Dua Lipa just killed it in her opening number for the recent Grammy Awards, which puts me in mind of the title track from ‘Future Nostalgia’. Indulging in such nostalgia has been a recent habit, given last year’s 20th anniversary of this website, as well as the current trend of posting pics of yourself as a 21-year-old, which is especially fitting for this 21st year of ALANILAGAN.com. For the next two blog posts, I’m putting up a few ridiculous photos from when I was 21 (there are oh-so-many more that could fuel the next twenty years of this blog, so perhaps that’s the way we’ll move forward her, by looking back…)
When I was 21, I had absolutely no clue about so many things, mostly myself, and that’s what the 20’s are for – figuring out who you might be, trying on different guises until you feel comfortable, discovering what your soul wants, and perhaps more importantly, what it doesn’t want.
You want a timeless song, I wanna change the gameLike modern architecture, John Lautner coming your wayI know you like this beat ’cause Jeff’s been doin’ the damn thingYou wanna turn it up loudFuture Nostalgia is the name (future nostalgia)
For the featured photo, which finds me sipping a melon martini (eww!) at the San Francisco Westin with my pal Chris, I’m taken back to the summer of 1997, and that heady time of the Royal Rainbow World Tour. My past is filled with as many delusions as it was actual events, and I’m only starting to sort out what was real, what mattered, and what was ephemeral fluff. It feels like I’m on the verge of some genuine reconciliation of the previous three decades. There are whispers of what a ‘tour’ would look like today. A glimpse of the future in a post celebrating the past…
I know you’re dying trying to figure me outMy name’s on the tip of your tongue, keep running your mouthYou want the recipe, but can’t handle my soundMy sound, my sound (future nostalgia)
The photo below, which would obviously be titled ‘Authorized Entry Only’, is eerily emblematic of my sexual stance at the time, which was largely frigid and stand-offish. Growing up fully enveloped by the specter of AIDS, and the way sex could so easily and literally lead to death, had worked its destructive way into my head, and despite the sexual way I often presented myself, in reality I kept largely chaste in the bedroom at that young age.
And maybe that saved my life. It certainly left me free for other fun, which included joking around on this offshoot of some highway near Rochester, NY, where I was visiting with Ann. How could I not pose beneath this sign when wearing such a pair of pants? And how could I not laugh with a friend like Ann beside me? So much is made of the memories that affect us in some sad or bad way – not enough is made of our happy moments.
Can’t be a rolling stone if you live in a glass houseYou keep on talking that talk, one day, you’re gonna blast outYou can’t be bitter if I’m out here showing my faceYou want what now looks like, let me give you a taste
Looking back at that 21st year of my life, I’m somewhat startled by how alone I felt, even when surrounded by people. I’ve always been keenly aware of the difference between feeling alone and feeling lonely. For me, it’s mostly been about the former rather than the latter. Solitude didn’t scare or bother me – to this day, I seek it out for its calm and silence and stillness. Back then, though, I thought I needed someone else. And maybe I say I love being alone now because I’m lucky enough to have someone like Andy in my life, along with a group of friends that has never let me down. It’s easy to say you like being alone when you don’t have to be. There is a privilege inherent in that.
When I was 21 years old, I often felt alone, in the sense that I felt different, never quite belonging to whatever situation I was in, never quite a part of whatever place I inhabited. This last photo, taken on the first day of my last year of ‘school’ was an homage to the tradition of my Mom’s first day of school photos, where she would pose my brother and me for a picture on that most dreaded of days. In this one, I was already living off-campus in Boston, brushing my teeth and preparing to board the commuter rail to Brandeis University for my last semester.
Fall semester always tricked me with the way it began in the heat of summer, and on this day, for that final year, I wore a sleeveless shirt with a pair of jeans; even back then the import of the last-first-day, which would typically call for a fanfare outfit, I crumbled by the self-induced pressure and went in the opposite direction, going super-casual for the un-air-conditioned classrooms in which I would soon be sweating. It’s strange the way I can so vividly remember walking through the campus that day in 1996, especially considering I can’t remember where I walked just thirty minutes ago. A lot would happen that fall, and a lot would happen that year…
