Author Archives: Alan Ilagan

10
May
2010
Tags: Andy, Boston, Gay Marriage, General
1 comment

Our Wedding, Part 2: The Rehearsal Dinner

My search for the perfect pink jacket from Brooks Brothers paid off, as did the matching tie and Ted Baker shoes, but perhaps even more fortuitous was Andy’s selection. He surprised me with this bright cross between fuchsia and aubergine. I would never have thought of pairing it with pink, but it worked wondrously well.

Once dressed, we awaited the arrival of our guests.

Our wedding party was a small, intimate one, made up of the people who meant the most to us: my parents, Andy’s Dad and sister Karen, our “Aunt” Elaine, my “matron-of-honor” Suzie, and our officiant, Chris.

We gathered in the suite before heading downstairs to The Bar for a pre-dinner cocktail.

The Bar is a traditional old-Boston affair, with dark wood, tufted chairs and chintz banquettes. We occupied a corner beneath a few ancient oil paintings, where a smartly-dressed waiter brought us sidecars, and Suzie fortified herself for her rehearsal dinner speech.

Then it was time for dinner. Andy and I chose the Top of the Hub as a fun way to begin, and a good introduction to the whole city of Boston beneath us.

The food was excellent, and we have to thank Andy’s father Tom and sister Karen for an amazing dinner, matched only by the breathtaking view. (In a fun semi-celebrity side-note, Michelle Kwan was having dinner at the table behind us, though no one other than me knew, or cared, that it was her. Figure skating is a real sport, people, and she is a two-time Olympian…)

Suzie gave a lovely speech as only she could, and then it was time for her and Chris to whisk me away for one final evening of bachelorhood.

{To be continued…}

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10
May
2010
Tags: Andy, Boston, Gay Marriage, General
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Our Wedding, Part 1: The Arrival & Accommodations

Andy and I in front of our home, just prior to departing for Boston.

This was our suite at the Taj Hotel. Originally, the Taj was the Ritz Carlton, and it looks over the Boston Public Garden, the site of our ceremony. We selected it because our wedding was somewhat inspired by E. B. White’s The Trumpet of the Swan.

It was the perfect place – understated elegance, classical style, and impeccable service. There was a handwritten-note wishing us well during our special stay, and a tray of fruit and cheeses arrived along with a bottle of red wine.

This is the bedroom, with its king-size bed and windows looking out onto Newbury Street (actually, right across our floor was the Men’s floor of Burberry, but for once I had other things on my mind.) Each night there was a turn-down service, including a couple of chocolates. (I think Andy’s going to have to provide this when we return home.)

One of the things I notice most about a hotel is its use of flowers. A minor thing, I know, but one that has a major impact on me. Out of all the hotels we searched, the Taj always had an outstanding floral display in the lobby.

Peonies, hydrangeas and roses – two of my favorites and one of Andy’s.

Single peonies don’t always get all the glory their double cousins do, but they have more interesting colors, like this coral beauty, which glows perfectly beside an amber lamp.

More peonies were in store for us, but before that it was time to dress for The Rehearsal Dinner.

{To be continued…}

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06
May
2010
Tags: Fashion, Gay Marriage
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The Rehearsal Dinner Outfit

Pink Jacket by Brooks Brothers. Pink striped tie by Robert Graham.

Pink shoes by Ted Baker.

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06
May
2010
Tags: Fashion, Gay Marriage
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The Wedding Shoes

These are but two of the pairs I’ll be wearing this weekend. (Because pink goes good with green.)

There’s also a pair of black wingtips that I’ll wear to dinner at Mistral.

The lime green moccasins were purchased over fifteen years ago, and are serving as the ‘something old’ every bride needs.

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06
May
2010
Tags: General
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The Wedding Luggage

Louis Vuitton Keepall 50 courtesy of Andy, Christmas 2009.

Rowallan pieces courtesy of Dr. & Mrs. Ilagan, Wedding 2010.

