Author Archives: Alan Ilagan

Johnny Be Good (& Naked)

From the moment Johnny Weir triple axeled onto the figure skating scene, I hated him. Whether it was his diva-like antics, fashion freak-outs, or temper-tantrum-throwing attitude, there was something about him that I simply didn’t like. Only after watching his new Sundance reality show did I realize the rather obvious reason for such heated hatred: he is exactly like me. Or I am exactly like him. The point is, we’re scarily similar, and such similarity has always been a turn-off for me.

In the words of one of my best friends, I can be, and often am, an insufferable little bitch. (Okay, I added the insufferable, but only because it’s true.) I’ve long ago reconciled myself to this, as has my inner circle, but the beauty is that I’m the only little bitch in said circle.

When questioned if I have a ‘type’, I always think ‘anyone different than me’ Fuck the notion of successful relationships being built on similarities. I don’t think Andy and I could be more different – what’s important, and what has made our relationship work for so many years, is the fact that we’re compatible. It’s possible to be total opposites in every way, and still get along.

It’s also the subconscious way I’ve chosen my friends over the years. A quick survey of those friends who have lasted a decade or more in my life reveals that not one is anything like me. I live with myself 24/7- why would I want to hang around a carbon copy, or even someone remotely like myself? There’s nothing attractive about that.

Which brings me back to Johnny: I thought I would rather pass a kidney stone than sit through a reality show (yuck) about a bitchy queen (double yuck).  But after watching the first episode, I was pleasantly surprised, and wildly taken aback by how much I grew to like him. Even Andy didn’t think it was a total train wreck, and actually found himself laughing at some of the familiar antics (especially those that found him in the more ridiculous clothing pieces). After the second episode, I had come to admire the flamboyant skater, for refusing to bend to ‘proper’ figure skating etiquette, and for doing it his own way.

True, he has not publicly and officially come out- but is that even necessary? The man has more sequins and furs than the entire Gabor family, and he wears Galliano underwear. With nothing but a pair of skates. How could I have ever hated someone like that?

Continue reading ...

The Formal Invitations to the Wedding Ceremony

Yesterday I finally finished the formal invitations to our wedding ceremony in Boston. This piece of hand-made paper served as inspiration for the color scheme, and the birds fit into the theme as well (being that these were also inspired by The Trumpet of the Swan by E.B. White.)

The invitation is housed in an old-fashioned hat-box, which I had to paint, re-paint, and re-paint again until I found the exact shade that worked. The top was covered in the aviary-themed paper; the bottom was fitted with a fabric pad covered in turquoise Thai silk.

Inside, the invitation itself is actually a book I made that tells the story of Andy and me. It is covered in the same paper and tied with a silk ribbon. It is printed on Watercolor paper, which was chosen for its texture, tint, and elegant-but-still-rustic simplicity. I bound the book myself, using a Japanese book-binding technique, and some perfectly-hued embroidery floss. Stamps and colored-ink were combined with traditional printing to produce the inner pages.

The book rests on a chartreuse velvet pillow (and quite a bit of practice was necessary to craft a proper circular pillow). It seems like it should be easier than it actually was – I mean, it’s just a circle, but what a difficult thing a circle is to sew.

A bit of tufting in the center and a single Swarovski crystal finished the pillow off, creating a fitting bed for a very special book.

It is easily the best invitation we will ever send out. (And fortunately also the smallest in number – only seven people will receive one. There’s simply no way I could make another.)

Continue reading ...

A High Priestess of Newbury Street

Walking along Newbury Street, I can hear the bellowing of a woman before I see her. Figuring she is just another crazy, possibly-homeless person, I keep my head down, knowing the general predilections of the crazy to gravitate towards me. The crowd parts and there she is, unmistakably confronting me head-on; oversize sunglasses hide her eyes and a mane of wild, unruly curls straggles behind her. She is staring directly at me.

“I UNDERSTAND YOUR HUSBAND IS IN TOWN” she booms in a grand, haughty, upper-crust accent. “PLEASE MAKE A NOTE!”

And then she is gone, taking with her some insanely regal bearing, and passing by with the crowd. What to make of her cryptic message, I haven’t a clue. My husband is actually not in town, nor is he even my husband yet, but being that I was en route to secure our wedding hotel, I will consider it a good omen. (As I do the appearance of this paper swan in Anthropologie.)

