and in such a world, let us celebrate the Feast of the Ass in our own special way, delighting in its pagan leanings, finding joy in its absurd silliness, and remembering how nonsensical humans have always been. We can try to make order and sense out of things by playing with religion, but in the end we’re all just a little bit mad, and I’m so happy it should be so.
