The first weekend of Fall 2026 is about to kick off, and tomorrow brings a full Corn/Harvest Moon, so get ready to howl and bray or whatever sort of noise you want to make. Full moon madness is no joke, and the only way I know how to successfully deal with it is by preparing yourself to simply go with the flow. There will be mess-ups and mistakes, and it may feel like the whole world is trying to gaslight you. Welcome to my average day. We will get through it. Fall wants to seduce us, then trip us up. A basic awareness of difficulty in the air makes it easier to accept.
My first fall visit to Boston is scheduled for this weekend, so I’ll be celebrating in cowboy style there – will report back next week if I feel like it – or maybe this will be one of those low-key quiet trips that doesn’t get a full write-up. Let’s not decide anything now – it’s not wise to make planning decisions when the moon is near full. Just go through it to get through it. Hang onto your cowboy hats!
As if on cue, Tom Ford just released a flanker to his ‘Ombre Leather’ scent – Ombre Leather Reserve – and my friend Betsy was kind enough to pick up a bottle on sale while on her latest cruise in the Bahamas. (Good thing too, as it wasn’t available anywhere I looked the last time I was in Boston.) It arrived just in time for this Fall of the Cowboy, and the Tom Ford company itself writes that this is a woody leather scent inspired by the high desert of the American West. With elements of juniper and the resinous smokiness of pinyon wood softened by sandalwood, a woody leather is indeed amply descriptive of the first twenty minutes or so – in which notes of cypress also surface, lending the opening a greener aspect than I’d antiquated – and a most welcome one at that. The leather is still the rich, dark star of the show, driving it into almost challenging territory.
That opening has its prickly points, with a few moments of questionable tar and petrol giving the initial impression a darker and more challenging shade than it might deserve, before it dissipates into something sweeter. With ancestry rooted in Ford’s original ‘Tuscan Leather’, and this being a flanker of ‘Ombre Leather’, it isn’t brand new territory for the fragrance line, but it’s different enough to merit another bottle, thanks to the woodier juniper notes and the green accents that lend it life.
It dries down into its loveliest form at about an hour into the journey and stays there for a while – when the sandalwood and violet finally take their place high above the wild, Wild West. The best part of both the Tuscan and Ombre leathers was this exquisite dry-down (in the former’s case a sweet raspberry) and the Reserve’s dry-down is just as beautiful.
It makes for the perfect companion fragrance to the Fall of the Cowboy – and when the universe whispers agreement and alignment in such matters, you know we are on the right track.
Last Sunday the weather changed. In one fell swoop, the rain had arrived in the night, and with it a cooler atmosphere by about fifteen degrees. A jarring start to a Sunday morning. When I opened the door to the back patio, I just as quickly shut it. Amazing the way a single rainy day can seemingly erase an entire summer of hot and sunny days – as if they’d never happened, as if the spring had returned and we had a chance to start again – as if the dead body of summer didn’t lay between us.
It’s been a while, my friend Counting days don’t seem to end I haven’t spoken to my poor mom since I can’t remember when It’s hard when someone knows just where you’ve been
Orville Peck’s new album ‘Mule’ came out after the concept and plan for this fall’s theme was in place, so I can’t take or give credit for the timing, but it works, and the album is a masterpiece. This cut is especially fitting, titled ‘The Fall’ and perfectly placed to help kick off this season of cowboy grit and drama. A contemplative yearning bleeds across the melody and lyrics – it’s the feeling of fall – a lonesome sort of feeling. This won’t be the last of that phrase or feeling. Fall can crush the soul that way. Fall will crush the soul.
So come around, my dear Take a rest right here And I will share your pain, I’ve seen it all Hot summer nights is where we started But it’s been cold since when we parted You used to tell me we’d get through it all We were flying, how could we have seen the fall?
It’s hard to let go of some summers. Others past relatively uneventfully, forgotten in a cruel way – because summer should never be forgotten. Still others can’t pass quickly enough. This was one of those latter ones – not for any truly traumatic way, just for the way I hid away from its heat and sun and revelation. I ran away from the joy and the moment – spending my final days as a 50-year-old sheltered from the world and the wide sky. Not exactly sure why. Fear of letting go, perhaps.
