Here’s another bitch responsible for my recent trips to the gym: Mr. Michael Phelps in all his bulging Speedo glory. It may seem the height of foolishness to use an Olympian as a totem for one’s own fitness regime, but this is more inspiration than reality. Besides, I hear he eats like a zillion eggs during training periods and I just can’t.
Author Archives: Alan Ilagan
19
October
2011
No comments
October
2011
17
October
2011
No comments
October
2011
My First Awards Dinner
The Pride Center of the Capital Region celebrated its annual Awards Dinner this past Friday at the Hilton Garden Inn in Troy, and I was honored and humbled to be chosen as their ‘Volunteer of the Year’ for my work at the Romaine Brooks Gallery. The only glitch was that I was expected to make a little acceptance speech – and I do not do public speaking. However, right before we left for the night, a rainbow appeared over our front yard, so I took it as a good omen and started getting ready.
The trick to pulling off any decent outfit – and to feeling confident and secure in said outfit – is to start with a pair of underwear and socks that make you feel good, and as if you have a secret that no one will know about. In this case, a bright canary pair of Emporio Armani briefs and some matching argyle socks from Hugo Boss provide the necessary shot of fun to counteract any insecurities. And they’re my secret boost of confidence needed to pull off The Suit.
Yes, it’s a little bit plaid. Yes, it’s a little bit garish. And yes, it’s a little bit questionable – but for all those reasons and more I loved it. But what I loved more was the fact that some of my favorite people got to be there with me that night, including my Mom and best friend Suzie – who surprised me with a trip up from Brooklyn. I normally don’t like surprises – at all – but this was a good one, and Suzie always sets my mind at ease. It was exactly what I needed as the minutes leading up to the Awards ticked on, and my heart started to beat faster and faster.
According to the schedule, I was going to follow the Paul Postiglione Youth Services Award, given to Joshua Dunning Powell. Unfortunately for me, Mr. Powell gave the most moving and powerful speech of the night, recalling his days as a bullied child, and how no one had helped him. The whole room was choked up, and I was on the verge of balling. It was incredible – and easily the moment I would take away and remember from that night. I looked helplessly over to Suzie as if to ask ‘How the hell can I follow that?’ and chugged a glass of wine.
Luckily, there was a Silent Auction interlude, and some fundraising to be done, that both distracted and lightened the mood before I had to accept my award, and thank God. The always-entertaining Penny Larceny introduced me, and before I knew it I was at the podium.
“The only thing I hate more than public speaking is a pair of crocs,†said the man in the plaid suit, and then I quickly ticked off a brief list of people who helped me in managing the gallery, and then I was off. It was the briefest of speeches that night, but I survived it and could enjoy the rest of the evening worry-free.
And it was indeed a grand evening. Being that this was our first time attending the Pride Center’s Awards Dinner, I didn’t know what to expect. Surely not so many wonderful, supportive people from all communities – and certainly not so many moving moments that made me proud to be a gay man in the company of such fine citizens.
The best part of the night was seeing my family and friends gathered together to support me. That meant more to me than anyone would ever guess. Thank you Mom and Dad, Suzie, and Andy
10
October
2011
No comments
October
2011
The Madonna Timeline: Song #54 ~ The Power of Good-bye ~ Fall 1998
{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.}
Dear ~~~~,
I should have known by the way it started how it would all end. It was fall – no romance of mine that started in the fall has ever lasted. Certainly not one that began at the very time Madonna was releasing ‘The Power of Good-bye’ from her yet-to-be-topped ‘Ray of Light’ album. I can look back with fondness and tenderness at what once hurt me so badly I had to put it from my mind.
We were both so young then. I don’t think we realized how young we were. We thought we knew it all. We had the whole world at our fingertips – and we had each other. That’s what really mattered to me. That’s the only thing that mattered to me.
Your heart is not open so I must go
The spell has been broken I loved you so
Freedom comes when you learn to let go,
Creation comes when you learn to say no.
The wind was drifting through an open window, curtains moving slightly in the breeze, and the moon peeking through the blinds. We laid in the dim light, you sitting up slightly, my head on your chest as it rose and fell with your breath.
“This is… perfect,” you whispered.
“What is?” I asked.
“This… night.”
I wanted to see years ahead, but my head, or my heart, could not. Something blocked it. There would always be that fogginess that fall. It would obscure us from seeing one another, and we embraced it because I don’t think we were ready to see each other. I didn’t think I could let you see me, because surely if you saw – if you really and truly saw – you would not stay. So we let the fog linger, creeping into the bedroom in the night, and even in the crisp cool mornings. It was better that way.
You were my lesson I had to learn
I was your fortress you had to burn
Pain is a warning that something’s wrong
I pray to God that it won’t be long…
On my way to work I stop along the sidewalk to pick up some blood-red maple leaves that have fallen in the night. I will dry and preserve them in the pages of a heavy book, then frame them for your birthday in the winter. I already know this. I know, because I will want to remember this fall – our first together, our only beginning. Somehow, you know too, and in our embraces and our nights together, we cling tightly, desperately to each other, to the idea of us, forging a bond in the colder days to come.
There’s nothing left to try
There’s no place left to hide
There’s no greater power than the power of good-bye…
There was happiness that fall, even as the plaintive notes of this song played in the background. Madonna cried for lost love, while we wept for finding it – two very different points on a very similar trajectory. Cozy nights in the condo, intimate dinners by candlelight, the occasional show, and lots of walking in the fallen leaves. An autumn in Boston is magical, and we wrapped our coats around us merrily, huddling against each other and tumbling along as one slightly awkward but giddy mass of first-love.
