Category Archives: Boston

There is something serious and comical about this murder scene. On one hand, it’s terrifying and disturbing. How anyone could do such a thing, and why they would do such a thing, will always remain a mystery to me. I may play the sick, twisted card in Tour Books and other fictionalized outlets, but to actually go out and do this sort of thing, well, I don’t have it in me. And I’m relieved at that. But someone did.

This brutal beheading of an anonymous bear took place in the early evening hours of December 5. I stumbled upon the crime scene following the first annual children’s holiday at work. It was a heartless wake-up call after such a lovely afternoon of holiday bonhomie. The body had been stuffed in a garbage can. while a few feet away the head rested on its side, eyes agape as if still in shock.

Darkness lurks, even at Christmastime. Sometimes I think things become more sinister when the majority of people are doing their best to be good. Maybe it just seems that way in comparison.

The sad and serious part of this unhappy ending is that the bear looks well-worn and loved. In the realm of the Velveteen Rabbit, he or she would be considered ‘real.’ That’s the heartbreaking aspect of this scene. Was this an adult playing a joke on the world? Was it someone’s parent or care-taker menacing an actual child? I don’t know, and I don’t want to know. I had to work hard to quell my imagination from running away with all sorts of possible atrocities. In the end, it will remain a mystery. I turned my back to it and shuffled off into the night.

Being observant is sometimes a curse.

When we first moved into the Boston condo exactly 20 years ago, there was no furniture whatsoever. As a full-time college student and almost-full-time retail worker (35 hours per work, thank you) I didn’t have much time to worry about interior designer, or even the simple stocking of a few main pieces of furniture, so for the first few weeks I lived sparsely with a cot (well, the mattress portion of a cot, anyway), a single lamp, and, eventually, a pair of stools near the kitchen area. The kind on which I am precariously perched in these photos.

This was a quiet time in the condo, and in my life. Despite the business of my schedule, and the expanding social scene of a gay guy just entering his 20’s, my moments alone were still and silent. Part of this was a practical matter of not having a stereo system, or a clock radio that got any sort of decent reception in the bedroom, and part of it was an unconscious yet somehow deliberate act of seeking out quiet when the rest of my life was getting louder.

At the time, I don’t think I fully realized the gift that such quiet solitude would prove to be. In fact, I don’t think I understood that for many years thereafter. Only recently have I come to realize the great power and healing that comes from being alone in the quiet of that condo. I’ve always felt a pull there when I’ve felt troubled or unsure, and I think it’s because there is this sense of peace and calm that originated there all those years ago.

Today, there is a decidedly-full collection of furniture and accessories in the space, but the quiet remains, if you let it. As the day dims and the street lamps flicker on, that quiet is there. As night falls and the other brownstone windows wink awake, the quiet pervades. As another morning arrives, whether gray or sunny or stormy, the quiet remains.

October in Boston can be both beautiful and brutal. If a hurricane manages to make land, it’s a nightmare. To this day, I can remember a storm that hit on a Sunday I was scheduled to do inventory at Structure. (Ahh, the days of retail.) It was so bad I had to take a cab to Faneuil Hall, effectively using up any time-and-a-half pay I would earn that day, but it was so worth it. Looking at the wet bedraggled messes of people that came in the store, I didn’t envy anyone who had to be outside for however short a period. I stayed until the work, and the day, was done, and the storm had subsided.

These past few weeks in Boston have been pretty glorious. The turn of the screw into fall has been a crisp and gorgeous affair, but such beauty will eventually be balanced with the bad, and that’s all part of the wonder of the weather. I’m a bit behind on posting the fun stuff of my latest Madonna adventure at the former Boston Garden, but it will be here eventually. For now, a brief glimpse into the descent of evening in the city I love so much. Sometimes a photo makes the heart soar higher than any multitude of words ever could.

Fly, my pretty, fly.

Here are some extra photos that didn’t quite find their way into the 40^th birthday narrative from Boston. I’m vaingloriously including them on the ego-driven assumption that if you’re visiting a website named ‘ALANILAGAN.com’ you are slightly interested in such stuff. If not, what the hell are you doing here? Be gone before somebody drops a house on you.

A delicious dinner at Mistral was how I chose to spend the first evening of my 40th year, and it was as perfect as I remember it. The last time we were lucky enough to break bread in that beautiful space was on our wedding day. It retains a special place in my heart, and so it was where we spent my birthday evening.

