Author Archives: Alan Ilagan

The other evening Andy and I arrived home to these two rabbits engaged in a stare-down in the small patch of lawn next to our driveway. They didn’t bolt when we pulled in, too consumed with their focus to even move when I got out of the car and moved closer for these pics. I’ve always admired that sort of intensity, even if it feels slightly out of place with summer’s relaxed vibe. (Let’s not pretend I haven’t had my moments of summer intensity. Summer cuts both ways like that.) 

As for this pair, they’ve been providing fun photo ops like this all season – and I think they may have produced a few ultra-adorable offspring that we are leaving to their own devices as long as they keep to the grass and weeds and leave the more cultivated plants alone. A dangerous bargain indeed, animals not outwardly conveying true honor or understanding of the deal, especially when night comes and we can’t scare them off. 

Maybe one of them is the grown version of this little cutie. Circles among summer circles.

The past week has been a rollercoaster of rain and sun, with some crazy storms forcing me to crack open ‘Un Jardin Apres La Mousson‘ – not an unpleasant fragrance for any summer day, but one that I usually reserve for when the atmosphere is questionable and moody. On with the weekly recap…

A frog or a toad, this is what husbands are for.

A Madonna celebration postponed.

An oopsie moment worthy of a Tiny Thread.

Words & notes & a naked booty.

In the almost-midnight hour.

Troye Sivan’s sexy ‘Rush’ for summer.

Pink & wet.

Poussez my bussy!

Heavens to Betsy!

The cliffhanger of a cucamelon.

Meet me in the city with macarons.

A return to New York City with the help of some very dear friends.

Dazzlers of the Day include Christian Hull, Ryan Gosling, Janet Jackson and Olivia Rodrigo.

A necessary evil to any Broadway show is the crush of crowds and people in Times Square. It has always been the bane of any NY visit, and when you have any degree of social anxiety, it requires a certain mindset and mental preparation, as well as a fortitude forged out of sheer will and desperation, to successfully navigate without a complete breakdown. When I was younger, I didn’t seem to mind as much, though part of that was being blithely and blissfully unaware of any anxiety issues – the discomfort I may have felt was just something I took in stride, a misunderstanding of my stress level as something that everyone felt. 

On this evening, Chris and I took a car to meet Suzie, Tommy and Janet at the Mermaid Oyster Bar for a pre-theater dinner, followed by drinks (and pistachio ice cream for some of us) at the Chatwal Hotel lobby. This has long been a favorite escape from the madness of Times Square, a quiet and largely unfrequented place that has often served as a calm waiting room before or after a show. Mom and I have enjoyed many a cocktail here, and Andy and I also met up with Skip and Sherri after we took in separate matinees (‘Sunset Boulevard’ and ‘Natasha, Pierre, and the Great Comet of 1812’). All meetings here have been magical.

The main reason for this trip was to attend ‘Grey House’ which sounded like something different from the usual Broadway fare, and a darker indication of the times in which we live. I also harbored hopes that it would be as spooky and scary as the mysterious promos made it out to be. (Having been duped before by productions that claimed to be the most “emotionally terrifying” experience I would ever have – ‘A Doll’s House’ will never be that for me – I kept expectations low, and happily ‘Grey House’ surpassed them all. There’s way too much to dissect or digest here, but if you’re looking for a thought-provoking, tense, and somehow still fun evening of theatrical excitement, stop by this creepy abode. 

It was a lot to take, and so we stopped for post-show drinks at the Bryant Hotel (which Chris had recommended, but apparently he was thinking of the Nomad) – it didn’t much matter – the place was quiet, dim, and offered an intimate chance to decompress following all the wickedness of the show. We walked Suzie back to her hotel – right near the Port Authority – and then decided to walk to rest of the way to our hotel – no small walk, for no spring chickens, but it was summer, and warm, and it rekindled more youthful days where walking dozens of NY blocks was a goal and end unto itself. 

We passed through Hells’ Kitchen – apparently where the gay boys are these days – and paused at a couple of bars. We even poked our heads into one of them before deciding that a slice of pizza and the rest of the walk back would be more than enough entertainment for the remainder of the evening. It was already well past midnight, and it seemed best not to tempt any devilry that might find us out later than it was. 