Your heart is not open so I must go
The spell has been broken I loved you so
You were my lesson I had to learn
I was your fortress…
Our relationship was based in the night. Days were usually spent at school or work, and even the afternoons were getting darker earlier. Your apartment was always cloaked in dim candlelight – a somewhat claustrophobic corner room, stultified by waxy smoke, buried in the ancient labyrinthine layout of Beacon Hill. I stayed there only once during the day, after you had gone off to class, and in that light I looked around and wondered at your life. In those days, simply being in the space that you occupied was precious to me. I rolled over in bed, curling into your pillow, but it would never be home to me.
I’d walk along Charles Street and imagine you doing the same thing, tucking this tiny corner of Boston into my pocket and keeping it there, next to you. When we would fight, when a gray rainy night threatened to tear us apart, I would return here, lost in the cobblestone of the centuries, eyes skyward and soaking up the tears of clouds, where they mingled with mine, where I crumbled. And then the acts of apology and forgiveness – which I never quite got right, neither giving nor receiving – acts I still find daunting and terrifying in their own way. Somehow the fall cushioned us, with its fallen leaves and gray hazy days. The very fog that kept us in soft-focus, the buffer between us, had also bound us in swirling ropes of safety and, yes, love. It kept us together because it was too dreary to be apart.
There’s nothing left to lose
There’s no more heart to bruise
There’s no greater power than the power of good-bye…
It would not be enough to sustain, but we would not talk about it then.
Learn to say good-bye…
I yearn to say good-bye…
You had the power to do what I could not do. You had the power to end us. You alone had the power of good-bye. You wielded it kindly, and forcefully – and I will always be grateful for that. I did not have the strength to do it. I did not have it in me to finish us off. But somehow you knew, and somehow you did it.
Thank you for being the brave one. Thank you for setting us free. Thank you for letting us walk away before there was someone to blame.
If no one else understood, I knew that.
There’s nothing left to try
There’s no more places to hide
There’s no greater power than the power of good-bye
There’s nothing left to lose
There’s no more heart to bruise
There’s no greater power than the power of good-bye.
Song #54: ‘The Power of Goodbye’ ~ Fall 1998
06
October
2011
No comments
October
2011
The New Fashioned
This was our Fall cocktail – and it turned out better than we imagined. Anything that uses orange bitters is a hit in my book, but this has a powerful kick beneath all the orange warmth. It warms the belly from the inside out. Here’s the recipe:
• 1 ounce Crown Royal Reserve
• 1/2 ounce amaretto
• 1/4 ounce simple syrup
• 3 dashes orange bitters
• 1 piece orange peel
Stir ingredients in a shaker with ice.
Strain into rocks glass.
Serve chilled neat and garnished with orange peel.
03
October
2011
No comments
October
2011
The Madonna Timeline: Song #53 ~ ‘Material Girl’ ~ 1985
{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.}
Some boys kiss me,
Some boys hug me,
I think they’re okay.
If they don’t give me proper credit,
I just walk away.
You always remember your first time, and your first Madonna song. ‘Material Girl’ was mine. We didn’t even have a stereo, or MTV, so how I got to hear the song is a miracle that seemed destined to be. We were at a neighbor’s house for a summer night gathering in their basement. Curtains draped beneath the staircase, hiding a makeshift DJ booth. A washer and dryer stood on the far-off corner, gently droning in the background. The kids were putting on their Friday night song and dance contest, whereby we would all dance and lip sync to a record of our choosing.
Most of the boys sang guy songs, and most of the girls sang girl songs, but we were just young enough that it didn’t matter. I chose ‘Material Girl’ ~ the 7″ single that my friend so casually had at her disposal. When you think of what Madonna has done in the three decades that followed, that record sleeve is a piece of history, and our failure to realize the import of that single is one of those comical hindsight moments of nonchalance. How could anyone know what was in store for her?
They can beg and they can plead
But they can’t see the light
That’s right!
Cause the boy with the cold hard cash
Is always Mister Right.
It was my turn to go. The record started spinning. I didn’t even know all the words ~ how could I? ~ but I knew the chorus, even if I had no idea what it all meant. It was catchy as all get out, had a hook that was instantly embedded in the brain, and a chorus that sounded part human, part robot, and paved the way for the 80’s ~ and while I didn’t make sense of the words at the time, I had fun singing them. The greatest of pop songs often have the silliest of lyrics, though in this case there was irony and tongue-in-cheek humor to go along with the greedy money-grubbing of the decade.
Cause we are living in a material world,
And I am a material girl.
You know that we are living in a material world
And I am a material girl.
I’m not going to even bother acting all humble: I was a good dancer. I even threw in some acrobatic moves gleaned from an all-too-short week of gymnastics at the local college. Yeah, I could have been a contender… but I digress.
Back to the contest, if you could call it that. I had been losing them for weeks. Like my Student Council run in 9th grade, and my Best Dressed in High School nomination in 12th grade, and countless other times I was nominated or in the running, I failed to secure the top spot. I was never the chosen one.
I was the noticed one, the one everybody watched and knew about, but who never won out in the end. On this night, I danced my heart out, and I had Madonna on my side, but I had reached the point where it did not even matter. I gave up trying to win and gave in to the sheer joy of abandon, of doing something I loved simply for the sake of doing it. Don’t get me wrong, when it was done, when everyone had performed and we waited for the votes to be tallied up, my heart was beating quickly, and I really wanted it. But I couldn’t count on it.
Some boys romance
Some boys slow dance,
That’s all right with me
If they can’t raise my interest
Then I have to let them be.
Some boys try and some boys lie,
But I don’t let them play.
Only boys who save their pennies
Make my rainy day.
Cause we are living in a material world,
And I am a material girl.
You know that we are living in a material world
And I am a material girl.