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04
May
2010
Tags: Andy
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Long Ago, Not So Far Away

How do you measure almost ten years together? And how do you find perspective on that time? I’m not one to look back very often (though this website is where that usually happens), so it’s difficult to encapsulate the time that Andy and I have been together in one post, or even a year of posts. But I was just thinking about all that has happened since we met, and that gives a brief hint of our time together. Here’s a list of some of those markers:

I met Andy before I got my first digital camera (he’s actually the one who gave it to me).

I met Andy before the World Trade Center was attacked.

I met Andy before he lost his Mom.

I met Andy before I lost my Uncle and Grandmother.

I met Andy before I got my first cel phone.

I met Andy before George W. Bush became President.

I met Andy before I met any friends (or anyone for that matter) in Albany (he introduced me to many of them).

I met Andy before the Red Sox ended their World Series drought.

I met Andy before I had a car.

I met Andy before ‘N Sync and the Backstreet Boys had disbanded, back when they were selling millions of albums.

I met Andy before you could send photos on your cell phone.

I met Andy before the iPod was released.

I met Andy before YouTube was created.

I met Andy before American Idol began airing.

I met Andy before Wicked debuted on Broadway.

I met Andy before any of my friends got married.

I met Andy before any of my friends had children.

I met Andy before Madonna released Music in 2000.

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03
May
2010
Tags: Flowers, Gardening
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A Beautiful Pair

When Andy and I first bought our home eight years ago, one of the first things I planted was a climbing hydrangea. White Flower Farm once featured the vine on the back of its Spring catalog and I was completely enchanted by its form. They had it growing along an old stone wall, and showed it in full, glorious bloom. I didn’t dare attempt to plant one against my parents’ white brick house, but once I had my own backyard I nestled one in against a towering pine tree with a thick trunk. It was a tiny thing, maybe a foot tall at the most, and it looked so small against the mighty pine. Part of me thought it wouldn’t make it through one winter, but I gave it some manure and hoped for the best.

Then the wait began. Like many vines, the climbing hydrangea more or less adheres to an old vine-rhyme: The first year it sleeps, the second year it creeps, the third year it leaps. Luckily, patience is one of my virtues, and though visitors looked at me oddly when I excitedly pointed out the little creeper beside a monstrous pine, I knew one day it would reward me for waiting.

Each year I added another layer of manure and mulch to the growing mound surrounding the vine, and slowly that vine inched upward. Religiously, I watered through the dry summer spells, and gently redirected wayward shoots back against the bark of the pine. By its fifth year, it was taller than me, and had wound its way around the entire circumference of the tree.

About that time it also started to flower – delicate cream-colored lace-caps that were sweetly scented with the essence of summer. The fragrance was a complete surprise. There had been nothing in the literature about it, and I assumed that, like most hydrangeas, there was no fragrance to speak of, but suddenly there it was, intoxicating the bees and everyone else who happened by.

Today, the vine towers above all, reaching upwards of thirty feet (about half-way up the sky-high pine tree that has happily provided an anchor for it all these years) and it’s still growing higher. It cloaks the ancient bark of the pine with an elegant skirt of bright green leaves that retain their luster and color throughout the season, before brightening the Fall with a final blaze of yellow. They have helped each other – the pine providing an expansive length of sturdy support and the hydrangea lending the worn, dull bark a bit of colorful glamour (and the jolt of manure-fueled nourishment that would otherwise be missing). I can’t imagine one without the other, and together they make a beautiful pair.

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01
May
2010
Tags: Gay Marriage
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Why I’m Not A Bridezilla

Let’s face it: you expected me to be. I think even Andy, as well as he knows me, harbored a few not-so-secret fears that I would turn into some crazed bride-to-be, power-hungry with a sense of bridal entitlement that pushed reason, manners, and simple human decency aside. He all but banned the ‘Bridezillas’ show from our home out of concern that I would be influenced by the bad behavior exhibited there.