Continue reading ...

Last Night I Dreamt of Madonna

It’s no secret that I love Madonna, and have for about 25 years. She had me at “You’ve got style, That’s what all the girls say.” Yet within that quarter century of obsession, fanaticism, admiration, and occasional ambivalence, I’ve only dreamt of her three times.

The first was around the release of Truth or Dare – or a little afterward, in 1991. In the dream she was wearing the Dolce & Gabbana bejeweled body-stocking/corset number that she wore to the New York premiere for the movie, and she had brunette hair and smoky eyes. I forget what I said to her, but she seemed friendly and responsive to it, so it was a good dream.

The second one I can’t quite remember, but I believe it came around the time of her Reinvention Tour. I think she invited me and Andy to hang out after a show or something.

This third one was last night, and it was much more detailed and memorable. I was hanging out with Matthew Rettenmund (of Boy Culture and The Encyclopedia Madonnica fame) and we were at his house. This was both strange and fitting: strange in that I’ve never met Matt in person, fitting in that he’s the Madonna expert and go-to guy, as well as a kindred fan and admirer.

Anyway, in the dream Madonna comes into the room we’re in, and just plops herself down in a chair. Her hair is again a deep brunette, and piled in a loosely-curled mop on her head. She mentions that she has a new watch but nowhere to put it, so Matt comes out with a watch holder like they have in jewelry stores. For some reason she signs it, ‘Matt gave me this!’ with a pen, and he is giddy.

At that moment, I take out a tissue and blow my nose. “Did you just stick your fingers in your nose?” she asks.

“I used a tissue! Iâ’m not a heathen!” I reply indignantly. She is amused and laughs a little. Sensing my chance, I ask her the only question I can think of at the moment (and I know it’s lame, but itâ’s all I really want to know about right then): “So what’s the new record going to sound like?”

“I don’t know,” she says.

“Liar!” I say with a smile. She gives a little laugh.

“Seriously, I have no idea.”

And then, abruptly and too soon, the dream is over.

Continue reading ...

Fading Into Winter

While sitting in a cafe at lunch yesterday, a Mazzy Star song came on the radio ~ ‘Fade Into You’ ~ and brought me instantly back to January of 1995. At the time, I was living in a dorm room in the Usen Castle of Brandeis University (yes, a real castle, with turrets and drafts and birds in the eaves) so my forays into Boston were usually saved for weekends. I made the most of them by staying in the city until the last commuter train ran a little after midnight.

I want to hold the hand inside you
I want to take a breath that’s true
I look to you and I see nothing
I look to you to see the truth

I was in the midst of coming out to myself and to my friends, and it was a strange time – both lonely and raw and rife with possibility, hopes, and disappointment. The gentle tug of an unfurling future propelled me to seek out and explore the city streets, traversing the Back Bay area, or hopping on the T and getting out at any stop that sounded interesting. (On one subway map someone had written ‘Where the fags live’ by one of the stops. I’m sure I got off there (not sexually), but any grand expectations for love or even lust were repeatedly dashed by my ignorance of cruising, or a haunted trepidation to look back at those gentlemen who stared at me just a little too long.) Though my heart yearned for it, my head was filled with stubborn pride and a barrier of aloofness that kept me locked in my solitude.

You live your life
You go in shadows
You’ll come apart and you’ll go black
Some kind of night into your darkness
Colors your eyes with what’s not there.

On that night in January, there was a cutting wind, and a cruel dip in temperatures. Our January thaw had dissipated and all was frozen again. I bundled up with a scarf wound tightly up to my eyes and around my ears, the hood of my brother’s fleece-lined coat covering my head. In my bulky, top-heavy state, absolutely void of any sense of fashion, I felt more animal-like, and distinctly less human, and I eyed the few sleeping (dead?) homeless people who were camped outside with unenviable dread.

Fade into you
Strange you never knew
Fade into you
I think it’s strange you never knew

It was a vicious night, completely unforgiving in all its brutal aspects. Stripped bare of warmth, and even a single friend that evening, I felt emotionally barren as well, bereft of the simplest companionship, and it made the cold that much more unbearable. Loneliness is difficult in the most welcoming of climes; when coupled with an unrelenting winter night in the city, it’s debilitating. I’m not saying I felt lonely, but I was keenly aware of my solitude (which is the closest I ever came to real loneliness).