The announcement was made. I won. I had never won before, but no one believed it. That’s the problem when you’re consistently good: everyone assumes you’ve already won everything so you don’t get the time of day. Self-aggrandizing jokes aside, they really didn’t believe that I had never won and were about to give the prize (which I no longer recollect) to someone else. I had them check the record book, where all the winners each week had been written down in kids’ block print, and lo and behold my name was nowhere to be found. They still didn’t believe it, claiming they were certain I had already won. Umm, no, not the case, and after all the effort convincing them I had never won, it seemed a hollow victory. Even back then, the masses didn’t want to give it up.
Dancing excellence and showmanship aside, I left my performance career in that basement, beside the dusty record player and washer and dryer. It was enough just having that song in my head.
Boys may come and boys may go
And that’s all right you see
Experience has made me rich
And now they’re after me…
Right then, Madonna became my muse, guide, and inspiration. Like countless gay boys before and after me, I found in her a kindred rebellious spirit, with the sass and style to turn heads, and the strength and determination to not care if we never won.
As for Ms. Ciccone, this was her breakthrough video, and the one that proved her talents were in reinventing herself. Morphing wildly into Marilyn Monroe for the very first time, and showing off a knack of inhabiting video characters, Madonna was flexing her chameleonic muscles. As one of her first incarnations, it would be the one that stuck. A self-professed bothersome moniker she holds to this day, ‘Material Girl’ remains the one nickname she has never been able to shake, try as she might.
Cause everybody’s living in a material world,
And I am a material girl.
You know that we are living in a material world
And I am a material girl.
She was the ultimate pin-up girl of the 1980’s. She personified that decade, ruling the charts alongside Michael Jackson and Prince. It was a decade of greed, and people wanted to see the money keep rolling in as much as they wanted to keep Madonna in her Material Girl box. But she, and the world, would not have it.
A material, a material, a material, a material world…
As the echoes faded, and the music grew dated, she was already gone, already on to something else. I grew up in her wake, following and watching, inspired and in awe.
Song #53: ‘Material Girl’ ~ Summer 1985
01
October
2011
No comments
October
2011
The Madonna Timeline: Song #52 ~ Get Together ~ Summer 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.}
The original post for this song has been lost, and for me that’s fitting for an unremarkable song. Like some of her other soft-focus disco songs, I think Madonna gets lost in the filler, so we move on without seeking out a proper post. Some absolutely love this song, and to each their own.
29
September
2011
No comments
September
2011
The Madonna Timeline: Song #51 ~ Rainbow High~ Late 1996-Early 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.}
There again I’ve more to do than simply get the message through – I haven’t started.
Let’s get this show on the road, let’s make it obvious,
Peron is off and rolling…
Seeing as how the iPod has shuffled over to ‘Rainbow High’ from Madonna’s turn in Evita, it seems a good time to dovetail the timeline with an explanation of a Tour. After all, the woman who inspired it all was then portraying Eva Peron on the big screen, and I was on my ‘Royal Rainbow World Tour’.
It was the very end of 1996. I had graduated early and was about to embark on a few whirlwind months of traveling “from upstate New York to Florida, from Albany to Puerto Rico, from Seattle to the Philippines, from Hong Kong to New Orleans, from Washington to London to Wales to Ireland…” it was truly a world tour. While I actually went to all those places, I didn’t really perform or put on a proper show like most people who tour. My tour was just a name for a bunch of trips to see friends and family, encapsulated in a “tour book” that everyone had to sign as a memory-keeper for my travels. But when you hype and promote the hell out of something – no matter how trivial or insignificant – it sometimes turns into something more.
Eyes,
hair,
mouth,
figure ~
Dress,
voice,
style,
movement…
In those days I was running, trying to get away from the boys who didn’t like me and the girls I could never like enough. At the time it didn’t dawn on me that when you run away from one thing you inexorably run toward something else. In this case it was an idea of the person I most wanted to be – the fascinating, charming, enthralling character I had so much trouble expressing but wanted so badly to believe was within. It always came out wrong.
Hands,
magic,
rings,
glamour ~
Face,
diamonds,
excitement,
image…
The idea of a tour was pure fantasy and make-believe. That my friends supported and believed in it as well is a testament to them. That they stuck by me through the histrionics and tantrums, when my only way of self-preservation and survival was a vicious form of vanity, has been one of the greatest blessings of my life.
It was all I could do to put on a brave face for the world. In my costumes and couture was the armor that would shield me from injury. I thought that the sparkle of a sequin and the quill of a feather could penetrate the most otherwise-apathetic heart. I was hell-bent on not being ignored, even if that meant being grotesque.
I came from the people, they need to adore me
So Christian Dior me from my head to my toes
I need to be dazzling, I want to be Rainbow High
They must have excitement, and so must I…
If the world wouldn’t give me the time of day freely, I would demand it – and I would be ruthless about it to the point of arrogance and haughty defiance. I wanted it to come across as confidence – and in all fairness much of the time it did. The ploy was working. No matter how inwardly wracked with insecurity I may have been, I knew I could put on a smart coat, down a dry martini, and carry myself with grandeur.
I’m their product, it’s vital you sell me
So Machiavell me, make an Argentine Rose
I need to be thrilling, I want to be Rainbow High
They need their escape, and so do I…
Yes, I needed an escape, whether real or imagined. I needed love and adoration, and if I couldn’t find it from one person I’d find it in another. And another. And another…
The excitement came in ways I didn’t always invite. In catering to those who weren’t the least bit interested, I inadvertently crafted a persona that gained notice and admirers almost as an afterthought. In trying to impress one person who couldn’t give two shits, I ended up attracting the attention of three onlookers. But all I ever felt was the absence of affection from the very people whose love I wanted most. I was still alone.
All my descamisados expect me to outshine the enemy
I won’t disappoint them!
