Category Archives: General

19
January
2012
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A Perfect Pomegranate

My friend and co-worker Lorie, having heard of my unsuccessful quest for a pomegranate, brought one in from her recent excursion to Trader Joe’s. Until we get one of our own, that appears to be the closest supplier of the elusive fruit.

Price Chopper had rather rudely tweeted to my husband that it is no longer the season for pomegranates, and even the Fresh Market was out. Lorie mentioned that Ryan’s Produce might have some, so we may try that next. For now, we have this one glorious specimen – the perfect pomegranate – and I couldn’t wait to dig my fingers in and extract the little globules of goodness.

My friend JoAnn was the one who got me hooked on pomegranates. She said the best way to remove all the seeds was to cut it in half and submerge the fruit in a bowl of warm water. This prevents the blood-red juice from any broken seed pods from staining your skin, while allowing for easy separation from the surrounding membrane, which floats to the surface.

A ritual that involves a bit of work for a reward is a good past-time for the winter, and there is indeed something cleansing and calming about separating seed from flesh beneath warm red water.

The end result is a pile of sparkling ruby capsules, each one ready and waiting to burst open in the mouth like some refreshing pop of tart candy. Someone likened them to champagne, which I could just barely make out. They really are their own animal, to which I’ve already grown a fond attachment. Now if we could just find a decent supplier in the local area…

Until then, their elusiveness adds to their appeal.

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19
January
2012
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Proof of Existence

I’ve always been fascinated by the whispers that people leave behind – sometimes even more-so than the people themselves. Granted, if I’m seeking out the remnants of you, you’ve likely left a larger imprint on my heart, but even in strangers I find the notion of their essence more intriguing than their presence.

The state of a hotel room that a person leaves, for instance, when they depart for the day. Have they left a book on the table? Has the remote been touched? In what sort of array are the sheets and pillows? Did they sleep on just one side of the bed? Are towels left on the floor, or hung to dry, to be used again?

We sometimes tell more in our absence than we could ever reveal in person, but what is told often leads to more questions, and assumptions, and suddenly a whole world with a conjured persona has arisen from the discarded candy wrapper that has fallen just short of the garbage can.

Personal articles lend a more solid glimpse. The pair of glasses left on the night-stand table, or carefully returned to their carrying case. They lend a vague bit of a possible appearance. A favored bottle of bath gel carefully nestled in the corner of the bathtub, the fragrance of which still lightly taints the bathroom air, evinces what might be one’s scent. Frequent travelers may even carry a small framed photo of a loved one, smiling back from the past, and from the distance ~ an unlikely bit of home in an otherwise sterile environment.

Even then, with perhaps the most important people of one’s life looking on, it is impossible to gauge a person. All we have are fragments, tiny pieces of the whole that may or may not make much sense, that could, for all we know, have nothing to do with who that person is, but if we care enough, if we are invested enough, it becomes an obsession.

I used to do this when my Uncle left after a visit. I’d hunt down the places he’d been in throughout the house, leaning over the desk where he kept his bottle of cologne, inhaling the lime-like scent mingled with scarred wood, trying to hold onto him a little bit longer. I’d traverse the paths he took in the basement, holding the ashtray of wrinkled cigarette butts and bringing it to my nose to take in the already-stale remnants of smoke. A still-damp towel hanging over the shower door from that morning’s wash or the stained coffee-cup suddenly gone cold teased and lingered there, their presence both a taunt and a comfort. The ones we love most seem to haunt with greater resonance, but maybe that’s just the way we want to believe.

In my hotel room, if I do leave anything telling, there is no one to care enough to look. A rumpled pair of boxer shorts on the floor, the swath of a scarf dangling from a chair, a tiny bottle of cologne on the tile of the bathroom window ~ none of it is really me. And when I am there – in the room, on the bed, at the sink – fully present and accounted for – I am alone, with nothing and no one to prove I even exist.

Except for the camera…

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19
January
2012
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6 Columbus – Hotel Review

On one of the coldest days of the year, a little boxwood in a tall black planter shivers in the wind outside of the lobby of 6 Columbus. Tufted leather banquettes sparsely populated with bursts of bright pillows afford a bit of seating while I wait for my room to be ready. Two complaints of rooms with no heat have already been lodged at the front desk, and as the wind whips by the window this doesn’t seem to bode well.

The lobby, fronted by two very friendly door-men, is a balance of light and dark – coolly modern in style, like the rest of the hotel, but warmed by the staff. A sushi restaurant (Blue Ribbon Sushi Bar & Grill) is set off to the side, affording a tantalizing glimpse of a light wooden bar.

While Columbus Circle is not usually an area in which I’d stay while visiting New York, an online special ($140 a night, before taxes) lured me to 6 Columbus, and I’d heard good things about the parent company that runs it (Thompson Hotels).

A slightly dim elevator and hallway, the textured navy blue walls and dark floors eating up much of the light, lead to room #77. Like most New York accommodations, the pod rooms here are on the slightly smaller side of things (175 square feet), so it might be worth it to upgrade to a larger one if possible.