Still the Hudson flows Guess that’s just the way it goes I’ve been checkin’ on the leaves to see if they’ve turned brown and gold Who made time so slow?
I watch the sun come up Strangers fill my cup Empty out the bag, it’s making noise
Run down my heart with many lovers Hide my head under the covers The wind is blowing, hear it at the wall Yeah, all that time we were just laughing through the fall
Fall signals ambivalence now – a mixed bag of feelings and emotions, memories and tricky rabbit holes that lead into the past, only to fuck with the future. Greeting it with a hesitant wariness, the way I’m suspicious of most things in the world now, I implore myself to leave past and future alone, and strive to focus solely on the present. Mindfulness is the surest way of getting through a day as well as a season.
And don’t you ask me how I’ve been I wore that chain every day, as if it were a ring And it hurt so bad to see you, so please next time keep walking As for the rest of you, please don’t ask me to sing
Fall used to mean a new beginning – even more than spring for reasons not fully understood by my small brain. It was the season that marked a resurgence in order and structure after the carefree and loose summer – for a Virgo that was heaven. As much as I hated returning to school, I’ve always relished the opportunity for a new wardrobe, a new image, a new era, a new project. Fall’s cooler nights and crisp mornings were the jolt of inspiration to get my shit in order again if I’d let things fall by the wayside in the summer heat. Now it feels different: the preamble to winter. There is sorrow and an element of danger present – will it be the winter of the seasonal year, or the winter of a lifetime? After the age of fifty, any fall could be the last – and there are fewer falls ahead of me than behind me. I can’t look away from that anymore.
So don’t look down No, you won’t see the ground Just a life that passes by you while you float
When a cowboy grows old, anything can happen. Truth is, many cowboys don’t get the chance to grow old – and for those that do, it always feels a bit like a surprise. A nasty, cruel, dangerous surprise – the way a prairie dog hole can trip up a horse, landing rider and animal suddenly on the ground. Hopefully the rider remains on top, because if he or she doesn’t, few survive being beneath a horse without injury or death.
Hot summer nights is where we started But it’s been cold since when we parted At The Bowery’s where I heard the angels call I thought it was the end, then I recalled the fall I thought it was goodbye, then I recalled the fall.
Dovetailing beautifully with this Fall of the Cowboy, Brian Falduto gets crowned Dazzler of the Day thanks to his country music with a queer twist. His latest song ‘Free Coffee’ is most definitely a song for the season, and his ‘Same Old Country Song’ sets the stage for the very gay cowboy stories about to unfurl here. Falduto is set to release a new EP – ‘I Could Be Happy’ – later this fall, and keen-eyed observers may remember his younger turn in ‘School of Rock’. As a certified life coach, he marries social wisdom with country pop, weaving an indelible image and sound together that fits perfectly into our Fall of the Cowboy. Check out Brian’s website here.
‘Tis the season of gourds and squash and harvest items, oh my! The ones seen here are mostly decorative, and around these parts we don’t scoff or diminish the merely decorative – in fact, the decorative is what gives this site its lifeblood. Attractiveness and appearance and window dressing are our stocks in trade – image leads substance, prettiness comes before politics, and beauty is the law of the land.
Magnificently, beauty comes in all sorts and kinds, and one person’s idea of beauty could well be another’s idea of ugly. That’s the wonderful part of life as a human, if you allow it to be – we are all so inconceivably different, even when we think we are the same. The inexpressible infinite expanse of being a human being – the same way every gourd is one of a kind, never to be exactly duplicated or reproduced in precisely the same way. The marvel of that should never go unnoticed or disrespected.
“Try it on me!” ~ Whitney Houston to Mariah Carey, or Mariah Carey to Whitney Houston, at the MTV Video Music Awards circa mid to late 90’s
Never having been a fan of country music, my interest in the country western vibe that has taken over this website and this autumn may seem at odds with who I am, yet if you dig deeper into what makes a cowboy a cowboy – the internal machinations and make-up of the rebellious fringe-dweller who refuses to conform to what society wants – it’s actually a good fit. Still, I understand if this feels like just another pose – as I have lived most of my life as a provocative poseur. It’s too late to change, and too late to apologize. The die of the chameleon has been cast.