I’ll admit that it’s a fair assumption for people to think I could slip easily into Bridezilla mode. I’ve certainly thrown my fair share of tantrums over the years, had many a diva moment, and perfected a drive for perfectionism and precision that has baffled friends. (Case in point: Suzie noticed my first-ever typo in an e-mail message this past month – the first one in seventeen years of sending e-mail messages to her.) But as that e-mail slip-up attests, I’ve grown much more relaxed in the last ten years, so the idea of turning into a Bridezilla at this stage of the game just seems too exhausting to entertain. (It takes an exorbitant amount of energy to stage a proper conniption.)

For those that really know me, this should come as no surprise. The really important and meaningful events of my life have never been heralded with fanfare and over-the-top production – they’re quiet, shared by a few, and silently emboldened by the very privacy that surrounds and protects them. I’ll save the hype and hoopla for silly parties and projects, but not my wedding.

So for those expecting a show, I’m afraid I’m going to disappoint… at least until the reception party. In the meantime, there’s always WEtv.

{Photographs of my wedding raincoat. Just in case…}

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23
April
2010
Tags: Boston
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The Final Days of a Single Man

I’m heading out for one last weekend in Boston before the wedding, to finalize a dinner spot and to celebrate a friend’s birthday. It is my final official weekend in the city as a single man, but as friends have rightfully pointed out, nothing much is going to change. It turns out I’ve spent the last ten years free as a bird, and marrying Andy is only going to add a few diamonds and some platinum.

So many people start dating someone and then suddenly become a package instead of an individual. Andy and I have maintained our individual pursuits and lives while being in a committed relationship, and we wouldn’t have it any other way. I always need reminding that I’m lucky in this respect – I tend to forget that a lot of people don’t have such freedom and trust. They give it up willingly in the good instances, not so willingly in the bad. I’ve never had to choose, and I’d never be able to be with someone who made me.

This weekend will be a throwback to my bachelor days in Boston, complete with a night that’s starting off with cocktails at the condo to celebrate my friend JoAnn’s birthday. Things glow differently now that we’re sliding toward the upper side of our thirties, but I think we get a little better as each year passes. No matter how far apart we live or how much time passes between visits, my friendship with JoAnn has only grown richer and stronger over the years. We’ve had many memorable adventures, and we’re looking to add a new chapter this weekend.

As for my last remaining days as a single man, this journey is just beginning…

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10
April
2010
Tags: Boston
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A Spring Weekend in Boston

Andy and I spent an enjoyable weekend in Boston finishing up the last of our wedding preparations. We arrived to a city ensconced in a rain and wind storm, to which both of our umbrellas succumbed before the night blew it out of town.

The next morning dawned with the wind, but the sun soon took over, and I plucked this potent Korean spice viburnum blossom, which filled the bedside table with its fragrance.

We took a brief excursion through the Boston Public Garden just before stopping by Shreve, Crump and Low to try on my wedding ring and see if Andy liked one for himself.

Now we have two, and the only thing left to do is get married.

The whole city appears to have blossomed after the rain, and flowering trees lined our every step.

The cherry blossoms were above us wherever we went, in soft shades of pink and white.

The pink jacket I’ve been searching for proved elusive yet again, even in every single store on Newbury Street. From Ralph Lauren to Marc Jabobs to Lilly Pulitzer to Ted Baker to Neiman Marcus and Saks, nowhere was there a pink jacket to be found in the city of Boston. And so dusk fell…

I think a Spring evening in Boston is one my favorite moments in life, and for some reason always puts me in the mind of Gatsby.

“At the enchanted metropolitan twilight I felt a haunting loneliness sometimes, and felt it in others – poor young clerks who loitered in front of windows waiting until it was time for a solitary restaurant dinner – young clerks in the dusk, wasting the most poignant moments of night and life.” ~ F. Scott Fitzgerald

Andy and I walked through the South End, stopping for a couple of cookies, then made our way back home. The next time we’ll be in Boston will be for our wedding.

