Author Archives: Alan Ilagan

A linky look back at when I was 21 years old continues from this wildly meandering post, and let’s see if I can’t making this one even more labyrinthine. There’s no song to accompany the entry, so you’ll have to hum or whistle or sing one of your own conjuring. Nostalgia comes with its own soundtrack, specific and different for everyone – set yours up on Spotify, and then come back and teach me how to do it. 

Once upon a time, I thought I might have the most-well-documented life of any of my friends, but considering the ease and ubiquitous manner in which we document ourselves these days, all I have are some written memories and boxes of photographic memories in concrete material form – unstored on any flash drive or lap-top. Judging from the photos I’ve been digging up, that may be for the best – and woe to the kids today growing up in a state of constant documentation. My generation was lucky to have done most of our growing up in the relative privacy of a pre-internet, pre-cel-phone world. I find myself valuing and appreciating that more as the days go by. 

Of course, there was still much evidence of my sartorial mistakes, as evidenced in so many photographs, like the one above. Sheer shirts and sequin berets and vests – this was when ‘Chicago’ had made such a splash in its revival on Broadway, and I was all about this combo. No clue why I chose this particular astrological hat, but I have no clue why I chose most things I chose in 1996. Yes, mistakes were made, and some of them rather dire, but this wasn’t one of them. As ridiculous as many of my outfits were, I stand by them for what they were at the moment, and I never wore anything I didn’t love on that respective day. You have to embrace your past selves to truly love your present one. Absolutely no regrets…

Back then, I never fully appreciated or inhabited the moment. Entirely hellbent on the next thing, and what was coming up in the future, rarely did I live in the present time at hand. I know I just said absolutely no regrets, but maybe I do have a few, and that would be one of them. It wasn’t that I didn’t know how lovely and charmed that time in life was – having been raised by the world to indulge in our childhood days, I regularly paused to take stock and think, ‘Hey, I should be enjoying this as it’s the best time of my life’ but that always felt forced. My childhood came with its own traumas and tribulations, and for a socially anxious gay kid coming to terms with who he was, childhood isn’t always the rosy time it’s supposed to be, especially at a point when being gay wasn’t even talked about. When you don’t see yourself, or the possibility of your life, anywhere around you, and when it’s not mentioned or discussed even in the abstract, you do begin to wonder if you belong. That works itself out in diabolical ways. By the time I was 21 years old, I was only starting to see and understand this – and since it was only the start, I had no idea what I was doing. 

Oddly enough, there is occasionally more wisdom in stumbling through certain sections of your life completely unaware of the bigger picture, pointing to an inadvertent and unintentional realization of living in the moment. When you pause in considering the greater arc and trajectory of your life, you are focusing on the day, the hour, the minute at hand – and isn’t that the essence of mindfulness? It makes for a much happier existence, and perhaps that’s the secret to eternal youth. 

I remember the early spring day when the above photo was taken. On a visit to Suzie in Ithaca, I basked in the sunlight of the day after that long winter. (Winters in Ithaca are no fun joke.) Looking up, I felt the sun on my face in a way that was better than any sort of apricity as it was already spring, and winter was behind us. You can see the earliest chartreuse buds on the tree branches behind me, and I can recall the feeling of spring just beginning to unfurl. It was the feeling of being 21, of being on the verge of everything. 

{Bonus shot: this is me in Ithaca again, hamming it up in the kitchen (which I never used in its traditional capacity, and not only because I never technically lived there). It was just another day on the Royal Rainbow Tour, and I was probably just tooling around town dropping Chris off to class or meeting Suzie for dinner. All in a day… all in a life.}

Dua Lipa just killed it in her opening number for the recent Grammy Awards, which puts me in mind of the title track from ‘Future Nostalgia’. Indulging in such nostalgia has been a recent habit, given last year’s 20th anniversary of this website, as well as the current trend of posting pics of yourself as a 21-year-old, which is especially fitting for this 21st year of ALANILAGAN.com. For the next two blog posts, I’m putting up a few ridiculous photos from when I was 21 (there are oh-so-many more that could fuel the next twenty years of this blog, so perhaps that’s the way we’ll move forward her, by looking back…)

When I was 21, I had absolutely no clue about so many things, mostly myself, and that’s what the 20’s are for – figuring out who you might be, trying on different guises until you feel comfortable, discovering what your soul wants, and perhaps more importantly, what it doesn’t want. 

