For the first time in a very long time, I was actually looking forward to fall. This summer has not been that good on any front, and I found myself wishing that we could fast-forward to a few months from now. That’s the antithesis of being mindful and living in the moment, so I am trying to recalibrate and not wish any time away, no matter how sad or painful it may be. A look back at the last few weeks of posts (an overdue weekly recap) reveals where my head is at.
There are a few cardinals that frequent the trees and bushes around our home, but rarely do they alight on the Japanese umbrella pine nearest our front window. On this morning, one of them decided to give me a visit, then grant enough time to capture a few photos of its magnificence. It peered in at me, giving a little nod of its pointedly-tufted head. I want to believe it is more than a random visit, and if there is comfort in that then I may suspend my natural cynicism. Loss softens some brutal edges.
Later in the morning I am going through a pile of unused cards when I come across a birthday card meant for a father – I’d been keeping it for Dad’s birthday next month. Grief strikes quickly and sometimes unexpectedly, and in that way it can be debilitating. I remove the card from the pile and walk into the kitchen, preparing to throw it out, but I can’t bring myself to do that. Instead, I place it on the counter, saving it for a little bit later.
When the first wave of sadness settles, I return to the card. A second wave arrives as I read what Dad would not have been able to read next month. Closing the card, I set it down beside me and cry a bit. Without rushing the pain away, or forcing the tears to stop, I allow the grief its moment to manifest. It passes. Neither the body nor the brain was designed to cry forever.
Looking back at the card, I decide not to throw it out. Maybe I’ll send it off for his birthday, just this one last year. Or maybe I’ll do it every year. For the past few birthdays, it was clear we were doing these things for our benefit – Dad never cared for birthday hubbub, and would have been more than happy to let the day pass without notice or fanfare. I don’t want to do that just yet, so the card goes back into the pile, and our tradition of marking the day shall continue.
“Love and understanding are the lotuses that bloom from the mud of suffering. Without the mud, there is no lotus flower. The lotus needs mud to grow. Understanding and compassion are possible only when we’ve come in touch with suffering.
We know that suffering plays an important role in generating understanding and love. So we do not run away from suffering, instead we embrace it, and look deeply into our suffering in order to understand it. If we can understand, then we can love. And when we have understanding and love, we suffer less.” ~ Thich Nhat Hanh
The birds and the bees have been keeping our cup plants company this summer, as is tradition. Goldfinches have been regularly visiting and fluttering about the flowers, waiting anxiously for the first sign of developing seeds. No matter how much they take, there is always enough left for volunteers to sprout up throughout the yard. Despite the worst aphid infestation we’ve ever had, the plants still managed to flower; nature’s resiliency is a model for survival.
The finches visit throughout the day – the brightest ones matching the golden flowers, and flying away as if absconding with some of the prettiness – flashes of sunlit yellow streaking across the sky.
The bees, meanwhile, languidly bop from flower to flower, their backs and bottoms dusted with pollen, setting the stage for the seeds to come and doing their part in the cycle of summer.
And so the somewhat-sunny season carries on, in the flight and fluttering of the birds and the bees, and in the beauty of the flowers and the sky.
“In times of stress and grief, walking meditation is a wonderful way to reestablish peace and calm in the body and mind. Spending time walking in nature every day helps reconnect us with our body, the earth, and the wonders of life. Nature has the capacity to embrace our pain and transform it.
We do not walk with the aim of getting anywhere, we just walk for the our joy of walking. We enjoy every step we make, savoring our breath and releasing our pain and sorrow to the earth. Every step brings us home to the present moment, the only place where life is possible.
We become aware of our breathing and the contact of our feet on the earth. We feel the warmth of the sun on our face and the breeze on our skin. We become aware of the sounds of the birds, and the fragrance of the trees and flowers around us. We enjoy every step; with each step we make an imprint of peace on the earth. We can practice in a park or some other beautiful, quiet place. This nourishes our spirit, strengthens our mindfulness, and helps us heal.” ~ Thich Nhat Hanh
In times of trouble and strife, I tend to go away and be by myself. One of my favored jaunts is the quick trip to the Berkshires in neighboring Massachusetts, where I can stop by the Red Lion Inn for a cup of tea, and then drive up to the nearby outlets at Lee if retail therapy is needed. On a winter trip there, I found a little path in the middle of town, right beside and behind their charming library. What hustle and bustle the busy season might produce on the Main Street dissipates and disappears the moment I start down the stone-lined garden walkway.