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23
March
2010
Tags: Music
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The Girl I Almost Married

{This forgotten gem by Tiffany (‘Could’ve Been’ – her second of two hits) wasn’t out until the end of the following recollection, but it’s a reminder of my childhood, and seems fitting here – ignore the cheesy video and just listen to the music – not that that isn’t cheesy in and of itself, but you get the idea – and it was the 80’s after all…}

Her name was Rachael. We met in Mrs. Green’s first grade class at R.J. McNulty Elementary School. She had beautiful naturally-blonde hair that was always shiny and clean. She wore matching clothes that must have been selected by her Mom (as mine were). We sat together at lunch, where she introduced me to the revelation of sour-cream-and-onion potato ships. She always gave me the cheese off her pizza too. (For some reason I hadn’t yet acquired a taste for pizza, just the cheese.) We were inseparable at recess and anytime the class was free to choose partners or scatter into groups. I think Rachael was the first girl who had a crush on me, and like many of my crushes, I was completely oblivious.

She had a neighbor, Ryan, who liked her a lot, and likely in that way. They had grown up together (well, if you call getting to age nine growing up…) and naturally he hated that I had won her attention, and therefore hated me. (I guess he was the first in a long line of people who would come to hate me, and I dealt with him as I’ve dealt with them all – a blind eye and a disdainful dismissal to disguise a puzzled hurt.)

I think it was during the summer after first grade that we decided to get married. We were playing at her house and it just seemed like the thing to do. Her sister would act as maid-of-honor, and Ryan, well, while I couldn’t have him as my best man, he could act as a witness (much to his chagrin). The side yard would serve as the location, beneath a vine-covered arbor. We were this close to actually going through with it (at least as close as almost-second-graders can get to being married) but for some reason we both paused and decided to wait. Oddly enough, it didn’t change our friendship.

It was adolescence that did that, and the inevitable way that most boys and girls have to stop being friends after and before a certain age, lest anyone think they “liked” each other (the bane of a boy’s existence, and the number one way to insult or embarrass someone). For that reason alone, I lost, or pretended to lose, many of my best friends who happened to be girls. (How odd that back then I was trying to hide my relationship with a girl while flaunting my friendships with boys.)

But Rachael was undaunted, and we went out to Pizza Hut and High Rollers (again, it was the 80’s and roller skating was big). I was terrified that people would see us together, and at the same time scared to hurt her by saying no, so these outings were stressful on just about every level, save for the fact that she always seemed to enjoy them, and was agreeable to everything.

I played ‘Material Girl’ for her in the car as my Mom drove us to the Amsterdam Mall. (A word of advice for girls hoping to find boyfriends: if he plays Madonna (or Lady Gaga for instance) he could be your best friend, but he’ll probably never be a boyfriend.) Alas, we didn’t know that then.

She was the first of a few select girls who liked me more than I could ever like her back, and for that she will always be dear to my heart. Rachael saw something in me that was worth loving, and because she was so sweet and kind, it made me think I might actually be worthy of such love. That I could not return it fully must have wounded her deeply, as deeply as it did me.

By seventh grade, we had left McNulty behind, and with it our withered romance. Things were getting messy in our adolescence, and girls still weren’t supposed to hang out with boys unless they were dating. There was a guy in my Home Economics class (does such a class even exist anymore?) whose name was Chad. He was one of the first friends I had at Wilbur H. Lynch Middle School and he was, well, a bit of a dork. Not in the smart, nerdy, one-day-he’ll-make-millions kind of dork, just a bit of an awkward not-quite-teen whom I treated rather poorly (despite the fact that he was two times taller than me). That first week in class he confided that he liked a girl who came from McNulty, and he told me her name was Rachael. I smiled to myself, then told him he should ask her out. We always want the ones who don’t want us.