A stranger’s light comes on slowly
A stranger’s heart without a home
You put your hands into your head
And then its smiles cover your heart.

Though it’s been fifteen years since that night, I still remember it clearly. There was no one around to offer comfort or warmth, so I did my best to do it myself. Instead of the embrace of a cozy bed and the arms of a partner, I made do with an extra scarf and a tall Styrofoam cup of Dunkin Donuts coffee. Rather than a home and hearth warmed by a fireplace, I burrowed into wool socks and gloves, ducking into paper stores and galleries to escape the pursuing winter.

Fade into you
Strange you never knew
Fade into you…

I looked into crowded restaurants, peering in at people and watching how they interacted with each other. I’d listen to snippets of their conversations on the subway and commuter rail, marveling at the easy way some people had with each other, with anyone really, and wondering why I didn’t allow such simple interactions with potential friends and school-mates.

I think it’s strange you never knew,
I think it’s strange you never knew…

Looking back on that night, and those winter days, I am at a loss for the isolation I imposed upon myself. I am also grateful. It’s better to know you can be alone, and be all right with it, before you find a partner, or a lasting friend.

Continue reading ...

Last Night

On the trusted advice of a friend, I read my first John Irving book, A Prayer for Owen Meany, a few months ago. I loved it so much that I was reluctant to start another. It’s also good to have a break between books by the same author – no matter how different the content or form, there’s something stale about beginning that second book. A few months’ time is enough to break the spell, so when I spotted Irving’s latest, Last Night in Twisted River, I picked it up. (It was a spur-of-the-moment purchase as well, since I was about to see a movie alone and had nothing to read before it began. I can do anything alone as long as I have a book with me. Most people use their cel phone for safety in solitude – I’ve always relied on a book.)

It took a few tries, but eventually I got into it, and by the middle of the story I couldn’t put it down. He is indeed a masterful story-teller, and I loved how he wove a bit of what I’m assuming is his own writing process into the book. He also created another favorite character of mine (in addition to Owen Meany) – Ketchum is my new hero. Rough, tough, ornery, and prickly – he’s my kind of man, hiding a fierce loyalty and love for a few select friends.

In the book, the protagonist is an author, and one of the criticisms made about his writing is that it features such unsavory characters. The same might be said about Last Night in Twisted River, but not by me. Some of them may be hard to love, but some of us know what that’s like. The thing I admire most about Irving is his way of conveying that love through the smallest of gestures.

It’s in a fleece vest, or an oiled knife, or a dancing moose. It’s there in the most obvious places, but also in the most senseless acts of violence – the bludgeoning of a woman in the throes of passion or the self-severing of a hand. It’s not easy to find tenderness or compassion in such a harsh world, but Irving makes his heartbreaking aches a source of solace, even in the coldest Winter.

Continue reading ...

The Evolution of a Tour

Newsflash: I am not Madonna (as much as I’d like to be). Nor am I U2. And I am most definitely not the Rolling Stones. In other words, I have no business going on a Tour. So how does it happen that my sixth tour is about to begin?

A number of years ago, fifteen to be exact, I embarked upon my very first tour – The Friendship Tour: Chameleon in Motion. At the time it was more a Madonna-wannabe move on my part (a phase I’ll grow out of in a few years, or so I’ve been saying for two decades). I even nicked the second half of the title from a spread she did in Interview. It was 1995 and I was in the midst of my matriculation at Brandeis University. Bored with just about everything, I turned to my friends and started visiting everyone I knew outside of Boston. Ann and Kate were at RIT and Kirsten was at U of R, so I spent a bunch of time in Rochester, NY. Suzie and her roommates – Chris, Kristen, Anu, and Tommy – were at Cornell, so I crashed quite a bit in Ithaca, NY. Missy was up in Potsdam at Crane, so I even drove up there, and beyond into Canada, to spend time with her. With all the miles I was racking up, it seemed that more was at work than a few simple trips to see friends. It was a transient bit of life-on-the-road, living out of the car, a long clothes rack running the length of the Blazer, hung heavily with robes and pajamas and costumes and accessories – and it all fell under the umbrage of a Tour.