The bathroom is more ample, backed by glossy navy tiles and brightly polished Waterworks fixtures. Bolstered by Kiehl’s hair products and white fluffy towels, it is a modern, elegant space, even if an over-hyped Frette bathrobe errs on the side of starchy rather than soft.

Above the bed is a large Guy Bourdin print, echoing the proclaimed“60’s modernist” inspiration point for the hotel. The bed itself is comfortable, but not laid out with any top sheets – only a duvet. I’m neither picky nor grossed out about such things, and, as long as the heat was working, didn’t have need for extra bedding.

A word about the heat: despite my concerns upon hearing the complaints of other patrons, the heat in my room worked just fine – but it didn’t make it into the bathroom, which was a great deal cooler (not the ideal situation for January). I had to overcompensate in the bedroom to warm the tiled space, but it was nothing a hot shower didn’t fix.

On a Sunday night, the room remains pleasingly quiet, affording an uninterrupted evening of sleep. The next morning, as I make my way to the elevator, the unmistakable odor of pot hangs lightly in the air, while knocks and calls of “housekeeping” go unanswered. Another average day in New York has begun.

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17
January
2012
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9

Nine years ago this month, www.ALANILAGAN.com first went live. Back in 2003, it was a fledgling of a site, not much more than a few pages of a few projects and photographs, and visited by my Personal Manager and the few people who listened to her when she said to stop by. In the ensuing years, we’ve gained a few more friends and followers – and I use the collective “we” because I depend on a core group of good people to keep things running smoothly.

First and foremost among them is Webmaster Skip. He’s the main behind-the-scenes guy who both creates and troubleshoots as necessary. He also puts up with countless memos and e-mails, all with an affable, easy-going nature and an infectious enthusiasm. If there’s one good thing that has come of this website, it may be my friendship with Skip.

Second, there’s my Personal Manager Suzie, who also puts up with the delusional excess that spills into her FaceBook world and takes up space on her cel phone. She’s lasted far longer than the nine years of this site, and she’ll be here long after it’s over.

Finally, there’s you. If you are reading this, for whatever reason, you have contributed your time and energy for this one brief moment. In that, we have connected, however far apart, and however different our lives may be. I know many of you on FaceBook or Twitter, and some of us have corresponded through e-mail. I’ve even had the pleasure of meeting a few of you in person, and it’s always like greeting an old friend. For anyone who has visited here, I offer my heartfelt thanks.

I’m not going to make a big deal about this particular anniversary, because next year is going to be even bigger. You know what comes after 9…

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16
January
2012
Tags: General, Madonna, Music
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The Madonna Timeline: Song #61 – ‘Deeper & Deeper’ ~ Fall/Winter 1992/93

{Note: The Madonna Timeline is an ongoing feature, where I put the iPod on shuffle, and write a little anecdote on whatever was going on in my life when that Madonna song was released and/or came to prominence in my mind.}

I can’t help falling in love
I fall deeper and deeper the further I go
Kisses sent from heaven above
They get sweeter and sweeter
The more that I know.

It was a cold winter night, and the big Victorian house was drafty at best. Downstairs, the wind swept by stained glass, while the wrap-around front porch offered little protection. Despite this, the dark home offered warmth and refuge, the velvet red wall-paper in some rich damask pattern winding through the first few grand rooms. This was Suzie’s house, where she grew up, and where my family spent all of our holidays. It was the repository of memories old and happy, sad and pronounced, silly and momentous. On the night at hand – sometime in late 1992 or early 1993 – Madonna had just released ‘Deeper and Deeper’ from the infamous ‘Erotica’ album, and we were convening for a Friday or Saturday night of nothing. No more than seventeen years old, we had no idea what the outside world held in store, nor how protected we were in that old Victorian.

When you know the notes to sing,
You can sing most anything,
That’s what my Mama told me.
Round and round and round you go
Where you find love you’ll always know
I let my father mold me.

Deeply-stained wood framed everything, and the staircase wound round and round, higher and higher, or deeper and deeper. A small group of us wandered the dim corridors, peering into darkened rooms, seeking out the refuge of light in the kitchen, or the hidden recesses of secret passageways. Empty bedrooms, cold tiled bathrooms, and the call of darker secrets in the attic high and beyond lent the evening a slant of mystery. The flickering light of a few candles fluttered on the velvet walls, while shadows grew and receded.

Daddy couldn’t be all wrong
And my Mama made me learn this song
That’s why I can’t help falling in love
I fall deeper and deeper the further I go
Kisses sent from heaven above
They get sweeter and sweeter
The more that I know.

A bit of music played, someone did a little dance, and I sat on the couch and watched it all unfold, the only boy among all the girls, accepted as one of them, my gayness already entrance to the world of women. I leaned back and let my eyes close. A copy of the Sex book sat on the floor, and someone rifled idly through it. Ripples of laughter echoed from the kitchen down the hallway. Surrounded by ladies-in-the-making, I felt completely at home. No matter what else happened – and much did – I would always feel that comfort with them.