A bee gets busy with the mounded flowers of the Monarda, emblematic of its common name ‘Bee Balm’. A few benches invite me to sit and dwell there, but my mind is on walking so I merely pause, always grateful for an invitation. On this summer day it feels like the world has paused, and it’s a fitting feeling.
Stands of Japanese anemone are just beginning to bloom – one or two flowers offer more pollinating opportunities for the bees, while loads of buds hold the promise of fall just around the corner. Rushing through summer is a sacrilege, though I won’t pretend I don’t welcome fall this year. When summer is cruel it can be worse than winter – mostly because it’s not supposed to be.
I walk on.
“When we walk, we can take the hand of our loved one who has passed away and walk with them. Our legs are their legs, and our eyes are their eyes. When we see something beautiful – the blue sky, a brilliant sunset, a majestic tree, or an animal – we can stop walking to allow this sight to penetrate our consciousness and nourish us deeply. We allow this beauty not only to nourish us, but to nourish our loved one in us. We enjoy everything, not only for ourselves but also for our loved one who has died.” ~ Thich Nhat Hanh
There’s been a hushed reverence in these parts for the past couple of weeks. Entirely intentional, it’s my way of dealing with loss. Seeking out spaces of quiet and stillness, I find solace in these pockets of silence. When I began this blog two decades ago, it was originally designed to be a place of calm and peace. Even back then I was searching for some sort of escape from the cacophony of noise and distraction that the internet has mostly always been.
Now with real life stepping in and pausing things here, I’m reminded of that original intention, and I find comfort in the relative peace of a reduced writing schedule – and no real schedule at all. An unexpected and surprisingly-valued summer break.
On office days downtown, I slip into St. Mary’s church on my lunch break, to sit in the cool air and dim light – the hushed reverence is there in the middle of the day. In the last pew, I kneel and bring my hands together. I don’t always pray. Sometimes I do, but mostly I bow my head and try to commune silently with my Dad. My mind travels back to Sunday mornings when our family would sit together at mass, going through the motions, intoning our prayers and responses, not quite believing it and not quite disbelieving it. Dad was quiet about his faith, and it was clear he would have been just as happy staying home on those Sunday mornings, so I never quite got an accurate read on what he might have believed. It remains a mystery, and I’m ok with it staying so. A person’s faith is something intensely private, and fathers are often the most private people of all.
Throughout the last week – one full week since my Dad died – every day has been different. The only constant has been my daily twenty minute meditation, and in this time I find the place to share a few moments with my father. My meditation has altered slightly. For the past four years a major part of it had focused on my Dad and his health. All of those issues went away when he departed, replaced by something I’m still trying to figure out. For now, it is a simple mantra inspired by Thich Nhat Hanh:
Breathing in, I know I am alive.
Breathing out, I know my father is alive within me.
The breath going in lasts about fifteen seconds. The breath going out lasts about twenty-five seconds. I run through this about ten times, and then the meditation moves on. It’s such a simple meditation, and in these days such simplicity is a comfort. Little steps and little motions in finding a way forward in a world where my Dad’s physical presence has ceased to manifest itself.
I take short walks around the garden to find other moments of peace and calm and beauty.
Breathing in, I know I am alive.
When I feel the sadness and sorrow creep in, I allow it room and space and time. Nodding at the pain, I try to smile through it, knowing that the pain is a sign of love.
Breathing out, I know my father is alive within me.
And so the past seven days have passed, in blurry bits alternating with moments of startling clarity and understanding. Through it all, I still feel my father’s presence, and it feels like we might be ok. At least, that’s what I tell myself, that’s what I strive to believe.
I drive over the back roads of Amsterdam and Fort Plain and Perth, unsure of where precisely I am, following a road that my father once stopped at to show us ducks at a little pond after breakfast at Windsor’s restaurant. The pond is still there, and there is a sign near the road that says ‘Duck Crossing’ with a family of ducks pictured on it. Dad used to bring us here on Sunday mornings to look at the birds, knowing how they would fascinate me. Slowing the car, I see that there is a swan and several ducks still there – different animals, obviously, than the ones I saw four decades ago, but the scene is the same, and I go back in time to be next to my father again.
