Someone once wrote that some people have what is called ‘contagious vanity‘ – that is, they believed so strongly and fervently in themselves that while you might actively dislike them, you cannot take your eyes off of them. Their fascination with themselves lent them a fascination to others. It was possible, then, to become a person of interest once you became interested in yourself. What a strange and bizarre concept, I thought, even as I began to challenge myself into making it happen. To rise above the chattering criticism of the world and the mirror, into an echelon so high that even if it all fell down, you’d still be on top.
Second, if you really think this website is pornographic, your definition of porn is such that we will likely not be aligned in a lot of our views. To me, porn is the depiction of a sexual act – not nudity or nakedness, full frontal or not. The more literal definition, in most legal citations, is “material that depicts nudity or sexual acts for the purpose of sexual stimulation.”
That’s never been my purpose here. Not that I am blind to the varying responses to the scantily-clad men that get posted here, but the purpose – the intent – is not to turn anyone on.
From what I’ve experienced and seen online, too many people confuse the naked human form for pornography, and that view and attitude just isn’t something I agree with or understand. The human body shorn of its clothing is a beautiful thing, and to shame us into feeling embarrassed or shy about our natural state is one of the most damaging things society has done to ourselves.
So if you find this in any way pornographic, that’s entirely your prerogative, but if that is in fact what you think, what exactly are you doing here?
I’m not here to educate on the official Feast of the Ass Day – Google that shit if you are so inclined.
All I can do is add my two cents to the pagan-like celebration that reportedly formed a part of this day’s history, and should inform it every day going forward, which means putting up these pics taken several years ago in service of the ‘PVRTD’ project. These never made the proper cut, but they seem perfectly serviceable for Feast of the Ass Day (at least until my next project gets off the ground).
Within the category of ‘Gratuitous Nudity’ (click and scroll if you are so inclined), the human body is accepted and celebrated, without the shame and prudishness that this country so often, and so hypocritically, espouses when it comes to nakedness and pornography and the blessed like. We have no such hang-ups when it comes to nudity here; this is a safe space, a sex-positive space, a space without judgment or sanctimonious posturing. We celebrate the human body in all its endless variety and mystery and beauty. And we celebrate our own version of Feast of the Ass Day – back it up, pack it in, let me begin…
“I understand very well how it is possible sometimes to slander yourself, to admit to all sorts of crimes solely out of vanity, and I have a very clear idea of what such vanity can be like.” ~ Fyodor Dostoevsky
Marking this milestone half-century year for me may involve some looking back, and I began by perusing The Pictures section here, which goes back about two decades. Found within were these two photos from a fun trip to San Francisco for my friend Alissa’s wedding. It feels so long ago, and since she died a few years ago there has been nothing to really keep those memories alive other than the pics here and whatever remains in my dwindling brain cells. Time stops for no one.
Ensconced in a hotel overlooking Union Square, the memory blurs into other memories, and I’m no longer sure which hotel or which trip it was anymore. We bury so many things that once meant so much, at the midway mark of life I wonder how much ever really mattered. When vanity creeps into a deeper place, it threatens its own existence. A certain fascination with self-destruction is a necessary element of survival. Perhaps it’s best if we leave the veil in place for now.
“He makes it his business to extract from fashion whatever element it may contain of poetry within history, to distill the eternal from the transitory.” ~ Charles Baudelaire
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)