All is fair in love she said
Think with your heart not with your head
That’s what my Mama told me
All the little things you do
Will end up coming back to you
I let my father mold me…

How I loved those girls, and how loved they made me feel. When you took away the sexual tension between two people of the opposite sex (as being gay tends to do), it’s much easier to get along and become great friends. I wasn’t there yet though, and so we danced upon the rollicking sea of teenage hormones and the taste of freedom on the tips of our tongues.

Daddy couldn’t be all wrong
And my Mama made me learn this song
That’s why I can’t help falling in love
I fall deeper and deeper the further I go
Kisses sent from heaven above
They get sweeter and sweeter
The more that I know.

They would grow into women before my eyes. One would fuck me, one would hold me, one would laugh at me, one would make me laugh, and one would love me for life. Through it all, the woman to whom I compared all women sang her siren song.

Someone said that romance was dead
And I believed it instead of remembering
What my Mama told me, Let my father mold me
Then you tried to hold me
You remind me what they said
This feeling inside, I can’t explain
But my love is alive
And I’m never gonna hide it again.

The most fun song on the ‘Erotica’ album whirled its dancing beat, and on the television upstairs the video played in an amber-lit room. On-screen, the candles and the incense glowed, the whole sexy Madonna mystique was in full effect, with echoes of Dietrich in her blonde-afro wig, and waves of Andy Warhol rolled through the disco party scene. There were drugs and danger, and the master re-arranger, and then, finally, for the first time, Madonna quotes herself, and the then-rather-recent past of ‘Vogue’:

You’ve got to let your body move to the music,
You’ve got to just let your body go with the flow.

The music took up again, spinning wildly into dizzy abandon, and with it a little pocket of our youth was turned inside out, emptied and torn, ripped ragged in the wind of that last winter of our high school years. We loved each other then, as best as we could. We tumbled together down the final rocky stretch of childhood, holding onto one another, grasping and pushing and pulling, hoping to make the night run on forever…

Falling in love
Falling in love
I can’t keep from falling in love with you
There’s nothing better that I’d like to do.

Song #61 – ‘Deeper & Deeper’ ~ Fall/Winter 1992/93

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12
January
2012
Tags: General
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Happiness Is A Hotel Room

There are some people who hate hotels. They miss the comforts of home, the well-tread channels of their own remote, and the assumption of safety that comes with all of it. I am decidedly not one of those people. If I had my choice, I’d spend the rest of my life living in a hotel. In my days of more extensive traveling I lived out of a suitcase and loved every minute of it. Being away from home somehow made things more real, and staying at a hotel made me feel more present. Without a place to call my own I was left on this island of me, and being acutely aware of that informed my life with a greater urgency, a more exciting moment-to-moment existence, where every minute seemed to matter more.

If all you have to present to the world is yourself – without the backing of a walk-in closet or backyard pool or any number of material accoutrements – then you have to focus more on your actual self ~ on your bearing, your words, your personality. Anyone with a big-enough closet can impress – it’s the people who live without all of that and still manage to capture our attention who matter. It sounds strange for someone so enamored of clothing to say such a thing, but there it is. The unlikely truth of the matter, laid bare before you. Believe it or not.

Far more often than the destination, it has been the framework and surrounding exercises of travel that have always held me rapt, and the starting point for this has become the accommodations. In recent years, I’ve come to appreciate the importance of a decent hotel room. In the distant past I’d be happy to simply have a roof and a shared bathroom on premises, but in my older age I’m less willing to rough it, and more demanding of finer lodging. Yet even a simple hotel room holds its allure.

I love the pretend sterility of it (save your tales of ultra-violet-revealed horrors) – the stark expanse of a perfectly-made bed, the covered cups, the baby bottles of shampoo and lotion, the way the curtains beckon to be opened or closed, the thermostat waiting for your very own preference of climate. It is as if the room asks you to leave your imprint on it by being so very blank – and I am glad to do so – in the opened suitcase, the hanging suit, and the traveler’s toiletries. The transitory signifiers of a life temporarily stationed for the evening. (I don’t mind the real lack of cleanliness in some places – we’ve survived plagues, a dirty hotel room won’t kill anyone.)

The emptiness and quiet of a hotel room appeals to me too. It is easier to think in a hotel room, simpler to focus on whatever’s ailing you, because there are no distractions. No dishes waiting in the kitchen sink, no pile of laundry in the bedroom, no damp dirty towel on the bathroom floor. It is a clean slate, waiting to be replenished each morning upon your departure. I long for such simplicity.

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11
January
2012
Tags: General, Male Models
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Calvin Martin: The Model, the Friend, and the First Kid I Ever Babysat

This was the first child I ever babysat (way back in the early 90’s, which is a cold reality check on how much time has passed…) I was really not much more than a kid myself – just finishing up my senior year in high school – and he was the five-year-old cousin of my girlfriend. Over the course of that summer, I watched him a couple of times, even going so far as to take him to Great Escape (as referenced in the previous post).