Before heading home to Albany, I drive out past the Thruway exit into Florida, past more farmland, past the veterinarian where our first dog, who belonged to Dad before Mom or Paul or I arrived, was given shots and finally put to sleep. It’s still an animal clinic. The afternoon sun is low in the sky, lending a rosy warmth to its light – the most beautiful times of its journey bracketing the day.
For some reason, these roads and this land always felt more like Dad to me than his birthplace in the Philippines. He certainly spent many more years here, though I understood that the formative years of youth sometimes supplant time and distance. Seeking any way to be close to him again, I drive along the roads he once drove along, trying to feel my way into his previous life, trying to feel my way back to him.
A wild turkey flies over the road in front of me, landing in a cornfield. Its wings and feathers are beautiful in the evening sunlight – browns and creams, ribbed with power and might. I wonder what my father saw on his early trips here. What did he find that might make it seem like home? A job and career, sure, but that could happen anywhere if one looked. How did he know this would make such a good home for us?
I remember my first and only trip to the Philippines, and the way I tried to find my father there in the landscape and streets and people. There was reverent talk of him by his relatives, and whispers of admiration almost tinged with awe, all glowing. He was my protection and talisman against injury even in his absence. My Uncle left me mostly on my own on that trip, but family took me in and showed me around. I understood Dad just a little better then, had seen where he was born and grew up, and compared it with where we grew up. Children wouldn’t have noticed enough of a difference to be bothered by it, but maybe it’s easier to say that from my privileged side of things.
In upstate NY, the roads feel like my father to me. A mystery imbued each, as I didn’t know where they led, or what secrets they had hidden in the expanses of corn or leaves or forest or streams that meandered by their side. It was all beautiful though, and it would be beautiful even when the desolation of winter arrived. Did he stay here because of beauty?
My brother and I are now roughly the age my Dad was when he had us. I cannot imagine the idea of having a baby at this point in my life, though my brother has just done that, forming a perfect little continuation of Ilagan lineage. Time becomes tricky when you lose someone – tricky in ways that can be both troublesome and comforting. The older I got, the more I could understand and relate to my Dad – and it’s one of the greatest gifts in my life that we grew ever closer as we each grew ever older. There was still more to do, but there would have always been more to do. It only ends in small part now. At least I tell myself that, to make it easier, to make it bearable.
Winding back along the fields nearing their harvest, I drive through my tears, watering the memory of my father, paying tribute to the beautiful life he gave to us, searching out some meaning in missing him, and grateful for the grief, grateful for the love. It was still there between us, still there in the sublime evening light.
Grief transforms different people in different ways. As I go through the process of dealing with the loss of my Dad, and accepting and dealing with everything that has changed, it will have to bleed into what gets posted here. This has always been a diary of sorts, and sometimes it helps to write things out here to get them off my chest, or just to formulate wording for what is happening in my head. It can be dangerous to keep such things inside, and over the years I’ve learned when to let things out, and how to do it in a manner that might be seen by others in this sort of public forum. There’s a certain relief in simply getting things out, and there are other reliefs that come with someone who reads it and relates, and in my own re-reading of it from an analytical/editing perspective. A form of self-therapy, there is value in a certain degree of self-analysis. And on some level, my grief, and the way I move through it, will be a testament and memory of my Dad himself. It keeps him around me, it keeps him present. I’m not ready to lose that just yet.
What will come out in the next few weeks and months will likely be messy and raw and entirely uncomfortable for some, including myself. I’ve never had to grieve like this before. I don’t know how long it will take, or how it will happen, or if this will all be as futile and silly as it sometimes feels right now. I do know that writing things down has always helped, and stopping that now might result in me stopping forever. An object in motion tends to stay in motion while an object at rest tends to stay at rest. Dad was never one to rest, and he passed that on to me.