I’m their savior, that’s what they call me
So Lauren Bacall me, anything goes
To make me fantastic, I have to be Rainbow High
In magical colors…
From the lofty air of hotel balconies to the trundle of a night train, I traversed the world. A rickety jeep boldly navigated the treacherous roads of the mountains in the Philippines, carrying me to the place where my father was born. A steep tram pulled me up to a high peak overlooking Hong Kong where I had my first taste of dragon-hair candy. An enormous ship sailed me from Wales to Ireland, where I dangled upside-down to kiss the Blarney Stone.
It was the tour of a lifetime. Never again would I have such freedom to travel so far, and I made the most of it with the pomp and circumstance befitting royalty.
You’re not decorating a girl for a night on the town
And I’m not a second-rate queen getting kicks with a crown!
Next stop will be Europe!
The Rainbow’s gonna tour, dressed up, somewhere to go
We’ll put on a show…
It was over-the-top, over-blown, and completely out of proportion with the reality of the situation. But that’s what got me through. At some point the fantasy of it all bled into reality, bolstering what little faith I actually had in myself and coalescing into the living character I was becoming.
It was the little engine that could all over again, and the power of words, of hype, of an image that floated so mightily above everything, was enough to carry the insecure shell of a wisp that only I knew was there.
A belief in oneself, however misguided, can work wonders for the soul – and sometimes, if you’re lucky, you can keep the act going long enough to make it come true.
Look out, mighty Europe
Because you ought to know what you’re gonna get in me
Just a little touch of
Just a little touch of
Argentina’s brand of star quality.
On the screen, I watched Madonna as Eva Peron traversing the world on her own Rainbow Tour. Such a little lady, commanding such enormous power, yet so much of her life was lived alone. True, she had a husband, and the affection of an entire nation, but in the moments when it counted – when she laid her head down on her pillow at night – she was alone. Even when surrounded by mobs of people, jostled along in the busy day of a living icon, she was by herself.
Right then, my heart ached a little for Ms. Peron, a little for Madonna, and a little for myself.
Song #51: ‘Rainbow High’ – Late Fall 1996/Winter 1997
27
September
2011
No comments
September
2011
‘Next Fall’ at the Speakeasy Stage – Theater Review
A far cry from the last feel-good production I saw put on by the SpeakEasy Stage Company (that would be the rollicking good-time of ‘The Drowsy Chaperone’), ‘Next Fall’ is a very serious play that resonates with several particularly-timely subjects – yet it is just as expertly-done, and haunts in a more provocative manner. At its heart, it is a play about the difficult reconciliation between religion and homosexuality, and it also touches on family relations, the question of faith, and the simple (or not so simple) meaning of love. If it sounds like a lot, it is – but somehow the ensemble cast reins it in with impeccably-rendered performances.
Nominated for a Tony for Best Play in 2010, ‘Next Fall’ by Geoffrey Nauffts is compellingly of-the-moment, especially given these religiously-fanatic times. A Bible makes it way around to each of the characters – sometimes instilling comfort, sometimes inciting anger, sometimes invoking sadness – and it becomes its own central character, embodying the idea of religion, and all notions of good and bad. Any sort of judgment one way or another is wisely avoided, and the lingering ambivalence over the real role of religion and faith in the characters’ lives remains powerfully unresolved.
Directed by Scott Emriston, the production keeps its pace, owing in part to several ingenious set design shifts (Scenic Designer Janie Howland) and quick costume changes (Costume Design by Carlos Aguilar). Most effective may be the lighting (courtesy of Lighting Designer Karen Perlow), which somehow manages to differentiate between a cold hospital waiting room and a warm personal apartment, seemingly at the flip of a switch.
There are a few minor quibbles. A quick drug-addiction scene comes out of nowhere and ends up in the same place, and at times it does feel like there are too many things going on when a closer, more detailed examination of the bigger issues at hand might have proved better, but the strength of the ensemble pulls it all together. Not one of the actors uses broad strokes to fill their character, and their subtle, natural nuances keep things grounded on a credible level. There’s not a weak-link in the bunch. Taken as a whole, they add up to a powerful night of theater.
26
September
2011
No comments
September
2011
The Madonna Timeline: Song #50 ~ Celebration ~ Summer 2009
{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.}
The summer of 2009 was the last summer before I got married. While I didn’t feel the need to sow any wild oats, it did not go unnoticed that technically this would be the last single summer of my life. My feet weren’t cold, but they were contemplative. Into this delicate time – and summer does have a way with swinging moods – Madonna released her third greatest hits package, ‘Celebration’, including a brand new title-track. The iPod has shifted to that club-ready song, and so we go back to two years ago…
I think you wanna come over,
Yeah I heard it through the grapevine,
Are you drunk or you sober?
Think about it, does it matter?
And if it makes you feel good then I say do it,
I don’t know what you’re waiting for…
My old friends from Cornell – the original College Ave. Crew – had planned a reunion in Ithaca, rented home and everything. As a sometimes-honorary guest (I was once told that my photo appeared on more end-of-the-year graduation slide-shows than some who had actually attended Cornell), I was invited to join in the fun, but I was hesitant. All but one had married and had kids (keep the faith, Chris) and a house with six kids ranging from two to five years of age was not my idea of an even tolerable time. But Suzie and Chris persisted, and I went against my better judgment and agreed. (Case #18465 in which I was right and should have listened to my instincts.) Andy didn’t want to go, so we had a bit of a fight about it, and I left – alone and in a foul mood – for Ithaca.