He was without a steady father-figure, and part of him clung to any man that happened his way – even if the man was not quite 18, and even if the man was on his way to befriending Dorothy. Calvin didn’t mind – in his world filled with women even a gay guy was a welcome relief.

Always, he was loved – by his mother and his entire family. It couldn’t have been easy, being bi-racial, being different – but if it bothered him, he didn’t show it – not in meanness or growing pains. Through the years I’ve had the sometimes surreptitious enjoyment of watching him grow into a young man ~ sometimes from afar, sometimes from across the Christmas Dinner table. It’s been a joy to see him find his way in this world, through the triumphs and tragedies, the highs and lows, the successes and the mistakes – and they all made him into a fine young man – someone I admire, and consider a friend.

Usually, when writing a profile on someone, I have to work to fill in the blanks they leave me, drawing forth what it is they seem to be trying to say. So many artists and models falter when it comes to the written word, or expressing themselves verbally. Calvin was one of those rare subjects who had so much to say and contribute, and did so in such an articulate manner, that I didn’t need to connect the dots, and so this time I get to be lazy and let him speak for himself. Introducing Calvin Martin:

Describe your upbringing and background:

I come from a family full of women! It sounds funny as my opening statement to the question but when you ask about my upbringing the first thing I think of is me as a child surrounded at the dinner table by my mother, grandmother, aunts, and cousins. I think that a father figure is always something a young man needs growing up and I lacked that but truthfully the women made up for it. I’ve learned an incredible amount from my mother and all the females in my family. I was born and raised in Amsterdam, NY. Played sports and attended school in this area. As much as I love to be around my family and friends, sometimes your hometown is a place you have to leave in order to become more successful, and that’s where I am at right now.

What were the events that shaped you the most in your childhood?

Overcoming the hardships of my late teens. As a child I was very grounded and regimented. I was involved with a number of sports so throughout my early grade school years everything was smooth sailing because there wasn’t time for anything else. Once I reached High School and attended my first semester of college, life starts to become rough on you and if I didn’t experience some of the things I did during that time, I’m not sure if I would be focused and on the right track currently. Big props to my mother for sticking by me.

What were the main events that shaped your adult life?

I can’t really name a specific event that helped me understand what it is to become a man and grow as an adult because being 22 years old I am still growing and I hope to grow and learn something every day. I think that God presented an unbelievable mentor in my life who has truly enhanced my knowledge on manhood. Without him and the constant prompts and lessons of my mother, I probably wouldn’t be able to grasp what life is and should be.

How did you get into modeling?

Like many other models I started off with a dollar and a dream posting some photos on the website Mode Mayhem. I had received a tag from a model who was pretty established at this point and I thought it was great how he reached out to me, so I reached back asking for advice. He had told me his Father was an extremely busy man but he may able to give me some advice. That man is the man I refer to as my mentor and without him there would not be a start to modeling. I was blessed to have him kick-start my career the way he did, now in return I need to finish just as strong to prove I am not wasted talent.

 

What are the best and worst aspects of modeling?

Best aspect of modeling for me is that you can play a character and get away with it. At the end of the day OF COURSE you are always supposed to be yourself and be accepted for you but don’t tell me you’ve never wanted to be someone else for a day! In modeling it’s great because no matter what the concept or marketing idea is, the image created is something not Calvin. I have to be someone else for that hour or two [of a] shoot, and it is amazing. I think it tests you mentally if you can step outside the box and be that character America wants to know more about. Worst aspect is the worst aspect in any job, you get the people who aren’t in it for business purposes and you have to be careful. Not everyone is Joe Nice.

What does art contribute to the world?

Art contributes a whole new vision. The thing about Art is that it doesn’t just necessarily have to be an Alexander McQueen exhibit just to be classified as Art. Art is what we the people view it as. Art plays a vital part in many people’s lives because our own interpretation of it is different from everyone else. I think the word Art can define a human being and that is a beautiful thing.

 

What part does beauty play in the world?

Beauty is similar to art but beauty usually gets mistaken for just a physical form. Beauty is not just a flawless human being, beauty to me is everything. There is beauty in a person, place, photo, sculpture. The odds are if you find someone or something breathtaking then there is beauty inside of it. Without beauty in the world then what can we look at to motivate us? Nothing. Beauty is major.

What is most beautiful to you?

The way someone treats another person. I am all for how you want to be treated which means how you will treat someone else. I love to see people with great personalities who [would] rather feel the enjoyment of making someone else feel good. My mother always told me I have an act of making people feel good. That’s beautiful if you ask me!

Beauty – physical beauty – cannot last forever in a person. What are the traits that will last, and how will you move past the point when you’re no longer considered young and beautiful?