“No mud, no lotus. Both suffering and happiness are of an organic nature, which means they are both transitory; they are always changing. The flower, when it wilts, becomes the compost. The compost can help grow a flower again. Happiness is also organic and impermanent by nature. It can become suffering and suffering can become happiness again…
It is possible of course to get stuck in the “mud” of life. It’s easy enough to notice mud all over you at times. The hardest thing to practice is not allowing yourself to be overwhelmed by despair. When you’re overwhelmed by despair, all you can see is suffering everywhere you look. You feel as if the worst thing is happening to you. But we must remember that suffering is a kind of mud that we need in order to generate joy and happiness. Without suffering, there’s no happiness. So we shouldnt discriminate against the mud. We have to learn how to embrace and cradle our own suffering and the suffering of the world, with a lot of tenderness.” – Thich Nhat Hanh
Dear Dad –
When I was very little, you used to peel grapes for me. Maybe you remembered how sour the skin tasted when you were a kid, or maybe you just preferred them skinless yourself – whatever the reason, you would peel them and give them to me as we sat on the couch together watching television. At the time, I just remember how lovely it was to be next to you, and to taste the extra-sweet grapes shorn of their tart wrapping. Only now, decades later, do I feel how much love and care there was in this little act. And that’s how so much of my childhood went with you. Little, quiet acts of love that made me and Paul and Mom aware of your affection for us.
When I was in first grade, I used to get homesick in the few hours I had to be at school. Looking back, it was probably the first signs of social anxiety, coupled with whatever separation anxiety I was feeling. Mostly I missed you and Mom, and I simply felt lost without you. When it got bad, the tears would well in my eyes, and I would look up at the fluorescent lights, opening my eyes wide and hoping that would dry them faster. As long as they didn’t start falling, I thought I would be ok.
Some days proved too much, and I would have to go to the nurse and be sent home. On one of these days, you had to get me in between your hospital cases, then bring me with you to St. Mary’s while you went in for an operation. I sat in a wood-paneled room while one of the nuns talked to me a little to try to figure out what was wrong. It wasn’t something I could put into words – I just needed to be close to you and Mom. You came back and brought me home, explaining the importance of going to school, and though you were stern, you also managed to comfort me. You could tell I was scared, and as much as you worked to toughen me up, you somehow did it with kindness and care.
You were also our protector. I remember the night we returned from OTB or work while Mom was at school, and the door to the house was unlocked and slightly ajar. You told us to stay close to you while you took a knife from the kitchen, shushed our immediate and persistent questions, then rushed us back out when you thought someone might be in the house. We stuck close while walking around the corner of the house in the near darkness… feeling a slight tinge of worry, and then the reassurance of you in front of us.
And I remember the front of the house, and you trying to hang Christmas lights – our very first string at the tail end of the 1970’s, the kind with the big hot bulbs that modern technology could never quite touch or replicate. It was always an ordeal, untangling and finding which ones weren’t working, but in the end they always ended up perfectly hung and displayed for the season. It was not an ordeal without swearing and frustration, and neither was the opening of the pool every year, back when you did it yourself with our hapless help. The memories now feel happy and sweet, and our own frustration and misunderstanding falls away.
There is also the joyous memory of you going swimming with us – once a year, for Father’s Day usually – and it made those days that much more special. Even during family vacations, we couldn’t always get you on the beach, but every once in a while you’d come down with your hat and sunglasses and a paper in your hand. That’s the way you were in our childhood – a source of consistency and support, if often unseen. Most fathers are a mystery, and you were no different.
When your parents died, you went back to the Philippines for the services, and I remember being so scared that your plane would crash that I couldn’t concentrate on anything. Losing you or Mom has been my primal fear since I was cognizant. There was a day when Paul wanted you to go bowling but you complained that your arm hurt. You took him anyway, and I spent the entire afternoon certain that you were about to have a heart attack. I never told you that because it seemed so silly.
You told us a few stories from your childhood in the Philippines, most of which were designed to make us behave and be grateful for what we had here, but so much of it remains shrouded in mystery. When I went there for the first time with Uncle Roberto, I saw the places and life you were talking about, and I understood a little better. Still, I wonder what you felt there, whether you missed it ever, and what it might mean to you all these years later. It wasn’t your way to talk so directly, so we never found out.
We learned not to need your direct engagement, but we always wanted you there. In so many ways, you were our foundation – quietly strong, consistently supportive, even if not outwardly demonstrative. And somehow, we never doubted your love, because it was there always, in all other ways.