I didn’t perform in any traditional way, but I had a tour book that I had everyone sign. For that first outing, it was no more than a few pages of photo-copies – black and white prose and a few horrendously amateurish photographs. I think the title was even hand-written in big black marker. But it was my first time, and it was magical. Soon, and much to my pleasant yet puzzled surprise, the ‘tours’ took on a life of their own – becoming more real than I had imagined. My friends all played along – strangers did as well – and by the time that first tour was over my Frankenstein-like efforts had created an entity of its own.

I went on a second outing in 1996 The Magical Mystery Tour: Master of Manipulation, and when my third tour rolled around – The Royal Rainbow World Tour in 1997 – I had extended the time period for a tour from two or three months to over half-a-year. The itinerary had also grown, with stops across the country: Seattle, San Francisco, New Orleans, Savannah, St. Augustine, Boston, New York, Rochester, Ithaca, and Washington – as well as around the world: London, Wales, Ireland, Puerto Rico, Cozumel, Canada, Hong Kong and the Philippines.

The basic concept was the same: visiting friends and family and showing off the Tour Book (which had become a rather-unwieldy three-ring binder full of photos and designer paper). I didn’t realize it at the time, but the Tour Book was becoming its own sort of Project – and the main focus of my touring efforts. It was something to promote and share with others, and as it collected signatures and well-wishes from friends old and new, it became a repository of memories. This was no longer a silly, stapled collection of piss-poor ditto-copies – it was a narrative of my life, of my journeys, and suddenly my tours were more than just a lark – they were an autobiography of sorts, a concentrated period of self-analysis that only being on-the-road could provide. You can escape from your hometown, you can elude your past, you can even run from your family and friends, but you cannot, no matter where you go or what you do, hide from yourself. Being on tour made me confront myself in ways that I couldn’t, or wouldn’t, during the rest of the year.

After the 1997 Tour, I needed a break from the incessant world traveling. I also needed a job, so I settled down for a bit, focusing more on projects and writing and photography. Yet the call of the road came back as it always does, and in 2003 I headed out on The Talented Trickster Tour: Reflections of a Floating World. This time around the Tour Book was a project unto itself, with a cohesive theme, impressive presentation, and thought-provoking images. My touring process had also evolved – instead of ridiculously over-the-top costumes that more often than not resulted in horrified reactions from friends and gawking stares from strangers (in one case I was even mistaken for a clown in Ponderosa- I don’t know which was worse, the clown bit or the Ponderosa part, or the fact that the whole thing involved children), I dressed down, which lent more focus to the Tour Book.

My most recent jaunt was The Divine Diva Tour: A Fairy’s Tale. Running for a full year (2005-2006), it also marked the turning point in production. No longer would the Tour Book be a containment of actual events I’d gone through, or a collection of photos of me and my friends – from here on out I would be an artist, and the tour book would be a piece of art, with me playing out different roles and images, employing a patently fictional narrative, and a protagonist who acted out all the edgy living that my real life could no longer handle. Finally, my art had become an outlet, and a healthy way to wrestle with the demons within the safe confines of a tour.

I harbor no illusions – this is still a grandly delusional gesture. All I do is go around, visit some friends, show off my Tour book, and call it a day. There are no tickets, there are no shows, there is no audience – but there is a belief in myself that comes about as a result from all this play, and there is a reality that somehow results from such earnest will.

Like all things whimsical and ephemeral, there is a limit on how long one can tour – even Cher and Tina seem to have recognized this – and in my case it’s even more tenuous, being that so much of my touring is grounded in make-believe. With that in mind, I have decreed that this one ‘A 21st Century Renaissance: The Resurrection Tour’ will be my next-to-last tour ever.

By the time my seventh, and final, tour comes around in 2015 (yes, I have the dates set, and yes, I plan that far ahead), I’ll be turning 40 years old, and old enough to hang up my touring hats. That’s not for a while yet, and we haven’t even begun this one, but the clock is ticking, and that’s when things get good. (Of course, it should be noted that after her Blonde Ambition tour, Madonna quite earnestly stated she would never tour again. That was five tours ago.)

Continue reading ...

Gay Marriage Letter to the Editor

I wrote a Letter to the Times Union last week and it was printed today – of course they edited out some of my favorite parts, so here, for the record, is the original in its entirety:

This letter was supposed to be filled with facts and figures supporting gay marriage, arguments regarding religion, separation of church and state, citations of civil rights, and a long list of how many laws our citizens are currently being denied. It was supposed to proffer reasonable arguments for allowing gay marriage, condemning the ‘separate but equal’ notion of civil unions, and dispelling the idea that it would denigrate anyone else’s marriage or the institution itself.