Can’t be young forever obviously but physical beauty can last forever in ourselves. The 22 year old young man with a six pack, is not going to look in the mirror 50 years from now flexing saying “Yeah, I still got it!” but the internal beauty will represent the outside. Keeping the same personality, passion and care you have as a young adult will keep you the same as an older human being. There should be no reason people get stuck on “I am no longer beautiful” because that is us being weak-minded. Look around, we are all going to get old and one day sadly we all are going to die but there is nothing we can do about it so if we keep the morals our loved ones instilled in us and our free, giving spirit the beauty shall stay.

Anyone can work out and look good naked – what unique attributes do you bring to a modeling session, and what do you most hope your work conveys to the viewer?

A lot of my images are body shots because I am in the gym once, sometimes twice, a day but what I feel is most unique in my shots is my ability to play a different role in each. My body will remain the same but if I show different emotion and deliver my body differently in each shoot then I am unique. Anybody can work out, flex their abs and have a picture taken of them but it is how you deliver and sell yourself. My former manager used to make sure body shots were artistic and not over the edge and with me pursuing a TV career on the back end of this, I will always try to be protective of myself.

If your work thus far has one message or over-riding theme, what would it be?

This kid is motivated. It keeps coming, the work never stops. I am motivated.

What are you currently working on and what do you envision for the next year or so?

For 2k12 I envision steps forward. At this time I am unsigned, and my former manager felt that at this time it was best for me but maybe the new year has a possibility of me getting signed. Fashion week is approaching so I would love to have a chance walking in some more shows. 2k12 is all about growth and getting closer. I think that will happen this year!

{All photos courtesy of Mr. Martin.}

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10
January
2012
Tags: General, Madonna, Music
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The Madonna Timeline: Song #60 – ‘High Flying Adored’ – Winter 1997

{Note: The Madonna Timeline is an ongoing feature, where I put the iPod on shuffle, and write a little anecdote on whatever was going on in my life when that Madonna song was released and/or came to prominence in my mind.}

High flying, adored
What happens now, where do you go from here?
For someone on top of the world
The view is not exactly clear
A shame you did it all at twenty-six
There are no mysteries now
Nothing can thrill you, no one fulfill you
High flying, adored
I hope you come to terms with boredom
So famous so easily, so soon
It’s not the wisest thing to be
You won’t care if they love you
It’s been done before
You’ll despair if they hate you
You’ll be drained of all energy
All the young who’ve made it would agree

Okay, I admit it: I almost cheated on the Madonna Timeline. When I saw that ‘High Flying Adored’ was up next, I was about to skip over to the next song because this is really mostly Antonio Freaking Banderas. But I stayed true to the method of the madness, and am putting this up now, in the order in which it was received.

Not much to say about this bit from Evita. It takes place when Eva Peron is first realizing her glamour, and a bit of her power, and whenever I hear it I think of Madonna walking up that flight of stairs, impeccably gussied-up in a sparkling evening gown, hair pulled dramatically-high into lofty bun (the start of the transformation into Eva’s signature chignon), and head held aristocratically above it all. It’s the attitude I try to convey whenever I walk into a roomful of people I don’t know, but especially into a roomful of people I know well. Sometimes the latter is harder to do, and for those times it’s nice to employ a little Evita as armor.

High flying adored…
That’s good to hear but unimportant
My story’s quite usual
Local girl makes good, weds famous man
I was stuck in the right place at the perfect time
Filled a gap, I was lucky
But one thing I’ll say for me
No one else can fill it like I can.

Song #60: ‘High Flying Adored’ – Winter 1997

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06
January
2012
Tags: General, Madonna, Music
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The Madonna Timeline: Song #59 – ‘Like It Or Not’ ~ Winter 2006

{Note: The Madonna Timeline is an ongoing feature, where I put the iPod on shuffle, and write a little anecdote on whatever was going on in my life when that Madonna song was released and/or came to prominence in my mind.}

You can call me a sinner
Or you can call me a saint
Celebrate me for who I am
Dislike me for what I ain’t

The iPod has selected ‘Like It Or Not’ from 2005’s Confessions on a Dance Floor album for the first Madonna Timeline entry of 2012. This one bucks the last-song-of-the-album-that-often-sucks tradition Madonna has sometimes employed (‘Act of Contrition’, ‘Gone’, ‘Voices’). Filled with confidence and matter-of-fact defiance, it haughtily exhibits the classic Madonna-mantra of self-empowerment, but after twenty years into her career it wasn’t so much an act of haughtiness as simple truth.

Put me up on a pedestal
Or drag me down in the dirt
Sticks and stones may break my bones
But your names will never hurt.

It’s an excellent starter for 2012, a year which will usher in a brand new Madonna album (her first on a new record label), a Superbowl performance, and the wide opening of her directorial effort W.E. Once again, we seem “poised on the precipice” of greatness, and she will be the one to take us there.