I called you once from my first semester at college, and you must have sensed the desperation in my voice. I only needed to hear you or Mom talk for a bit to get myself together, but you asked very earnestly if I wanted to come home. You’d gone to schools on your own in entirely different countries halfway around the world from your home – you knew how lonely it could get, you knew how soul-crushing is might feel, and you offered comfort. Somehow I knew if I said yes I’d never grow up, and it was enough to know you had given me that option.
A couple years later I’d come down with mono and frantically call you and Mom from my dorm room because I knew something wasn’t right. After making it to the infirmary and passing out, I woke up the next day to see the both of you at the foot of my bed, and even in my confusion I felt your concern and love. You drove three hours because you knew I’d been calling.
At every family event and gathering – wedding or anniversary or funeral – you would be my safe person – the one I could count on to share a moment in silence, or laughter, or complaint, and you made me feel ok and less anxious. Just by being there.
For my whole life, you’ve been that silent supporter – sometimes literally shoving cash in my hand after you won big at OTB, and sometimes in ways more vast and substantial. Throughout it all, we never doubted your love, and that love saw me through whatever difficulty I was facing. That’s what the very best fathers provide, and for me you will always be the best father.
This is a goodbye for now, but more than that a letter of thanks – for all the love you have given me over the years, even when I didn’t always deserve it. You respected me in the same way that I respected you, and I always felt it. We have been lucky to have you in our lives for this long – and 92 years on earth is an amazing achievement.
I am going to miss you, Dad. It feels like you’ve been slipping away for a long time, that we’ve been saying good-bye for several years, but there was always the chance you would be your old self, and every once in a while your smile would come back, your focus would return, and the glint in your eye would catch mine like I was a little kid again. We won’t get to see that anymore, but you’ve put in a long stretch here, and it’s ok for you to let go of the work. You have fought hard and well, perhaps in an effort to be here for us, knowing how difficult it would be for us to let you go. We will always love you for that, and for everything you have given to us, but it’s time for you to relax, and you’ve earned the right to a rest.
I love you, Dad.
~ For my father ~ Dr. Emiliano Ilagan (1930 ~ 2023)
It feels too early for the morning fog that greeted me outside the door. That sort of thing usually comes later in the season – a not-so-happy harbinger of fall portending school and the end of fun. Yet there it was, stubborn and insistent and refusing to lift in the least. I drove to work through it, then watched as it waited outside the office window, sauntering along the Hudson River and obscuring anything beyond the immediate shore. For various reasons, I didn’t mind it. If this is the remainder of summer, it’s only fitting, and my heart’s simply not in it. When that happens, blog posts tend to sag, even when I’m not simply re-posting things from a decade ago when life felt so much easier. Rather than failing at thrilling anyone, this blog will be taking a hopefully-brief break for a few days – a smaller version of the full-summer breaks this site (and perhaps any hate-readers) once enjoyed. Let’s take this time to focus on summer, on family, on what really matters and what brings us joy. While I’m away, here are some links that may bring you summer fun from the past – random days and years and posts that kindle some of what summer best embodies. The season flies by all too quickly – get out there and hold onto it.