It was a few months later, I think, that Rachael and her family moved away to Florida, and I never heard from her again until yesterday when she found me through FaceBook (the modern-day detective service for lost loves). She said she wasn’t sure I’d remember her, but I did immediately. It looks like she has three beautiful children and a happy, loving family life.

Rachael, if you’re reading this, I just want to thank you for being so kind to me for all those years. Even when I didn’t deserve it (and couldn’t possibly see what it was you liked in me) you never treated me badly. I didn’t know what to do with it then – and in many ways I still don’t – but you showed me how it was never a waste to get closer to somebody, that girls can and should ask out boys, and how tasting a sour-cream-and-onion potato chip for the first time can be a life-changing experience.

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16
March
2010
Tags: Gay Marriage
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The Invitations to Our Wedding Celebration

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14
March
2010
Tags: Andy, Boston, Gay Marriage
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License to Wed

Andy and I spent a long weekend in Boston, MA, where we applied for our wedding license. En route to the paperwork, we passed by this auspicious sign:

Neither of us was quite sure what to expect as far as obtaining a wedding license went, particularly as we approached the monolithic cement structure of City Hall. I’ve passed it a zillion times but never entered.

We made our way to the Marriage counter, where we stood in line behind a friendly lesbian couple from New York City. (The state of New York ended up losing out on $100. in paperwork during the brief five minutes of our application process, which we were all too happy to give to a neighboring state that supports our right to marry.)

After the quick and painless procedure, we made our way to Quincy Market for lunch.

The snowdrops were just beginning to bloom, and we managed to avoid rain for the entire day and night.

To celebrate, we had dinner at the Top of the Hub. Neither of us had ever been to this Boston mainstay, but it was well worth the unintentional wait, and after sampling what they had to offer, we agreed that it would be an ideal location for our wedding rehearsal dinner. I started off with the Level 52 (a martini named for the restaurant’s location on the 52nd floor of the Prudential Building, and its use of Level vodka).

Shortly after we were seated, a couple sat down at the table next to us. The girl was nicely turned out in a simple black dress, and a silver peace-sign ring on one hand betraying her age. Her companion was in a rumpled dress shirt one size too big for him, and hair in need of a little more product. I looked at Andy and asked, “Are these two people…”

“Twelve?” he finished.

Okay, they weren’t twelve, but they were not a day over eighteen years old. However, they were very well behaved, and I found it reassuring when the girl unabashedly ate three pieces of bread slathered in butter – date be damned.

On the other side of our table was a couple from Austria, who began with champagne and then had their red wine decanted by candlelight. (Among the three tables, there were three distinct levels of sophistication – and we were right smack dib in the middle.) As we finished up our dinner (swordfish for me, seared tuna for Andy), the waiter asked if we were celebrating any special event and we explained that we had just registered for our wedding license. He congratulated us both and returned with our dessert menus.

In what may have been the sweetest and most hopeful moment of the evening, the young woman next to us looked our way and offered her congratulations.

“Well, we’ve been together for nine years, so it’s really just a formality,” I said. “But thank you.”

“Even so, that’s great,” her companion said. Andy and I thanked them again.

High above Boston, the future sounded bright and simple in the eyes of a couple of kids half my age, whose poise and grace and unquestioning acceptance moved me immensely, and whose silly jewelry and wrinkled shirt would be ironed out in the next few years.

On the way out, one of my favorite flowers, the gloriosa lily, stood in a tall vase before the elevators as Andy got our coats. A glorious ending to a perfect weekend.

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01
March
2010
Tags: Fashion
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A Silk Dressing Gown/ A Defense of Fashion

I’m not usually a fan of vintage clothing (I can’t stand the smell), but once in a while I’ll delve into the second-hand shops and see what I can find. This has resulted in the acquisition of a favorite kimono from Chicago, a Jean Paul Gaultier denim jacket from Boston, and an infamous corset from San Francisco.