I’ll be the garden
You’ll be the snake
All of my fruit is
Yours to take
Better the devil that you know
Your love for me will grow

Even when it seems she has nothing left to prove, there are those who would not have her around at all, so this is a necessary reminder of her power and relevance, her lasting contributions, and the promise of so much more to come.

Her live performance of this song, on the Confessions Tour from 2006, is a simple, straight-forward delivery with some serious strutting, and a chair straight out of Cabaret. It’s Madonna at her best, connecting with her audience, but just as happy being alone and doing her own thing.

Because this is who I am
You can like it or not
You can love me or leave me,
But I’m never gonna stop.
Song #59: – ‘Like It Or Not’ ~ Winter 2006
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05
January
2012
Tags: General
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My Old Addiction

Once upon a time, not so long ago, I had an addiction to robes. Silk, velvet, cotton, fleece ~ with feathers, sequins, or embroidery ~ I welcomed all and any to my bedroom closet. It even progressed to smoking jackets and kimono, and at last count I had almost 50. (It sounds worse than it is – if you do the math that’s about three a year since I started “collecting” them.)

As in the rest of my life, my tastes have shifted over the years, and these days I’m more likely to walk by and admire than scrounge the bank account for a way to pay for yet another one. Every once in a while, though, a robe comes along at the right time and place, and it’s exactly what I was looking for without even knowing it. Such was the case when I walked into Pottery Barn the other day. (I don’t frequent Pottery Barn much because I don’t often go to Crossgates Mall. If I wanted to walk that much I’d go to the gym.)

But thanks to a day off and an unintentionally early rise, I decided to brave the behemoth and check out the post-holiday sales. There, in the bed and bath section of Pottery Barn was the robe that I had subconsciously desired since my time at the Mandarin Oriental spa in Washington, DC. For my first spa experience, they provided a waffle-weave robe lined with the softest terry cloth. It was the perfect accompaniment to a ritual of self-indulgence – and would have made the home-made-spa routine I developed just about complete. I hadn’t encountered a similar robe anywhere since then, and had given up on the idea, but here it was, in person and right in front of me – tellingly with its price conveniently scratched off. I dug into the small pile but there were no prices to be found. Another model, minus the waffle-weave, was next to it and listed as $89, so I knew it would be at least that much.

A sales associate ambled along helpfully, heading to the register to look it up, and returned with the expected amount: $99. Now, this is not unreasonable, but it’s at the upper end of what I’ve paid for robes in the past (such as the velvet and ostrich feather number from Victoria’s Secret that was originally $299.99, but that I watched like a hawk until it came down to $99.99). For a cotton waffle-weave and terry cloth piece $99 seems a bit much.

Still, after a few not-quite-exhaustive internet searches, it doesn’t look like I’ll find a better deal, so here’s what will probably happen: I’ll beg and borrow until I get this one, make the promise to myself and others that this is the very last one, but it’s a special one, and an investment in peace of mind and quality of life, then call it quits on the robe acquisitions, at least for a while.

Oh, and this one can be monogrammed. I don’t have a robe with monogramming on it. Definitely a consideration, as every gentleman should have a monogrammed robe.

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01
January
2012
Tags: General
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The Dawn of the New Year

It begins with neither a bang nor a whimper, but only the rustling of the duvet, thrown off with the cranky realization that one must get up to begin the day, to get where one is going. It is, in spite of all the hype and nonsense, just another day in winter. It will snow, or the sun will shine, or there will be some gray in-between sky, and it will end with the too-soon darkness of the season.

The Christmas tree still stands in the morning light, turning sadder and sadder the further we get from its token holiday, but retaining some bit of sparkle, some freshness in the way the light strikes the bright green of the newer needles. A pot of paperwhites reaches to the light too, soon to deliver their distinctive scent to the room – for now just a few threads of verdant hope for a coming spring – even if it seems too far in the distance to begin to hope.

This is when the year really begins – not at the midnight toasts and champagne cheers, but rather in the stillness and silence of the morning. The break of the day – one day in the line of millions of days – that we imbue with the significance of starting over, even if every day affords us the same endless possibility

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21
December
2011
Tags: General, Holiday
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Brother Christmas

This is a photograph that must have been taken in the very early 80’s. That’s my brother and me in front of the Christmas tree on Christmas morning, amidst the pile of toys and treasure that Santa brought the night before. After thinking back on holidays past, and present, I realized just how much my brother has been a part of them. Growing up, he was my one constant companion, and until we diverged in adolescence we were quite close.

Like so many Ilagans, we have our flaws, and sometimes I think they were tailor-made to be the very things that antagonized the other the most, but somehow we managed to remain as close as brothers can. No one else has had the same exact experience of growing up – only my brother and I know what it was really like being raised in our home. Even Suzie, who in many ways knows more about me than my brother does, isn’t fully aware of what went on in the Ilagan house. That’s something only my brother and myself share. He is the one single person in the world who inhabited that childhood with me. Even our parents, who were there, can never really know what it was like for their kids. It is an unbreakable bond, a source of understanding that we carry with us for the rest of our lives. I suppose it’s the same for most brothers and sisters.

