Author Archives: Alan Ilagan

Does the week begin on Sunday or Monday? It’s always infuriatingly debatable, and our world has had enough of debates and both sides and binary bullshit. I’m taking this Saturday night as the end of the week, because it was a week that kicked my ass and it needs to be over. We were scheduled to be in New Jersey for my late Uncle’s celebration of life service, but storms and bad weather caused Mom to wisely cancel the trip. It’s a shame we can’t see and be with family, especially all that’s happened in the past year, but we will make it up later in the season when there is no more threat of snow and ice. Those days are coming, I have faith. 

As for these last few days, they have been… days. Maybe the expectations that spring always brings proved to be too great. Maybe the state of the world and how toxic it feels that everything has gotten are finally getting to me. Maybe I’m just feeling beat-down by a week of therapy, doctor’s appointments, prescription pick-ups, and the meat-free Fridays of Lent I’ve been guilted into practicing. (Thank you to Catholicism and my former life as an altar boy!) 

Rather than fight the malaise or change the narrative by some false buoying of spirits, I’ve been facing the sadness and downtrodden days. It hasn’t even been close to a year since Dad died, and this winter, while relatively benevolent, seems to be sticking around (judging by the snow and ice that’s suddenly back). In my daily meditations, I’ve been refocusing on what I’ve felt during the day, acknowledging those moments of doubt and worry, allowing the space to be a little less of what I’d like to be, and going a little easier on myself when my picky, persnickety perfectionist tendencies drag me down. 

At both my doctor’s appointment and therapy sessions, when mention of my Dad arose, I said I was doing ok, and as soon as I said it I knew the next day or two would bring moments where I suddenly wasn’t ok, because that’s what seems to be happening. And then I hear from friends who understand, who have been through it, and who say that’s the way it usually goes. There isn’t a finite end date for grief, and for someone whose Virgo-nature likes a schedule and a plan, that’s difficult to accept. My head knows this, and understands this, and works to embrace this; my heart is in a messier state, and I’m learning to accept the mess. 

Coated in ice, our Japanese umbrella pine and a stand of hydrangeas bow beneath the weight. It is the weight of a storm, and the weight of a bad week. And in all things that weep, there is beauty here. 

When all else fails on a new album promotion plan, it’s often wise to go shameless, and shirtless. Justin Timberlake has employed such a shirtless move in the past, and it’s worked. Now that his new album isn’t quite the blockbuster success previous efforts have been, we get just a hint of former naked glory in the featured shot here. Isn’t it as revealing or provocative as previous poses and pics? Not even close. But maybe a tease is better than a blatant delivery? Meh… not in these parts. 

When they make you put on something this atrocious with your ass just hanging out, how does one’s blood pressure do anything BUT go up? Ridiculous. Anyway, I have reached the age of scheduled colonoscopies and shit (hopefully not in close proximity to each other) and here I am modeling the latest in Physician Examining Room apparel (put that on your roster of ballroom looks). If anybody knows anyone who can get me in for the ass-probing in the near future around the Albany area, please DM me. It’s all but impossible to get anyone to look at my ass these days, and scheduling a colonoscopy is proving just as difficult. Oh what a changed world…

Thirty-five years ago, the bedrooms of many burgeoning gay boys were filled with the incense-like fragrance of patchouli, the hold-over hippie scent from the 60’s, thanks to Madonna including it as part of the packaging for the ‘Like A Prayer’ album. For perhaps the first time, a musical artist was pushing the notion of the artistic listening experience into one that went beyond sound and sight and included an actual scent. It was a powerful moment for me – not only being my first brush with patchouli (contrary to popular belief, I was not alive in the 60’s) but also my first experience with how an artistic project could be so powerfully immersive for the consumer and viewer. It was also a lesson in how scent can be one of the most power memory triggers, bringing us back to a time and place more effectively than any other sensory stimulus.

Since that time, patchouli has held a special place in my heart, though these days it’s in a more refined form, such as this delicious fragrance from the House of Guerlain Paris – ‘Patchouli Ardent’. Here, the patchouli runs through the fragrance arc, its golden threads shimmering at each stage of development, while a magnificently rich rose note works a velvety floral into the mix. At the start, some pink and black pepper brings a spicy accent to an almost-fruity and figgy voluptuousness, while a woody smokiness lends echoes of Tom Ford’s ‘Oud Fleur’ and Frederic Malle’s ‘Portrait of a Lady’ (both of which I adore). Meanwhile, layers of leather reveal themselves as it settles down, taking it blessedly further from the edge of sticky sweetness (the danger zone of many a rose and patchouli duet). 

Taken together, this is a powerful perfume, perfect for these blustery days that feel more like winter than spring, when you need a little richness in the arid and barren landscape. The patchouli is prettily present throughout the story, bringing its years of memories into my mind, taking me back decades to a world that feels enchanted, as much by the rose-tinted-glass frame of time as by the sweet innocence I held onto as a thirteen-year-old boy.