Well I don’t wanna be a big star and I don’t need to drive a new car
Another mask, another guise, another persona to inhabit for a spell to work out whatever kinks remain, exorcizing demons past and present and possibly future, and if the cowboy is the conduit, I’m more than ready to saddle up. In a way, this is how art operates when used as a vehicle to find something or feel something or process something. Will I be bucking off broncos or herding cattle or stringing barbed-wire fences anytime soon? Of course not. Will I distract and dazzle in cowboy cosplay while buying myself some therapy and creative catharsis? Absolutely. And can I relate to someone who has historically been an outsider, a rebel, a person hellbent on living life on their own terms in defiance of social constraints and mores? Fuck yeah.
The writer and performer of this song – Charlie Overbey – expresses what it’s like to straddle genres – punk, country, honky tonk, blues, and rock – while not being defined or labelled as any single one of them. A standard flummoxed reaction often results when someone falls into uncharted territory, or somewhere in between or in several different categories. Humans want so much to organize things and understand others in the most basic of terms, when we are all too complex and nuanced and different to really conform to any single set of standards or descriptions. There are always exceptions, always footnotes, always asterisks and ‘See also’s and all sorts of annotations.
And those of us who dare to change, or evolve, or become something different from what people assumed us to be – well, we are viewed as suspect, as less than authentic, as a shape-shifting creature of mythology – not to be trusted or counted on or safe as someone they have supposedly figured out. We make others uncomfortable because our certainty is in our evolution. But I digress… This is the fall of the cowboy, not the chameleon – and cowboys are nothing if not sure of themselves.
Stepping into the pair of cowboy boots for the first time, I was expecting to be met with resistance or discomfort, some sort of constriction or unfamiliarity that required adjustment or force. I was shocked to feel my feet slip into place without pain or struggle, shoehorn or lubricant. It was as if my feet were coming home, returning to a place they’d never known but always belonged. Sliding my jeans over them and standing up fully, I instantly felt something I have rarely felt, something that everyone assumes I have in spades: swagger. Taking a few steps in anything but tentative fashion, I finally understood what swagger was, and how it felt to have it.
One walks differently in cowboy boots. The heel is markedly higher than most of my shoes, and for a guy largely unaccustomed to high heels (against all popular belief) it’s a drastic change. They push you forward, as if some dusty guiding hand from a past life is physically encouraging you to keep going. At the same time, they set your upper body back, as if your shoulders and head are compensating for the forward inclination by rearing backwards a bit, which somehow makes for a more relaxed and confident carriage.
Steps feel more deliberate, more certain and sure – no more gingerly alighting on the tips of toes or carefully prancing about a bed of stinging nettles – these boots were made for walking, offering protection up to and encasing the calves. Fortified and armored by leather and studs, the sureness of my footfalls lends a confidence and, yes, a swagger that others may have attributed to the image and idea that preceded my expected appearance anywhere. Only now did I feel it myself, emanating from within for the first time, when it had only ever been on the outside. What utter and laughable irony that such internal validation should come about from putting on a pair of cowboy boots – and how utterly fitting it is at the same time. My life – my worth – dictated and divined by a pair of shoes.
Cowboys they are ladies men all right they’ll love ’em up and talk ’em up all night But they’re lonely when there’s nothing else to do And that’s what makes the cowboys sing the blues He does a little Shakespeare and he sings, he plays the mandolin and other things
He looks for love beauty and IQ and that’s what makes the cowboy sing the blues Cowboys have to fall in love get hurt and all that bit Let their hearts hang out so they can write you all a hit So ladies if they ask you don’t refuse let’s all help the cowboys sing the blues
Cowboys they don’t ever understand this thing between a woman and a man Until they find the one they always lose That’s what makes the cowboys sing the blues A cowboy takes his lonely pen in hand and tries to make somebody understand
But she has ears to hear a different tune And that’s what makes the cowboy sing the blues Cowboys have to fall in love… Let’s all help the cowboys sing the blues
‘If you remember one thing from my story let it be this: in life – and in love – nobody falls harder than a cowboy.’