Every home is distinctive, each has its own quirks and foibles, and because of that no one other than the participants themselves ever has a real inkling of what really goes on. Most siblings have their growing pains, and like any two brothers close in age we had ours. At times adversarial, competitive, cruel, and mean – and alternately kind, comforting, caring, and loving – the ties of one brother to another run the gamut of emotions. I counted on my brother for all of it, the good and the bad, and I gave just as well, and as badly, as I got. Through it all, though, we shared the love of one brother for another.

This was family. This was life. This was the way the world had always been, and will continue to be. We may get older, and hopefully a little wiser, but we’ll always be those two mischievous Ilagan boys, united in blood, bonded by circumstance, and joined in a history that cannot be rewritten. For that I am thankful.

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20
December
2011
Tags: General, Holiday
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The Brothers Ilagan

A few years ago, my brother and I forged the unlikely start of what I hope will be a holiday tradition. I had stopped by his home during a visit to Amsterdam, and he served us an impromptu dinner of fettuccine and shrimp in a sherry cream sauce. I must say this about my brother – the man knows how to cook, and he can do it without a recipe. After finishing the meal, he suggested that we head over to a childhood haunt – Samuel Fariello’s – an old-style candy shop that serves ice cream and sundaes. We used to ride our bikes there when we were kids, bringing a pocketful of change and buying gum and candy sticks and baseball cards.

All these years later, it was still open, with a different set of owners, but the space was exactly the same. It was just a few days before Christmas, and the shop was decked out for the holiday. Baskets of chocolate confections and nuts filled the shelves, and a few treasured jars of turkey joints (one of the best bits of candy mankind has ever created) stood on the counter. We sat at a booth and ordered a couple of sundaes.

Suddenly I was a kid again, and it was summer, and my brother and I were passing the day away in Sammy’s.

From the simplest of actions and the plainest of places, a magical moment can sometimes be created through the power of memory and the pull of family. It was a night I’d remember fondly, a quick unplanned evening of brotherly bonding with the only boy in the world who knew exactly what I went through as a kid because he went through the exact same thing – a childhood in the Ilagan family, with all its privileges and difficulties, and the normal ups and downs of any family.

It sounds like such a simple thing, but I always cherish any time with my brother, as odd as that may sound to those who know us. We are two very different people – about as completely different as two brothers could possibly be, yet we come from the same place, and that’s something that can never be changed. On that cold candy shop night, we came back to where we once were…

This year I called my brother up and asked if we could do it again, so I met up with him at Fariello’s. He brought his son Noah with him, the next generation of Ilagans being indoctrinated to the candy store.

(We’d bring a sundae home to his wife and their daughter Emi – well, I would bring one home, my brother forgetting that it was on his car as he peeled away, leaving me to pick it up on the street behind him as I followed in my car.)

As I sat there feeding Noah bits of my sundae, I wondered if I’d be the Uncle I always wanted my Uncle to be. It was an impossible wish, really, and I would always demand too much. I watched my nephew, feeling the tug of my Uncle on my heart, and the tenderness for a child who may or may not know what to do with my love.

Later on, I stopped by their home to say hello to Erin and Emi, who was already in her pajamas. She showed me some of the ornaments on the tree, and I was once again touched by the wonder of a child at Christmas.

As we get older, more traditions seem to fall by the wayside. People leave, things change, and as much as I embrace the new, part of me still clings desperately to what little can be preserved, what can stay the same, and in our own way this is a little chance to hang on. It’s too soon to see if our sundae holiday tradition sticks, and maybe we’ll only do it every few years, but you have to start somewhere.

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15
December
2011
Tags: General, Holiday
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I Played My Best for Him

One of my favorite Christmas songs as a kid was ‘The Little Drummer Boy’. The simple, insistent drum rolls, the intoxicating cadence, and the sentimental tale of a little boy who had nothing to give but a song – a small piece of self-created art – spoke to me more than any angels on high or Santas en route.

On one Christmas, my parents gave me a toy audio recorder that recorded a couple minutes of sound, which you could then play back. I was too young for a proper stereo, and I don’t even think cassette tapes had come into mainstream play yet, so this little recorder was all we had. After all our gifts had been opened, and we were shifting into the lull of a post-Christmas morning moment, Mom suggested I try it out.

Suddenly I became shy and self-conscious: the budding stages of stage fright and a heart-bursting aversion to public speaking or unwanted attention reared its debilitating head. I hesitated and proffered excuses, saying I would do it later. Upon further pressure, I caved, but only on the condition that I could record a song alone without anyone watching.

Mom took me into her bedroom, where we sang ‘The Little Drummer Boy’ into the machine. Even then I was embarrassed and awkward about it – the pressure of performing, even if just for family, wreaked havoc on my nerves. Yet somehow I got through it, and my recording of the song was complete. We went back downstairs to play it for the rest of the family, and when it started I literally hid under a blanket – so suddenly bashful was I upon hearing my voice for the first time.