But after all the clinical analyses, it rang hollow. This has never been about laws or legal matters or civil rights or even equality. For me it comes down to one thing: Love. The battle against gay marriage is, at its cold core, an attack on love. It is this personal stance that has been largely forgotten amid all of our philosophical and religious differences.

Those opposed to gay marriage don’t seem to understand what they are doing by denying gay couples the right to marry. Aside from the legal benefits marriage affords, there is something intangible that goes much deeper than laws or civil rights – it’s the symbolic joining of two people. It may be a simple piece of paper, but it means something – and the history of its meaning stands behind it. The right to marry is a rite of passage – one that provides an emotional foundation for a relationship.

More than anything else, marriage is the binding union that creates a sense of stability and security. It is a benefit that many of us so desperately need – often the sole motivating force that keeps people together through difficult times, and something to fall back on when there are disagreements or fights. How many married couples have had moments when they’ve had to look back on their wedding day, remember the love and support that they were given then, and rely on the strength of that bond and those vows to get them through a rough time?

I have been with my partner Andy for nine years. He is a retired police officer who was injured on duty, and I am a state worker. While far from perfect, we do our part as citizens – paying taxes, taking care of our home, and carving out a life as a couple. We would have liked to get married in our home state, surrounded by friends and family, celebrating our love and honoring the work and effort we have put into our relationship, yet we can’t do that. Not yet. Not in New York.

Opponents of gay marriage can continue to deny us our rights, and for the time being they may succeed, but they will not be remembered for doing what’s right and honorable, not even in the name of religion. They will be remembered for fostering hate. They will be remembered for separating two people who love each other, and for denying them their wish to be part of a recognized union that celebrates love and commitment. They will be remembered for taking away the stability and support that only marriage can provide.

If you don’t believe in gay marriage, that’s your right. I’m not asking you to change your beliefs. All I am asking is that you think about what you’re doing when you actively seek to deny someone else that right. If we cannot get people to change their minds, perhaps we can get them to change their hearts.

– Alan Ilagan
Loudonville, NY

Continue reading ...

Ahead Lies the Past

{A pocket-sized diary, fronted by a Garfield cartoon, sits on the bed. A gift, complete with lock and key – it has not been opened. Nothing has been written. A boy sits on the floor beside the bed. A week of school has ended, but the boy has not yet learned to feel the relief of a weekend. He is young enough not to know anything other than the day at hand. He moves onto the bed, unlocking the blank diary. He fiddles with the key, locking and unlocking it several times, getting comfortable with how it works, enthralled by the simple mechanics of how to keep a secret. He doesn’t yet know what secrets he would put inside it. He is just starting to be aware of the world.}

Thursday, September 30, 1982

Dear Diary ~ 

This is my first diary so go easy on me! I’m not sure what I’m supposed to write in this thing. Is it a place for my deepest and darkest secrets? HA. As if I have any to keep. Will this be a time capsule? Will I look back one day and marvel at all the budding brilliance on display? Or will this be what I think it will be, some boring and dull description of the unexciting life of Alan Bennett Ilagan as he navigates the tumultuous rollercoaster of second grade at McNulty School? I think it will be that, but maybe some jewels of wisdom will be uncovered, roughly, along the way. 

Should I write this to you, Diary, or to me? To my future self, the old man I will one day be, married with kids and pets and a white picket fence? It is hard to imagine a future that far away. Time is measured in much smaller doses when you’re only in second grade. So I will take things one small step at a time, and the next step is dinner with my family. You will get to know Mom, Dad, and my brother Paul (who I call Powie because I couldn’t pronounce his name when I was little, and it stuck). When Thanksgiving and Christmas come, you will meet my Grammy, and maybe her dog Tonto. We also have a German shepherd named Crystal, who is like a member of the family. She barks at the mailman and goes crazy when we jump in the pool. Sometimes she has seizures in the middle of the night, and Mom and Dad rush us into the spare bedroom where we wait in scared silence until she calms down. They are afraid she will bite or attack us then I think. But she never has, and she only protects us. 

I am heading downstairs to dinner next, and if I feel up to it I will write more later. Or maybe tomorrow. Welcome to my life!

 

Continue reading ...