June 29, 2010 ~ Capture at the creek
July 29, 2010 ~ Meeting a childhood idol at his Chelsea penthouse
August 10, 2010 ~ Lulled by the ocean
June 11, 2011 ~ A pride post
July 2, 2011 ~ This used to be my playground
July 25, 2011 ~ Summer stalker: part of your world
August 5, 2011 ~ Camp crush
June 7, 2012 ~ The gay religious experience
July 26, 2012 ~ Turn up the radio
August 20, 2012 ~ David Beckham’s bulge
June 23, 2013 ~ Music for a darkened theater
July 15, 2013 ~ High summer recapping
August 29, 2013 ~ The majesty of the mount
September 2, 2013 ~ I hear the ticking of the clock
June 27, 2014 ~ Sweet scent of summer
July 25, 2014 ~ Family summer fun
August 12, 2014 ~ Your love is killing me
September 2, 2014 ~ A New York City birthday adventure begins
September 3, 2014 ~ Bathroom briefs
June 30, 2015 ~ Taming an unruly beast
July 15, 2015 ~ Peering over the edge of 40
August 24, 2015 ~ My 40th birthday
September 13, 2015 ~ An almost-secret garden in Boston
June 25, 2016 ~ The point of being pretty
July 2, 2016 ~ True blue for three decades
August 31, 2016 ~ All my August days
September 4, 2016 ~ A sea recedes
June 30, 2017 ~ The very last sunset
July 20, 2017 ~ We will be found
September 22, 2017 ~ Two friends on a perfect day
June 29, 2018 ~ A summer look-back before a break
August 30, 2018 ~ September’s coming soon
September 20, 2018 ~ Andante
June 30, 2019 ~ Saigon summer in Boston
July 13, 2019 ~ King of wishful thinking
August 26, 2019 ~ A love-letter to Betty Lynn Buckley
September 1, 2019 ~ September summer nakedness
June 20, 2020 ~ Summer begins
June 21, 2020 ~ The 2nd night of summer
July 15, 2020 ~ Summer evening by Tom Ford
August 27, 2020 ~ A king signals the slipping of summer
June 22, 2021 ~ A good day for Dad
July 23, 2021 ~ An anniversary letter to my husband
August 30, 2021 ~ Two decades of working for the state of New York
September 21, 2021 ~ A summer that wasn’t quite…
Ten years ago I was getting ten million hits a month here. There are nowhere near that many hits these days, and that’s the way it should be. Life evolves. Focuses shift. Attention-spans dwindle. So here’s a look back ten years ago today:
10 Million… and the Hits Keep Coming – {Originally posted July 30, 2023.}
The stats of www.ALANILAGAN.com are not something with which I concern myself all that much. As you can see, I don’t sell advertising, I don’t make a living off this site, and if I wanted to I could shut this whole thing down tomorrow and be all right with it. When I began this endeavor over ten years ago (personal websites age more quickly than dogs, or even gay men) I did it for myself – as a repository of some written work and photographs (and Projects). To this day, that’s still what it encompasses.
When I got back from vacation, however, I glanced through the stats, and noticed that this site has enjoyed a banner month. Unlike most mainstream places, this corner of the web gets pretty much steady traffic regardless of season or day of the week (partly because there is a post – and usually three – every single day). In fact, on weekends and holidays, my traffic tends to increase. (This site is ridiculously banned from many work places, so I don’t enjoy the bump of workday boredom.) But it’s not something to which I’ve ever catered, with the possible exception of a naked hunk here or there. I hadn’t noticed how close we were to reaching a milestone until Sunday, when this little website reached ten million hits for the month of July. It’s far from a big number, but for a personal site it’s not that shabby.
For that, I have no one to thank but you – yes, you – the person reading this right now. Odds are we have not yet had the pleasure of meeting (I’ve only had the fortune to meet a few people from the online world), but please know that the simple fact of you visiting here means more than most of my closest friends sometimes mean (honestly, I could give you a long list of people I love dearly who won’t read a single word of this because they never come here). So for you, the ones reading this now, I offer my heartfelt thanks.
And though I don’t much like to look back, here’s a little retrospective of some of my favorite topics from the past – in honor of ten years of doing this, and a month of ten million hits. You’ll see the main themes of this site – and perhaps divine some new themes to come.
There’s nothing I love better than a properly crafted cocktail.
Unless it’s a properly cut pair of underwear.
Or my ass, which has fueled more hits than… oh, forget it. It’s written itself.
But it really comes down to family and friends, and there’s no denying that both have informed and inspired this site in ways that deepen and explore where I come from, and where I’d like to go. There’s no denying or separating them from me – and I wouldn’t have it any other way. (This includes my elusive husband Andy, who has only recently been more forthcoming about appearing in pictures, much to everyone’s delight.)
The role of beauty in the world is often underestimated. I see it in our gardens, and in the blooming of a flower. I hear it in a song, or listen to it in a musical, or taste it in the simple serving of a meal. It’s there in the fragrance someone wears, or the clothing on their back. Beauty is always around, if you know how to look for it.
Of course, special mention must be made of my main creative muse – still going strong after thirty years (would that this site lasts as long) – who is, and always will be, Madonna. From her epic songs to her lesser-known ones, long may she reign.