I arrived at the house first, and the family renting to us was trying to locate their cat that was missing. The first strike – a cat in the house. For someone deathly allergic to cats, this did not bode well. At long last they managed to find the thing, cage it up, and went on their merry way, leaving me alone in a large Victorian. The wood everywhere was dark, the recesses were dim, and even on the sunny day it seemed to suck a bit of cheer from the world. I love a Victorian home – especially around the holidays – but summers suffer there. Even Suzie’s childhood home – as much as I loved it – was a darker place in the summer.
When faced with the inevitable onslaught of kids and parents, and an atmosphere to which I was decidedly unaccustomed to say the least, I did what any adult would do to hang onto a shred of sanity: I fixed myself a very stiff drink. And then another. And then another. And possibly, though memory doesn’t serve, another.
Feel my temperature rising,
There’s too much heat, I’m gonna lose control.
Do you want to go higher?
Get closer to the fire?
I don’t know what you’re waiting for…
By the time my friends arrived, kids in tow, I had managed to take a bit of the edge off, but it was too late. I was gone, and hadn’t eaten a thing. For an all-too-brief moment, we settled in and had a very good time, but then it was time to puke – all over the bottom bunk bed in my room. (Oh, did I not mention I was staying in a bunk bed?) Anyway, after I lost my liquid lunch there, Chris decided against the top bunk for the rest of the weekend, sleeping on the couch (poor thing) right in the line of early-to-rise children. I was too sick, and embarrassed, to do much else but sleep into the next day.
The crew headed into campus that morning, while I stayed behind to clean up the mess I made, find some new bedding, and vainly try to air out the stuffy, and now pukey, bedroom on the third floor. The day was hot, but brighter than before, and the sun drifted in through the open windows, lightening the house a bit in spite of all the dark wood. I relaxed a little in the quiet. The importance of time alone impressed itself upon my mind, and I was grateful for the solitude.
Soon they would return, and ask me to join them for lunch, but I wasn’t ready. A bit of shame was at work – both for my behavior, and the fact that I was there without my fiancé. I just wasn’t entirely comfortable, even if they were some of my closest friends, so I declined lunch, and walked down to Ithaca Commons on my own.
Come join the party – yeah!
Cause anybody just won’t do
Let’s get this started – yeah!
Cause everybody wants to party with you…
Suzie called a little while later, asking if everything was all right. I told her I needed some alone time, but would be back for an early dinner. I walked around the Commons a bit more, ducking into incense shops and hand-made jewelry stands, watching how other groups interacted with one another. I have often wondered whether this is my lot in life – to watch from a distance. It lessened the risk of humiliation. It was safer, if lonelier, and sometimes safety is better than risk, even when the risk pays off. Too many times I would have traded in the pay-off for the calm. The reward of the steady and true may not be as flashy or exciting, but it is often more profound.
I walked back up to the house, where some of the kids and their parents were playing and relaxing on the front porch. I remembered the day in 1995 when I sat on their porch on College Avenue, waiting as each of them came home from class. It was the Spring then – both of season, and of our lives. We were just beginning. Fourteen years later, it was Summer, and the sun slanted down on a perfectly lovely afternoon.
They were ordering a Korean feast and I was finally ready to eat. As everyone sat around the large kitchen table, laughing and remembering, amid the noise of kids rushing by, I felt slightly more at ease, but still out of my element. It was all in my head, perhaps, but the next morning I awoke early and was the first to leave.
Boy you got a reputation
But you’re gonna have to prove it.
I see a little hesitation
Am I gonna have to show you
That if it feels right, Get on your mark,
Step to the beat, boy, that’s what it’s for…
A short time later I went back to Boston for another weekend alone. The summer still held onto its warm spell, and I walked through the night unarmed – no coat, no bag, no sartorial armor – just a pair of shorts, some flip-flops, and a T-shirt. A night wind, not much cooler, blew in from the harbor. I found myself in the downtown business district, walking by empty office buildings and closed restaurants. There is no sadder area than a business district at night.
Put your arms around me
When it gets too hot we can go outside
But for now just come here,
Let me whisper in your ear
An invitation to the dance tonight…
I skirted Chinatown, flirted with the South End, and finally made my way back to the condo along Columbus. Back in the light of the living room, there was a certain safety from myself. No matter how much you might safeguard yourself against the outside world, it’s what’s inside that always gets you in the end.
Come join the party, it’s a celebration!
Anybody just won’t do
Let’s get this started
Cause everybody wants to party with you.
In the midst of those heady weeks of my last single summer – from Ithaca to Boston and Albany in-between – I needed to be reminded that this was all supposed to be a good time ~ a celebration ~ and there was only one woman in the world who could do that for me – and she sang it out. I needed to get out of my headspace, I needed to stop over-analyzing, I needed to join the party.
And so I did.
Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?
You look familiar…
You wanna dance?
Yeah…
I guess I just don’t recognize you with your clothes on…
What are you waiting for?
Song #50: ‘Celebration’ ~ Summer 2009
24
September
2011
No comments
September
2011
My Own Private Spa
Following my amazing virgin spa experience at the Washington Mandarin Oriental, I set about to re-create the peace and calm in my own home, with relative success. For me, it was all about mind-set, and if you can mentally calm yourself, you’re already there. The proper atmosphere helps, and here’s how I set about it:
Dim the lights (it helps if you have dimmers – however, when I do this in Boston a few glowing candles does just the trick, and sometimes it’s even better that way – the dancing of the light is a soothing visual, the waves of flickering beams bathing the walls, catching in the falling droplets.) By dim, I mean dim – lower than you think you want to go. The point is to make your eyes have to adjust. You want the pupils to dilate, to go as big as possible, to take in all of the little light.
Set up a big fluffy towel and your favorite robe for easy access when it’s time to dry off. As much as I enjoy an outrageous ostrich-feather-&-velvet number, for spa moments I find it nicer to use a simple waffle-weave or fresh terry cloth robe. The goal is simplicity – to clear the body and the mind.