You want a timeless song, I wanna change the game
Like modern architecture, John Lautner coming your way
I know you like this beat ’cause Jeff’s been doin’ the damn thing
You wanna turn it up loud
Future Nostalgia is the name (future nostalgia)

For the featured photo, which finds me sipping a melon martini (eww!) at the San Francisco Westin with my pal Chris, I’m taken back to the summer of 1997, and that heady time of the Royal Rainbow World Tour. My past is filled with as many delusions as it was actual events, and I’m only starting to sort out what was real, what mattered, and what was ephemeral fluff. It feels like I’m on the verge of some genuine reconciliation of the previous three decades. There are whispers of what a ‘tour’ would look like today. A glimpse of the future in a post celebrating the past…

I know you’re dying trying to figure me out
My name’s on the tip of your tongue, keep running your mouth
You want the recipe, but can’t handle my sound
My sound, my sound (future nostalgia)

The photo below, which would obviously be titled ‘Authorized Entry Only’, is eerily emblematic of my sexual stance at the time, which was largely frigid and stand-offish. Growing up fully enveloped by the specter of AIDS, and the way sex could so easily and literally lead to death, had worked its destructive way into my head, and despite the sexual way I often presented myself, in reality I kept largely chaste in the bedroom at that young age.

And maybe that saved my life. It certainly left me free for other fun, which included joking around on this offshoot of some highway near Rochester, NY, where I was visiting with Ann. How could I not pose beneath this sign when wearing such a pair of pants? And how could I not laugh with a friend like Ann beside me? So much is made of the memories that affect us in some sad or bad way – not enough is made of our happy moments. 

Can’t be a rolling stone if you live in a glass house
You keep on talking that talk, one day, you’re gonna blast out
You can’t be bitter if I’m out here showing my face
You want what now looks like, let me give you a taste

Looking back at that 21st year of my life, I’m somewhat startled by how alone I felt, even when surrounded by people. I’ve always been keenly aware of the difference between feeling alone and feeling lonely. For me, it’s mostly been about the former rather than the latter. Solitude didn’t scare or bother me – to this day, I seek it out for its calm and silence and stillness. Back then, though, I thought I needed someone else. And maybe I say I love being alone now because I’m lucky enough to have someone like Andy in my life, along with a group of friends that has never let me down. It’s easy to say you like being alone when you don’t have to be. There is a privilege inherent in that. 

When I was 21 years old, I often felt alone, in the sense that I felt different, never quite belonging to whatever situation I was in, never quite a part of whatever place I inhabited. This last photo, taken on the first day of my last year of ‘school’ was an homage to the tradition of my Mom’s first day of school photos, where she would pose my brother and me for a picture on that most dreaded of days. In this one, I was already living off-campus in Boston, brushing my teeth and preparing to board the commuter rail to Brandeis University for my last semester. 

Fall semester always tricked me with the way it began in the heat of summer, and on this day, for that final year, I wore a sleeveless shirt with a pair of jeans; even back then the import of the last-first-day, which would typically call for a fanfare outfit, I crumbled by the self-induced pressure and went in the opposite direction, going super-casual for the un-air-conditioned classrooms in which I would soon be sweating. It’s strange the way I can so vividly remember walking through the campus that day in 1996, especially considering I can’t remember where I walked just thirty minutes ago. A lot would happen that fall, and a lot would happen that year… 

You can’t get with this if you ain’t built for this
You can’t get with this if you ain’t built for this
I can’t build you up if you ain’t tough enough
I can’t teach a man how to wear his pants (Ha ha!)

Today’s social media world is all about posting negative comments, getting upset and offended by every single thing that happens in a day, investing in celebrities who don’t even know or care you exist, and arguing with strangers from a standpoint of entitlement and privilege. It’s about making disparaging and nasty comments on someone else’s post, even if it’s clear they like the person or issue it’s about. It’s about so much awfulness and making up for what the rest of us can only assume is a miserable life over which you have no control, that I find myself engaging less and less than I once did. 

That doesn’t mean my presence, in service of this very website, has lessened. If anything, I probably post more because it’s so easy to do so at the push of a phone screen. But I do not linger, and I do not dwell, and while the occasional ad for a robe or a jacket will sometimes call to me for further clicking, for the most part I’m moving away from social media as a means of existence. 