Never thought I’d be embracing the Country-Western vibe that is set to embody this fall season of ALANILAGAN.com, but sometimes we become that which we resist the most. There’s a lesson hidden somewhere here, a lesson that may or may not become more clear as the season progresses – for now, I’m learning what it means to be a modern-day cowboy, and at the moment it feels closer to my heart than sequins or feathers. There’s a story here too – probably several, as stories tend to beget more stories – and I’m going to take my time telling it. Fall is always longer than we think it will be.
I spied a poor cowboy wrapped up in white linen Wrapped up in white linen as cold as the clay “I see by your outfit that you are a cowboy” These words he did speak as I boldly stepped by “Come sit down beside me and hear my sad fortune I was shot in the breast and I know I must die.”
What is a cowboy? A cowboy is a vision. A cowboy is a fashion. A cowboy is a fusion. A cowboy is a herder – of cattle, of people, of thoughts, of ideas… A cowboy is a rancher – of land, of earth, of imagined mindscapes… A cowboy is a poker and prodder – of cows, of friends, of lovers, of strangers… A cowboy is a dreamer – of dreams, of hopes, of tomorrows… A cowboy gets up to ride again, no matter how many times he was rode hard and put away wet.
Go beat the drum slowly, and play the fife lowly Play the death march as you carry me along Take me to the graveyard then lay the sod over me For I’m a young cowboy and I know I’ve done wrong
Shattering what we’ve been led to believe, the real heart of this country – America, in whatever broken sense or state we find ourselves in right now – is a fierce independence, a willingness to go it alone, the way the founders of our country broke off from England all those centuries ago – and a fierceness at odds with the current administration which wants the dumb and stupid sheep to do as they say without questioning or wondering at basic easily-discerned truths.
The real essence of America is freedom and the right to live as authentically as we feel. Forget the flag-waving skewered views bent and misshapen to a white nationalism and Christian cult that wants nothing more than to destroy and hate anyone remotely different. The real American embraces our differences, celebrates everyone’s right to live out their lives as they so choose, and offers grace and acceptance to those in need. That dovetails with the basic tenets of a cowboy, whose philosophy has largely been to live and let live. There’s nothing more American than a cowboy – and a cowboy won’t mind any of your business so long as you don’t mind his.
Go gather around you a crowd of young cowboys And tell them the story of this my sad fate Tell one and the other before you go further To stop their wild roving before it’s too late
At his heart, a cowboy is a loner and a rebel, Pee-Wee Herman style. He sets his own beat, dances his own dance (Tequila!) and lives his own life. If he’s invited you to be part of it in any way, that’s a rare and precious gift, one that shouldn’t be squandered or scoffed at – and one that will likely not come many times in his life. And just because you’ve been included once doesn’t mean you will be again. A cowboy reserves the right to withdraw at any time, and will often do so. Being left out of their circle once you’ve been in can feel like a harsh exacting of a price you never realized existed, a bit of heartbreak you never knew you were inflicting.
It was once in the saddle I used to go dashing It was once in the saddle I used to go gay First to the dramhouse and then to the cardhouse Got shot in the breast, I am dying today
A cowboy is not sentimental; a cowboy is not without heart. A cowboy is a conundrum, but not a problem to be solved. A cowboy is his own torture. A cowboy is his own salvation. A cowboy is his own worst enemy. A cowboy always slays his worst enemy.
The cardinal rule for all cowboys was simply to never fall in love. Falling in love posed the greatest threat to the existence of a cowboy. There would always be temptations to do so, but a true cowboy understands that this is their biggest choice in life – this is what makes them a cowboy – and it’s what separates them out from the others. Fierce and ferocious independence.
Get six jolly cowboys to carry my coffin Get six pretty maidens to bear up my pall Put bunches of roses all over my coffin Put roses to deaden the clods when they fall
Go bring me a cup, a cup of cold water To cool my parched lips, ” the cowboy said Before I turned, the spirit had left him And gone to its giver, the cowboy was dead
The essence of a cowboy is in his solitude. They need their alone time. They cannot afford to get attached. They cannot become co-dependent. Solitude is integral to how they make their way in the world. It is the key to their survival, and to fall in love would be to risk that essential solitude.