It had been an ideal, and gloriously brief, re-entry into NY and Broadway, healing whatever upsetting memories I’ve held since my last planned trip. It made me want to return again, which is more than what usually happens when I’m at the tail-end of a trip to the city. There was still magic here – maybe there always was and I simply hadn’t given it a chance to reveal itself. Maybe I was just grateful and glad to be alive in the city, spending time with friends, and realizing that however much life had knocked all of us about in the last four years, we could still reconvene and pick up where we left off. 

“The soft rush of taxis by him, and laughter, laughters hoarse as a crow’s, incessant and loud, with the rumble of the subways underneath – and over all, the revolutions of light, the growings and recedings of light – light dividing like pearls – forming and reforming in glittering bars and circles and monstrous grotesque figures cut amazingly on the sky.” ~ F. Scott Fitzgerald, ‘The Beautiful and Damned’

“From the night into his high-walled room there came, persistently, that evanescent and dissolving sound – something the city was tossing up and calling back again, like a child playing with a ball. In Harlem, the Bronx, Gramercy Park, and along the water-fronts, in little parlors or on pebble-strewn, moon-flooded roofs, a thousand lovers were making this sound, crying little fragments of it into the air. All the city was playing with this sound out there in the blue summer dark, throwing it up and calling it back, promising that, in a little while, life would be beautiful as a story, promising happiness – and by that promise giving it. It gave love hope in its own survival. It could do no more.” ~ F. Scott Fitzgerald, ‘The Beautiful and Damned’

The last time I was scheduled to be in New York, our plans were derailed spectacularly as the COVID pandemic dawned upon the world the exact weekend we were due at the Plaza. Some PTSD remained as Suzie and I boarded the train for the city to see some old friends and a new play. I’d warned her and Chris that I was looking for a calm and quiet weekend – something that a brief foray into Times Square to get to the theater might prove difficult, but both were game for any potential social anxiety moments. Basically, I needed two of the people who make me feel the most safe to cushion this return to NY, even if a cushion wasn’t really needed in the end. 

We arrived at the old Penn Station, disappointed that it hadn’t changed in the slightest, despite what we’d seen advertised about a new version, but in our ignorance we didn’t realize we just had to cross the street to find the bright and airy Moynihan Train Hall – and as Chris was just checking into the hotel, Suzie and I made an early lunch of fried chicken and fried pickles in one of the train station restaurants. There’s also a Magnolia Bakery and Ladurée cart for your dessert and macaron needs. (Andy would benefit from the latter on my way home.)

It helped that thanks to Chris we were staying near the Upper West Side, close to Central Park and away from the super-crowded masses. Suzie and I arrived to see our friend whom we had not seen since these Christmas festivities, and after a brief re-introduction we were back outside for a stroll through Central Park’s Shakespeare Garden. 

Someone remarked that it’s strange how people come to the city just to find places that don’t feel like the city, and as we walked through the sunny highpoint of the day, past lilies and daisies and hollyhocks in full, resplendent bloom, it did feel like we had been taken completely out of the concrete jungle. 

With rickety fences of gnarled wood and old-fashioned glades of flowers straight from an English countryside, the space was not only an antithesis of the city, but a throwback to another time. It was the respite that provided a way to enjoy New York on a summer day. Coupled with lifelong friends, it was a brush with the sublime, and more friends were on the way to add to the joy…

The warnings came first, and Andy hastened to move our precious pot of cucamelons (which just had their very first bloom!) under the patio canopy. The wind came second – great shifts in the atmosphere barreling through the oak trees and pines in the distance. The approach of dark skies came third – like some ominous army quickly approaching, rumbles grew to thunderous claps. Finally, the rain fell – hard and heavy – ripping every last drop of moisture from the sky before throwing it all down onto the earth.

If my grandmother was still alive, she’d have exclaimed, “Heavens to Betsy!” upon the arrival of last night’s storm. It was on the tip of my tongue, waiting to be uttered if the astonishment of the deluge of rain reached an extreme level. As it is, Andy thinks I’m bonkers enough without bringing back sayings from my grandmother’s era, so I held it inside and merely texted it to my Mom. 

The rain continued, and just as I was growing accustomed to its roar and the dim winter-like light level of the house, it abated – lightening its barrage as it lightened the sky. The storm was over as quickly as it came – I could have and perhaps should have slept right through it. Summer works its magic and tumult rather quickly. Blink and you’ll miss it.