It’s a feeling I’ve never gotten over, and whenever I hear that song it is imbued with a slight bit of tension and apprehension, and a requisite sadness that accompanied more than a few childhood moments. An indication of what was to come, there was the voice that everyone heard, coming forth from some mechanized machine or computer – in someone else’s song, in a story, in a photograph – and the internal voice of a scared little boy, cowering from the world and begging for protection when none would be found. The safety of separation between the artist and the art – the perceived image of a man and the reality that will always pale beside it.

On that single Christmas morning, I learned more than I would from a whole year of school, and the knowledge would burden and terrify me.

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13
December
2011
Tags: General, Madonna, Music
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The Madonna Timeline: Song #58 – ‘Buenos Aires’ – Holiday 1996

{Note: The Madonna Timeline is an ongoing feature, where I put the iPod on shuffle, and write a little anecdote on whatever was going on in my life when that Madonna song was released and/or came to prominence in my mind.}

What’s new Buenos Aires?
I’m new!
I wanna say I’m just a little stuck on you,
You’ll be on me too.

Not-so-secret confession: I don’t sing. Well. I don’t sing well. But I love to do it, when alone, usually in the car on a long-distance drive in some strange state where passers-by don’t stand a chance of recognizing me. (Once I was belting out a Norma Desmond aria on Western Ave. and my friend Paul was sitting in the car next to me laughing his ass off. I’ve never sung on Western Ave. since.) What does this have to do with the next iPod selection for the Madonna Timeline, ‘Buenos Aires’? Well, back in 1996, as I was preparing for the Royal Rainbow World Tour, I recorded myself singing this song, over and over, on a cassette tape, and then sending it out to a highly-select group of friends. It remains one of my most embarrassing moments, in a lifetime of embarrassing moments (mistaken for a clown at Ponderosa anyone?)

I get out here, Buenos Aires
Stand back!
You ought to know
What you’re gonna get in me
Just a little touch of star quality.

At the time I didn’t care – it was such a fun song, and I was so excited about Madonna in Evita that I would have done just about anything to express my joy. That’s the problem when I get really psyched about something – I want to share it with everyone, and I can’t contain the exuberance inside, so it ends up spilling out in all sorts of silly manners. Case in point: me singing ‘Buenos Aires’.

Fill me up with your heat, with your noise
With your dirt, overdo me!
Let me dance to your beat, make it loud
Let it hurt, run it through me!
Don’t hold back, you are certain to impress
Tell the driver this is where I’m staying.
Hello, Buenos Aires!
Get this, just look at me dressed up, somewhere to go
We’ll put on a show…

Putting on a show is all I wanted to do, so when I was visiting my friends, I made them all see Evita with me. I took troupes from Ithaca, Rochester, and Boston to take in the spectacle of Madonna as Eva Peron in a big-budget musical extravaganza, and for the most part people were politely impressed. Granted, it would never quite reach the excitement that I was experiencing, but most were good sports about it (especially Suzie, who took in a 2 AM showing of it in NYC AFTER seeing the musical Chicago – that’s a musical-soaked evening for anyone, and she was a trooper.)

Take me in at your flood, give me speed
Give me lights, set me humming
Shoot me up with your blood, wine me up
With your nights, watch me coming
All I want is a whole lot of excess
Tell the singer this is where I’m playing
Stand back, Buenos Aires
Because you oughta know what you’re gonna get in me
Just a little touch of star quality…

Fortunately, when all we need at this time of the year is a break from holiday madness, this song lends itself to silliness – and if you read the lyrics alone you may want to take Tim Rice to task for some of them. It’s one of the dancier-ditties from the Evita opus, with some Latin-inspired percussion and a driving beat. Personally, I love it, and it’s the moment when the movie truly starts to soar.

And if ever I go too far
It’s because of the things you are
Beautiful town, I love you
And if I need a moment’s rest
Give your lover the very best
Real eiderdown and silence.

At this point, Eva was just starting out on her own, making her way to a strange city, and doing whatever it took to get by. That sort of struggle was familiar to Madonna as well, and to anyone who got away from home and had to learn to be all right alone. It’s a time of desperation and desire, a drawn-out moment of being on-the-verge – of your future, of your life, of the person you were destined to become. For those who dare to try, who dare to dream, there is always the threat of extinction, but it is always worth the risk. We thrash ourselves about and put it all on display so you don’t have to.

You’re a tramp, you’re a treat
You will shine to the death, you are shoddy
But you’re flesh, you are meat
You shall have every breath in my body
Put me down for a lifetime of success
Give me credit, I’ll find ways of paying…

In the midst of holiday mayhem, sometimes you just need to get away from the insanity, escaping to a place of fantasy and make-believe, the idealized city-scape of Eva’s Buenos Aires for example, where all you need to conquer the world is a dance and a dream, and just a little touch of star quality.

Song #58 – ‘Buenos Aires’ – Holiday 1996
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