To go even further, and to drive home the point of this post, I will not tolerate or allow negative comments or disparaging remarks on any of my social media accounts. I’m looking at you FaceBook and Twitter, and I’m not explaining or justifying my methods of determining what’s negative. If you have to ask, then I already know we won’t get along on a social media plane, and it’s better that we disengage with a clean and simple block. I just don’t have the space for that level of idiocy, or for anyone who pretends not to understand. No ill will at all, and you are always welcome to visit me here to see what’s up.

As they say in the retail biz, forewarned is fair-warned, so let the delete-and-block era begin! May peace soon follow… 

Here we are, already digging into the month of February like it’s some easy-down-the-throat dessert or dick, both with a creamy surprise at the end if it’s al done right, so let’s just hurry up and get on with it. Here’s your Monday recap, blatant innuendo and all…

We began with some blunt pee talk, because, as adults, if we can’t talk about going wee-wee, what can we talk about?

Taylor Swift continued to polarize, not unlike a certain favored diva featured extensively here. 

When soap gets in your ears, and you power the meaning of the ‘Q’ in Q-tip.

This blog turned 21, but I’m into mocktails now so save your toast for breakfast. Virgins up and easy!

Pistachios and a squirrel. 

The first winter without my father.

Snow comfort.

What the actual duck?

A gratuitous deep dive for anyone missing summer days in the pool.

Fuzzy flowers.

Drink/link this magic tea, you’ll like it.

Dominic Albano: underwear entrepreneur.

A quest for the best in blandness.

Dazzlers of the Day included Jordan Stolz, George Eads, Shilese Jones, Jeannine M. Trimboli, Brock Purdy, Trevor Lawrence, and Usher.

With all this talk of tea lately, I just have one question: when the fuck does this shit kick in? It’s a cup of herbal tea called ‘Mood Happy‘, which contains St. John’s wort (which never worked for me back in the day), Shatavari root (never heard of it), Turmeric root (hello curry-not-in-a-hurry), Moringa leaves, Chamomile flowers, Ginkgo Biloba leaves (watch out for the dirty ginkgo trees if deciding to plant one), Lavender flowers (who doesn’t adore lavender?), Fennel seeds (and not even an Italian sauce in sight), Ginger root (love love love me some ginger), Black Peppercorns (I would have gone with pink because I like pink) and Cardamom Seeds (which brings to mind this glorious recipe). 

Maybe the tea is working – in going through the list of ingredients I do feel a little bit happier. Being mindful of the memories elicited has made for some magic. 

Counter-programming for the winter doldrums is simple: bring the heat, lose the shirt, and go deep. Add a Speedo for extra incentive to work off that holiday padding (I’ve got enough extra to fill the stay-puffed marshmallow man’s costume). Who doesn’t love an 80’s reference? And who you gonna call? These pool pics of the past will have to suffice until such time that I adopt a less sedentary lifestyle.  

The smorgasbord of my mind, rapid-firing across frayed synapses, is like the world’s messiest charcuterie board right now: there is some good shit there, but you have to wade through a bunch of garbage like rosemary sprigs and a jar of weird mustard that’s way beyond its expiration date. (And don’t even get me started on pitted olives.)

That strange charcuterie digression aside, (what is with all the charcuterie references on this blog?) let’s delve into some aforementioned counter-programming since the groundhog has predicted an early spring, and I always err on the side of the rodent when it comes to accurate meteorological predictions. Again, I digress, when all you want is to get to the Tom Daley and Michael Phelps Speedo posts. Hang on… I feel it… It’s coming… 

Summer days by the pool have always been magical, in their majestic laziness, and the way they slink so sensually through the hours. That sun works myriad spells as it crosses the sky, when really we should be thanking the earth for just sitting there and rotating (advice that’s been given to me on more occasions than need to be recalled). 

Summer discovers where the boys are then quickly works to catch us all up in its heady siren call. We listen, we hear, we fall into its gorgeous trance, lured willingly along for the heated ride. Sometimes summer is a soundtrack. Sometimes summer is a Speedo. Sometimes summer is a knife. Sometimes, summer simply breaks our hearts. 

Inevitably, and often with some reluctant relief, every summer must give way to fall, which comes with its own enchantments and glories. 

Some days are still haunted, while others are filled with healing. 

Some days are quiet and contemplative, made of mindfulness and merrily mired in meditation. 

We work our way through all the days, winding our way to another summer again. May it not keep us waiting for too long.