Turn the shower on hot, hotter than you’re accustomed to. It’s important to get a healthy wall of steam around you. It should blanket the mirrors and the shower door/curtain, surrounding you with a cloud, obscuring the clarity and the light. (I don’t do baths, but I imagine the same principles would apply if you prefer them.)
The result should be a little womb-like space – dark and warm and pulsating with heat and fluid. Your own little cocoon, wrapping you with filaments of soap and water. Speaking of soap, this is of paramount importance: find something you really like, with a focus on the fragrance. My taste is all over the map – depending on the mood it runs from green tea to pepper to neroli to mint to lavender – and there are so many variations and combinations that you only need to look to find something you enjoy.
In the background, I like to have some music softly playing – preferably something ambient and light, with subtle Eastern influences. Classical is always a peaceful standby, as are solo instruments – guitar or piano or harp. The point is to find something that makes you relax – something without lyrics or a driving dance beat. (It’s the one time even a Madonna ballad is out-of-place; the music should be colorless and for background purposes only. Once you bring words into it, the magic dispels.)
With the scene set and the preparations made (doing it all before you begin is part of what makes the experience so relaxing) there’s no clumsy search for a towel as you traipse a trail of water across the floor, no frantic cursing for forgetting the shampoo or washcloth. Take your time. Slow your breathing. Relax and go easy. At first, this may be the most difficult part of the whole thing, and my mind usually races with the thoughts and worries of the day, until I focus on the simple tasks at hand – the soap, the shampoo, the lather, the sound of the water, the comfort of the heat. Soon, the mind clears, the body relaxes, the tension dissipates. It’s a discipline, in a certain sense, but one that ultimately gives way to a soothing calmness, if you let it.
[For those who worry about the hot water and energy expense involved, I believe that if you keep your regular showers to five minutes, a little indulgence and a lengthier, hotter shower experience once a week or so won’t do any more damage than has already been done to the environment. A little pampering is worth more for my peace of mind than just about anything else.]
23
September
2011
No comments
September
2011
From Briefs to Boxers
Most guys (straight guys at least) don’t change their underwear style too often. They find something that they like and stick with it – forever. I’m not that way. I’ve been known to change up my underwear hourly if the situation arises (don’t ask). In the last few years, though, I have seen subtle patterns in my underwear-wearing emerge, mostly due to the seasonal variations of the Northeast. I hadn’t really noticed until I started getting into the boxer briefs this week and then it dawned on me. From now until the winter, there will be a gentle transition from briefs to boxer briefs to regular boxers.
The main difference between briefs and boxers is a delicate differentiation in comfort and temperature. I liken it to the distinction between gloves and mittens. Gloves, while form-fitting and tight to the skin, are actually less warm than mittens in the winter. The same principle seems to apply to briefs – which seems at odds with what most people might think. I find that boxers – like mittens – are a bit warmer. Body heat and humidity get to move around a bit, instead of being whisked away by the capillary action of fabric fibers close to the skin.
Yes, this is a shoddy bit of science, probably none of it true – but mind over matter. And, as always, style over substance. As long as my underwear matches my outfit, I’m happy. Onward to the boxers!
21
September
2011
No comments
September
2011
Who’s Keeping Anderson Cooper Honest?
Dear Anderson Cooper – You don’t know me, and while I knew of you, I had never seen any of your work prior to your viral giggling fit, which, I’ll admit, won me over. (For that silly reason alone, I got tickets to see your talk show.) I’m more aware of you from your cat-and-mouse game of dodging the gay question – which is entirely your right to do, but after seeing your show in person yesterday, I think it might behoove you to come out – if only for your own happiness.
I read somewhere that I wasn’t supposed to give anything away about the show before it aired, but since the topic was of no interest to me, I’m not going to reveal anything about that or who might have been on it (I didn’t know them anyway). Having never attended any other talk shows, I don’t really know how they work, but I got the distinct impression that you didn’t really want to be there. Much of the time you were short, quick, and almost testy with the crew. You seemed to be going through the motions, and there was an unhappiness and complete lack of joy in what you were doing, which begs the question: Why?
I get the feeling that you’re trying to be both things at once – the serious, hard news reporter, as well as the likable, friendly, my-life-is-an-open-Oprah-book-of-the-month talk show host – and you can’t really do that successfully – at least, you’re not doing it yet, and I wonder at the reason for it. Any sort of reticence to get personal or revelatory will be seen as disingenuous. The fact that you just showed an episode of yourself crying and discussing your brother’s suicide with your Mom shows that you can get personal and still maintain a professional stance, so your reluctance to address your sexuality is a sticking point with me, played out almost comically as Britney Spears blasts over the studio speakers and the seats fill with middle-aged women and young gay men. There’s no nobility in cowering behind the reporter’s visage, not when you have a talk show on which you’re revealing the personal side of your life.
Through the windows of the set, I can see flocks of birds flying over the backdrop of Central Park, and their freedom seems a tragic juxtaposition against yours. You suddenly seem to me a man who’s trapped – caged in that metal-and-glass backed set overlooking Columbus Circle, frantically running up into the audience for one last question that was actually just a gift: a ragged-looking woman in gold pleather gives you a rosary and a plastic vial of holy water – the significance of which no one seems quite able, or willing, to grasp. I don’t know what you made of the present – was it her effort to save you from a certain unnamed lifestyle? A simple, genuine gift of faith? A public push to accept Jesus Christ as your one and only savior? You received it graciously before literally running off the set with a wave, on to save the world in more important arenas perhaps.