I was also given the beautiful vintage silk dressing gown in these photos from my friend Rob. I take it out when I need a day of decadence, and with the house-bound weather we’ve had of late, it was definitely that time. Coupled with a book, a cup of green tea, and a comfy conversation couch covered in fluffy pillows and a thick, plush blanket, it is a moment of self-indulgence. I know some may dismiss my obsession with robes and clothing as silly, so if this is you, please move on to another site.

There are a number of my friends who don’t understand my love of fashion, or why it means so much to me, and I guess when you look at it in comparison with devastating earthquakes, impending tsunamis, or even a killer killer whale, it may seem frivolous and superficial.

That said, there is a deep, profound effect that fashion can have on the world, and for me it’s the same way that beauty and art will always be an important and necessary part of humanity. It can be a brush with the sublime, and it moves me more than I could ever fully convey.

It’s just as valid as any other hobby or passion, if not more-so. It’s the way we present ourselves to the world, and a direct correlation to the respect we give to other people. Far from being a  self-centered, self-serving obsession, it’s exactly what we think those around us deserve to see. If you go around in sweats and ripped T-shirts, you must not care enough about your fellow human beings to put any effort into what they are seeing.

At its simplest, wearing something decent makes me want to be a better person. It’s something I do to impress others, to make an impact, to show that I am willing to put an effort into my appearance – and I do it as much for other people as I do for myself.

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15
February
2010
Tags: Cocktails
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Friday Night Recalled

Is there a more perfectly-designed place to watch snippets of human interaction than at a hotel bar? Sipping on a Manhattan as I wait for Chris to arrive, I am surrounded by similar creatures – a Grey Goose gimlet to my right, in the regal form of a tall lady in a fabulously-ruffled sleeveless white top and elegantly-flowing black silk pants – to my left a gentleman with a Grey Goose martini, very dry.

Another gentleman has joined the lady with the gimlet. She offers a slow, radiant smile, and a deep tender kiss on the lips. How long have they been parted, I wonder, to elicit such a reaction? He sits beside her and they kiss again, his hands caressing her bare arms. It’s sweet, and perhaps illicit. Maybe they’re both married and engaging in an affair. I want to give them the benefit of the doubt, and instead picture them on their second go-round with love. It’s the start of Valentine’s Day weekend after all.

He orders a screwdriver, with a lot of ice, and not too much orange juice. My romantic ideals for them slightly falter. Coupled with his mustache, his drink choice gives me pause. But then they kiss again, and I’m alone in a corner kissing the lips of a Manhattan. Their hands intertwine, and their talk is exuberant and breathless, if a little empty. It’s all small stuff, but for them it seems the most exciting small stuff, and I remember with sweetness the early days of every relationship, when the most mundane facts take on the most meaningful significance.

The man is saying to the woman, “I’m yours.” And I’m gagging. Now the guy on the left – dry Grey Goose martini – has been summoned by his partner (“Come sit over here,” she orders, and he complies with a lazy shrug.) As I look around, it’s become apparent that I’m the only person not paired off in a couple in the entire bar. Arms reach around shoulders, men and women lean into animated conversations, and groups of people laugh and carry on in a way that straddles precariously between touching and obnoxious.

There’s always been something that separates me from people. For a long time I thought it was the gay thing, and that surely plays its part, but it goes deeper than that, is more specific and personal than the mere biological fact of my homosexuality. I am an observer above all else, and I am keenly aware of being observed. It lends a distance to everything, especially on nights like this.

Now the woman on the right has laughed out loud and apologized to her friend – she’s reading a text. The man looks bemused but can’t disguise a definite tinge of not-quite-hidden annoyance. She doesn’t notice. They must not know each other that well, so they can be this annoyingly cute. They kiss again. It is the beginning of Valentine’s weekend, and though I am away from Andy, I am not lonely, for I know he is there, holding down the fort until I return. That is enough to construct a home within my heart, a home that is with me even when I’m the only person alone in a hotel bar.

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