A multitude of thanks must also be extended to the naked men who keep this site going when I’m galavanting on vacation or in Boston or simply too lazy to come up with anything beyond shirtless guy candy, so here’s to The Hunks. (Especially those who dare to don a Speedo.)
Finally, if it weren’t for all the places I get to visit (Ogunquit, Boston, Cape Cod, Las Vegas, London, San Francisco, Washington), I wouldn’t have a chance to enjoy coming back here at the end of it all.
Here’s to us… and most especially, here’s to you. Let’s make the rest of the journey together.
July’s Last Full Recap – {Originally posted July 29, 2013}
Being that it was the last full week of July, and I’m begrudgingly letting it go (although the 97 degree nonsense can be done), here is the recap for the previous week – one in which I was vacationing and relying on pre-programmed posts. Still, there were good things to be found for those who bothered to look. And now I’m back, resuming the battle, taking up the baton, and twirling like there’s no tomorrow.
Keeping things cool and hazy were cocktails like this magnificent yet simple limoncello concoction.
Nothing beats a summer salad for summer sustenance. Except perhaps a Sunday omelette.
Not one to let the other guys have all the fun, I took my clothes off too (it was 97 degrees after all). And again. And once more for the naysayers. Just to piss the bitches off.
True story: I used to hate lobster. And Fritos. And pizza!
And it wouldn’t be summer without Madonna, who vowed to ‘Die Another Day‘, and proved it by being around for thirty years since her first single. And she still doesn’t give a…
Many thanks to Tom Ford, who prepared things brilliantly for my birthday next month.
Yet for all of last week, I was in absentia, and happier than hell about it. I have never, in my dozen-years-plus of working for the state of New York, taken a whole week off. And I can’t believe I waited so long.
A decade ago I had posted this 30th anniversary of Madonna’s debut, which means now we are celebrating 40 years of her remarkable career. She’s taking the summer off for some well-deserved recovery, and I admire that. Here’s the post from a decade ago:
Madonna, Three Decades Into the Groove ~ {Originally posted July 27, 2013.}
It was 30 years ago today that Sire Records released Madonna’s debut album, entitled simply ‘Madonna’. Unlike many casual fans, and some die-hard ones as well, I’m more a fan of her later work than her earlier stuff. In fact, with the possible exception of ‘Holiday’ (and then only when it’s done up Blonde Ambition style), I’m not enthralled with any of the cuts off her first album. (Not even ‘Borderline’, and certainly not ‘Lucky Star’.) But I’m aware of their importance in her career, and I know many a fan who considers them integral to her oeuvre. So with that in mind, let’s celebrate this date, because 30 years of anything is pretty damn impressive.
Ten years ago we were celebrating David Beckham here – witness that post:
David Beckham Strips Off Shirt, Sprays Cologne ~ {Originally posted July 26m 2013}
As much as I love David Beckham, I’ve never been into any of his products. His underwear proved a bit of a boring let-down, and I have yet to try one of his colognes. (If it stands beside the Brut display at CVS, you’ve already lost me.) Does his new commercial touting a new cologne change anything? Not really. But it’s nice to see him without a shirt again.
In keeping with the 20th anniversary of this blog, I’m looking back with a week or so of re-posts from whatever was posted exactly ten years ago. This works double-duty as I’m going offline for a bit, and illustrates how far I’ve come (or have yet to go). I will also add some links to show how some things have very much changed. Here’s the first one, posted exactly ten years ago today:
Things I Used to Hate, But Grew To Love ~ {Originally posted July 25, 2013}
It’s almost Friday, I’m finishing up a vacation, and I have nothing left as far as creative juices go, so we’re scraping the bottom of the barrel and making a little list. If you have anything you’d like to add, well, let me know on FaceBook or Twitter, or show me on Instagram, and maybe I’ll do a follow-up. In the meantime, here is my little list of Things I Used to Hate, but Grew To Love:
* Lobster
* Fritos
* Pizza (yes, I used to hate pizza as a kid!)
* Meatloaf
* Blue cheese
* Alcohol
* The color teal (I blame an old set of kitchen cabinets)
* Ties
* Black and white movies
(I don’t dare do a list of Things I Used to Love, But Grew to Hate – some of you are probably on it.)
{Also on this date ten years ago: this gratuitous Ben Cohen post.}