When I return home that night, I turn on your AC360 show on CNN, where you are more formal in jacket and tie. You open by reporting on another suicide due to bullying – a 14-year-old child has killed himself after being bullied for his sexuality. It is not the first time you have drawn worthy attention to the issue, even if means being ridiculously perceived as pushing a “gay agenda†– and that’s admirable of you – but it’s not enough.
You talk of the loneliness and desperation and how heartbreaking it is. You showed the video that the boy – Jamey Rodemeyer – made for the ‘It Gets Better’ project – and I wait for some flicker of whether this is personal to you. There are some things that only another gay person who has been through that fear can understand and access. Is that you? Are you one of us?
How sad that this dead child – this 14-year-old boy who was brave enough to be himself at such young age, to put his life in danger and ultimately take it himself – has done more for gay youth than you have done. Make no mistake, you have done a lot in your own way – just not that one final admittance of truth, that one simple act that might make all the difference.
You continue to publicly crusade against bullying, yet your very act of playing it coy and private with your own sexuality doesn’t seem to be saying that it’s okay for young people to be gay or for their mothers (who adore you) to embrace them. I’ve seen those mothers gush over you on FaceBook and Twitter and now in your own studio, and I know the power you have.
Maybe you’re afraid to offend and lose viewers. Maybe you honestly feel it is none of anyone’s business and it shouldn’t make a difference. And maybe you’re right on all points – but if there’s the slightest chance that it might help someone, why wouldn’t you do it?
When I was a kid growing up in the 80’s, my only gay idols were Liberace and Rock Hudson. While the former enticed with his glittery extravagance and the latter had lots of luminous lady co-stars, in the end they were two sad, scared souls who had to hide from the world and die more or less alone. That’s all I had to look up to. In aPeople magazine story on Liberace, I searched for a sign of recognition, desperate to discover whether that would one day be me. Was the only way through a life like theirs an early death of secrecy and disease? It would be another decade before I could even face the fact that I was gay.
Far more resonant than “Stop the bullying†or “It Gets Better†would have been the intrinsic message of solidarity and acknowledgement in a hero’s proclamation of “I am like youâ€. That would have done more to drive away the loneliness I felt than any sort of pat on the back or other protection would have engendered. By leaving us without that, you fail in all your other efforts.
If I’d only seen someone like you – someone successful, someone I admired – living openly as a gay man – how much heartache and loneliness would that have prevented? How many other kids might be saved, if not from death then possibly from pain? Why wouldn’t you come out to help just one person, or save just one life? Knowing the hurt and anguish that a single extinguished soul can leave, why wouldn’t you take that chance?
19
September
2011
No comments
September
2011
The Madonna Timeline: Song #49 ~ 4 Minutes ~ Spring 2008
{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.}
Come on boy,
I been waiting for somebody to pick up my stroll,
Well, don’t waste time, give me a sign,
Tell me how you want to roll.
I want somebody to speed it up for me then take it down slow,
There’s enough room for both,
Well, I can handle that, you just gotta show me where it’s at,
Are you ready to go?
It’s hard to believe that it’s been over three years since Madonna released a proper studio album. It’s one of her longer stretches, and I believe it’s been due to her touring schedule (the ‘Sticky & Sweet’ show was a two-parter) and her directorial duties on her upcoming movie. Usually after an absence like this she comes back big – witness ‘Like A Prayer’ following her Broadway run in ‘Speed-the-Plow’, and ‘Ray of Light’ in the aftermath of ‘Evita’. Both were stunning examples of her musical relevance and prowess, and with Lady Gaga stealing much of the musical thunder on the last few years, Madonna does have a little something to prove. ‘Hard Candy’ was fine for what it was – though in retrospect it was mostly her riding on her laurels and employing the hit-makers of the moment to give her some up-to-date credibility. It didn’t fail spectacularly, but it wasn’t a highpoint in her musical career.
I do, however, happen to like the next song on the iPod ~ ‘4 Minutes’ ~ the lead-off single to the whole ‘Hard Candy’ experience. Musically I’ve never been a huge fan of Timbaland or Justin Timberlake, but Madonna has a way of making all her collaborators fit her style – even if she has to expend her range to make it work. For ‘4 Minutes’ she does just that – sharing billing for a lead-off single – a sign both of humility as much as clever zeitgeist calculation. With its pounding bass and blasting horns, it was a new sound for Madonna, but it seemed that she was just playing a bit of catch-up with the musical scene.
Madonna doesn’t usually fare well in duets – in fact, most of her rumored duets never get off the demo ground – and this is probably a blessing. (Anyone who’s heard her work with Britney Spears can attest.) The only way it succeeds is when she subverts her partner to the point where itÃs really a Madonna song with a featured performer, as was the case with ‘Take A Bow’ and Babyface, and, in some respects, ‘4 Minutes’, though she clearly is giving Timberlake greater billing than anyone else ever got.
Though it’s a bit of a lyrical muddle, the music is engaging enough, and it’s good to hear a beat that matches the cumulative power of Madonna. That thundering intro was used to great effect when she performed the song on her Sticky and Sweet Tour – the lights were lowered and it felt like Armageddon approaching.
As for the video, there’s a bit too much Shakira-hair and flesh-colored corsetry for my taste, and not enough plot-line or interaction with Mr. Timberlake to make it truly interesting. It’s almost as if they thought the pairing was enough, and by some accounts it is – particularly when you take into account the fact that Madonna normally doesn’t pair off with stars of equal, or even close, magnitude. (Most of her romantic co-stars in videos are relative unknowns.)
The song itself may prove as forgettable too. In the ensuing years, it has not held up as well as some of her others, attributable in part to its of-the-moment sound and production. It’s a fate that belies much of her work – but she usually manages to make one or two songs on each album that are so classic that they carry her through. I’m not sure if ‘4 Minutes’ was enough.