A cowboy is an attitude. A cowboy is a rebel. A cowboy is a creature beholden only to himself. A cowboy makes his own rules and abides only to the cowboy code. A cowboy makes his own way while longing for something he knows he will never find – and that doesn’t mean he won’t try.
We beat the drum slowly and played the fife lowly And bitterly wept as we bore him along For we all loved our cowboy, so brave, young, and handsome We all loved our cowboy although he’d done wrong
All this being said, sometimes life doesn’t always follow the tried and true path that we all think we know so well. And some cowboys did fall, and made perfectly happy situations for themselves by living with someone else and not going it completely alone, but they were never quite full-fledged cowboys after that, were they? More often, some fell and found themselves in perfectly unhappy situations, cowboys being largely disagreeable to bending for others. But if there’s one thing you take away from this entire fall of the cowboy, I ask that you remember this, especially when you are feeling ungenerous, unkind or unmerciful in your estimation of anyone else’s unhappy ending: in life – and in love – no one falls harder than a cowboy.
The FALL of the COWBOY: Autumn 2026 at ALANILAGAN.com
“Death was never far from a cowboy. He may have submerged the possibility in the youthful bluster of supposed invincibility, but every time a cowhand dug his boot into the stirrup, the ride could carry him to trail’s very end.” – Patrick Dearen
Sitting across from me at the table overlooking Braddock Park in Boston, my nephew opens the envelope I’d just handed to him – the envelope that contains the very first promotional items for this very website’s fall theme – a selection of pictures scented with ‘Purple Suede’ by Goldfield & Banks. (A few days later, my niece Emi will play ‘Cowboys and Angels’ by George Michael – the universe conspiring as it does to confirm themes and ideas and the overall trajectory and story arc for life.)
Cowboys and angels, they all have the time for you Why should I imagine that I’d be a find for you? Why should I imagine that I’d have something to say? But that scar on your face, that beautiful face of yours In your heart, there’s a trace of someone before
Back to the table in Boston, where Noah is pulling out the pictures – the fragrance of leather and spices surrounding him like a lasso. At first his face is blank, which is generally the resting state of my nephew’s face. He’s not going to put up a front or a pose or even a smile unless you offer some inspiration first. As he peruses the promo items, his expression runs quickly through a succession of tells – a bit of a scoff, a slight confusion, a puzzled and quizzical query – before landing incontrovertibly on one of absolute amusement – the slightest slant of a reluctant smile and a glint in the eye that means his crazy Uncle managed to surprise him yet again.
When your heart’s in someone else’s plans Things you say and things you do, that they don’t understand It’s such a shame, always ends the same You can call it love but I don’t think it’s true You should know by now, I’m not the boy for you You’re not to blame, always ends the same
I know you think that you’re safe, sister Harmless affection that keeps things this way It’s the ones who persist for the sake of a kiss who will pay
Despite my nephew’s eventual amusement, he remained wisely suspicious and wary of the pictures before him, because I’ve taught him well.
“Do you think you’re a cowboy?” he asked doubtfully. (This is also the guy who would ask, “Are you really too dainty to pick up a sandwich?” when he eyed me cutting up a breakfast wrap the next morning.)
We both laughed a little.
Choosing my words carefully, I took my time trying to get the explanation just right.
“I think… I share the same basic tenets of what makes a cowboy a cowboy: a ferocious independence, a tendency to buck against mainstream society, and the unwavering determination to march to my own drum – in the crazy things I wear, in how I act, in what I say and do. And I hope that’s one thing you and Emi have learned from me over all these years.”
My nephew thought about this for a bit, then said something that confirmed everything I’d been wondering and worrying about for this fall’s theme, setting me immediately at ease, and impressing me with his ability to cut through to the heart of the matter: “You’re like… a disguised cowboy.”
In that one sentence, I was genuinely moved – that my nephew had seen me, and that my nephew had understood.
Cowboys and angels, they all take a shine to you Why should I imagine that I was designed for you? Why should I believe that you would stay? That scar on your face, that beautiful face of yours Don’t you think that I’d know they’ve hurt you, before? Take this man to your bed Maybe his hands will help you forget Please be stronger than your past The future may still give you a chance.