The road to hell is paved with good intentions,
But if I die tonight, at least I can say
I did what I wanted to do.
Tell me how about you?
Song #49: ‘4 Minutes’ ~ Spring 2008
18
September
2011
No comments
September
2011
Get A Load of These Cats – Theater Review
Have we been wrong about Cats all this time? That’s the question and challenge posed by the brilliant production currently prowling the Cohoes Music Hall. The reviews are glowing, the cast is perfection, and this incarnation defies all the jokes that have ever been made about the show. This is the Cats of the original hype, but without the inflated disappointment. It has caused more than a few of the jaded to rethink their thoughts on the material, and it stands up remarkably well 30 years after its premiere.
The first time I actually saw the show was when it was touring in the mid 80’s – we caught a performance in Toronto I believe – the most memorable part of the whole thing being the set, and my Dad’s uproarious imitation of the cats after it was all over, raising his hand like a paw and cracking me and my brother up. He was, to say the least, not impressed, but I didn’t hate it with the gleeful animosity that most people did. In fact, I felt none of the disdain that so many theater snobs seemed to take such joy in expelling. It wasn’t the second-longest running show on Broadway for no reason – there are some decent songs (courtesy of Andrew Lloyd Webber) and some incredible choreography. However, with all the hype of its premiere I think most people went into it expecting some sort of miracle transcendental moment – and this isn’t that kind of show. The power of Cats lies in its performance – in the energetic trooping of its hoofers and a power ballad or two. There is a weak storyline of journeying to the Heaviside Layer, and as much anthropomorphic meaning as you wish can be read into the evening’s festivities, but above all this is about song and dance.
Under the expert direction and choreography of Jacob Brent (who performed in both the Broadway and London productions of the original show), that song and dance is given a gorgeous whirl that majestically captures the graceful movements of the dancers while perfectly melding them into feline form. Along with the always-excellent musical direction of Joshua Zecher-Ross, whose musicians, though few in number, completely fill the space with the necessary bombast for the rigorous dance routines, while subtly pulling out the most delicate harmonies in the quieter moments, the structure and bones of this animal are stalwartly intact. From there it growls, prances, and claws its way into the pantheon of fine performances that the Cohoes Music Hall has seen over as many years as a cat has lives. (This is the start of their ninth season.)
There are several stand-outs in a show rich with remarkable performers, most notably Tony Rivera strutting his stuff and chewing the home-turf scenery as Rum Tum Tugger (he is the very definition of charisma), Chaz Wolcott as the magical Mr. Mistoffeles (he is the embodiment of elegant electricity), John Farchione as Gus/Growltiger and Lucy Horton as Jellylorum/Griddlebone (together the essence of comedic genius). Ruthie Stephens gets the big number, ‘Memory’, and acquits herself admirably as Grizabella.
The rest of the cast is across-the-board superb, with nary a weak paw in the place. Sean Hingel as Munkustrap anchors the show with a convincingly-cat-like regal bearing, while Kelly Briggs as Old Deuteronomy adds the proper imperial note (even holding the stage focus for a cat-nap during intermission). In the end, though, it’s the company as a whole that makes the magic that carries the night – the thrilling Jellicle Ball episode unfolds with one amazing dance sequence after another, unfurling like some indefatigable wind-up toy brought to thrilling human form.
The folks at Cohoes Music Hall have a way of revitalizing new and old shows with integrity and exuberance, both of which elevate this production of Cats into a theatrical experience rich and worthy of exaltation. Go see it now, because this one won’t be around forever.
15
September
2011
No comments
September
2011
A Wedding in Washington
Some of my favorite childhood memories are of visiting our cousins in Virginia and coming into Washington, DC to see the Smithsonian museums and other landmarks. It was only on those big summer vacations that we got to see other relatives. We didn’t grow up with a lot of family around us, certainly no other Filipinos, so seeing people who looked like us and were raised like us was both a curiosity and a relief. If all you’ve ever known throughout your life is what it’s like to be different, finding a kindred person who’s been through what you’ve been through just feels good – it’s a reassurance of sorts.
The oldest of our cousins, and just a year younger than me, was Martina. She was the responsible one, the one who studied, the one who behaved and did what she was supposed to do. Not unlike the oldest in our family (ahem). But my brother and I sensed a bit of rebellion in her, so whenever we got together I think she let her good behavior slide for a bit and let loose with the rambunctious ones. We were, after all, just kids.
We met them at other family events too, usually the weddings of our older cousins – the generation slightly ahead of us. At one of those weddings the group of us kids snuck out of the reception, running across a highway to the Friendly’s across the way. It struck terror into the hearts of Aunts and Uncles who suddenly missed us for some reason, and when we returned it was to great relief and the quick call-off of a search party. Such is the stuff of kids, and Martina was always along for the ride, albeit sometimes reluctantly.
This past weekend she was the one getting married – the last of our generation to do so, as the rest have already been down that aisle. In a way, it’s the end of an era – the bittersweet final sentence in our Childhood Volumes. We’re all adults now – there’s no turning back – and I embrace it with the hesitancy of Peter Pan and the wariness of Puff the Magic Dragon.
This time around the ceremony was beautiful – as was the bride – and I’ve never seen a happier woman walking down the aisle. She positively beamed, with an unceasing smile and continual laugh as she made her way to her husband to be. The reception was another classy affair, held in one of the Ballrooms at the Mandarin Oriental, and backed by one of the most fun bands in my recent memory. In all, it was a magical evening – sealed by the traditionally-grand toast by her Dad (who has always delivered at the weddings of his children).
As the night closed on the wedding, and our weekend in Washington, I looked out over the Potomac, at the glowing pillars of the Jefferson Memorial – ghostly and pale in the midst of all the darkness. It would be difficult to go back. It always was.