This summer sparkled and shone like some glittering golden disco ball twirling in the hot beams of a smoldering sun. Maybe there was nothing of substance of seriousness behind it, maybe there was no beating heart to the tin-man/gold-man parading prettily before us, and maybe what was going on inside my head made summer fun largely performative – we had our summer, and it has come to an end. Maybe we’ll make it better next year, or maybe we’ll realize how good we had it and reframe the memories we think we have made. The Solid Gold Summer of 2026 will not be remembered for what happened to us, but what we made happen for ourselves. That’s the very best kind of summer to make anyway. Here’s a link-filled look back at some notable blog posts, and some ridiculous posing to send this golden summer off with some pizzazz. I’ll get back on the horse for autumn – see you in a few…
This final day of summer is going to be a day of recaps – as this weekly blog recap finishes off the season right before the main summer recap goes up later today. That’s a lot of reminiscing from a guy who just wants to get out of the heat of summer and into the frying pan of fall. To get there, however, we’ve got to go through here – our weekly blog recap. Hurry up and come back later to finish the summer off right.
With that glorious mantra in mind, let’s send this summer off to slumber on a disco danceteria note, courtesy of the one and only Madonna. She’s provided the soundtrack to this past summer – most notably with confessional musical heat in the epic ‘Danceteria’, which is about to make its official splash because it’s fucking time. Here’s the first remix of the song, which looks to be her next single.
This summer, like several summers in recent memory, didn’t turn out as brilliant or wonderful as I’d originally intended and hoped. Maybe it’s about expectations that were simply too great, maybe it’s the final convulsions of a lengthy mid-life crisis (or crises as the case likely might be) or maybe it’s just the state of the world and the dumbing down of people. The Solid Gold Summer recap arrives tomorrow, so I won’t get into a link-heavy diatribe in this post – this is more of a contemplative rumination on the previous three months, and how something that was designed to be solid and gold ended up being hollow and tarnished.
This is the third themed summer we’ve tried on the blog – starting with ‘Coquette‘ in 2024 and then ‘Island‘ in 2025. I like organizing blog posts around a certain structural element such as a theme because it focuses the season, honing in on something that can symbolize whatever else might be going on in the world. (See also the ‘Autumn of Oud‘ or ‘Winter Obscura‘ or the ‘Fade-To-Black Fall‘. The upcoming autumn has a major theme that will be announced on the first day of fall, and it marks a new era, a new image, a new look – and somehow it peels back decades of who I thought I was into someone entirely new and yet intrinsically more myself than ever. That’s more than just a neat hat trick – it’s an astounding revelation/realization.
Back to this past summer, which proved revelatory in a different and more somber way. Largely happening in my head, the Solid Gold Summer found me pulling back from social gatherings (when you find yourself without anywhere to go or anything to do, it means you’re the only one doing any of the social lifting) and happier for it, but then realized I was inhabiting my mind instead of living in the moment or the outside world – phoning it in, quite literally as I spent time on the stupid device in my hand instead of what was happening all around me. Living in one’s head and phone is not a happy place to be – none of that is even real. So the first half of the summer was in living that lie – the second half was getting over it and readjusting. To the latter’s end, I began reaching out to the friends and family who would be there in person – setting up dinners and get-togethers and weekend with the twins who are old enough to operate on their own. I’ll be looking to broaden my social scene in Boston this fall as I begin the long road to retirement (you cannot get the long-range planning gene out of me) and reconnect with some friends I haven’t seen in a while.
Now that I’ve written this all out, I’m seeing that this summer hasn’t been a total bust – that it was solid after all, that it did have its golden moments, and everything that’s meant to be will always be. Huh. A realization in real time, documented as it was happening. A nearly perfect ending to a summer that felt anything but…
The gardens are shifting their show from the floral to the fruit-focused, and with color like this it’s a fair fight. Sometimes strong colors are meant to be a warning (see nightshade) and sometimes they’re meant to entice (see tomatoes). The universe likes to present a challenge, spinning its Wheel of Death with the choice of tomato or nightshade before an unsuspecting innocent’s hungry eyes. Summer spinning into fall feels dangerous that way.