After stuffing ourselves with all manner of good things, we walked off a small bit of the meal the few large blocks it took to return to the Lenox Hotel, and our last night in the luxurious Judy Garland Suite.

I may have had the toughest time saying goodbye to the fair suite named after Ms. Garland, as it had given us a delightful home away from (and within) home (but with far better service and window treatments).

For everyone who thought (hoped) that 40 would tame me, this is for you.

Come 40, 50, or 60, I’m always going to be cheeky.

The morning-after dawned in bright fashion, and a few last glimpses of the place where I turned 40 were all that remained.

Many thanks to the Lenox Hotel, for making it so special.

Now, onto Life After 40.

Come along, if you dare.

We’ve only just begun…

At every milestone event in my life, it somehow happens, whether by chance or conspiracy, that I find myself alone for a few moments. Sometimes the moment is intentionally orchestrated, as was the case with this window of time on my 40th birthday, whereby I made my way to the Boston Public Garden and took a quick tour through the waning afternoon beauty.

For some reason, Boston always seems prettiest when viewed from the Public Garden. Whether it’s surrounded by the verdant ripe green of summer, or the bare-limbed stark gray of winter, the Garden frames the city in a majestic manner that no other standpoint affords.

A line-up of fowl stood sentinel on the shore of the pond leading up to the footbridge. They took in the afternoon sun as it slanted through the drapes of a willow tree.

Of all the times to be in the Garden, this may be one of the most magical. The early morning sunlight is also a thing of beauty, but there’s something richer about the light just before it goes.

After the ducks and the geese, there was one special friend dressed in white that I longed to see.

A birthday greeting, perhaps, from an old friend.

A few years ago I celebrated a birthday in Boston (maybe #34 or 35) and after cocktails at the Fairmont Copley with Andy, I treated myself to a pair of silk pajamas from Anthropologie. They remain, to this day, the most expensive pajamas I own, and I still wear them on special occasions. This year, marking my 40th, I went the same route and found these ridiculous pants at the same place. I can make more use of these, however, as they work well for poolside lounging, which this week looks to afford as well.

On my birthday, however, they served to characterize the day with a bit of whimsy, crafting a luxurious outfit in which one could indulgently lounge around a hotel suite and bask in the first moments of being a 40-year-old.

Give me a chance to pose and strut and act all sorts of undeservedly glamorous, and I’ll take it. It was my birthday, and I would act ridiculous if I wanted.

Kick your shoes off and join me. It’s going to be one wild ride…

One of the very first trips I remember taking as a child was a bus excursion to Boston. Suzie was there, as were our mothers, and we toured the New England aquarium, which is probably part of the reason I became so enamored of sea life and aquariums. (And Chinese paper yo-yos, which were on sale in one of the bull markets outside of the aquarium.)

For my 40^th birthday, I returned to the aquarium, as much for nostalgia as for my continued interest in everything under the sea. From sea turtles to sea horses, porcupine fish to penguins, it was exactly as I remembered it. True, it hasn’t changed much over the years, but there’s something comforting in that too.

The smell alone reminds me of childhood, the sound of squawking sea birds rekindling the awe and wonder upon the realization of how varied and interesting the life on this earth can be. Since that first visit the ocean has called to me, and in various ways I’ve tried to answer her – in saltwater and reef aquariums, in visits to the coastal terrain of Maine and Florida, in documentaries on whales and sharks and sea life.

Some primal mystery has kept me intrigued by that boundless expanse of salt water that touches all land in some way. A deep undulating rhythm of tides, a hypnotic pull of currents, conspire to confuse in dizzying, rapturous sensation. If you’ve ever stood on the edge of the ocean and felt the sand slowly pull you deeper, in conjunction with the spinning tug of the tide, you know this delicious wooziness.

It reminds me that everything is connected. Water and sand, light and air, humans and animals.

And always, always, the penguins.

Upon the occasion of turning 40, society dictates that a big hubbub is to be made. Hype and hoopla, usually my stock in trade, are expected, and the grandest of events are to be scheduled and set into motion when one reaches that vaunted age. As mentioned, this is largely the predicament imposed by a society that increasingly fears its aging as much as it wants to celebrate its wisdom. I’m for the latter and unaffected by the former, so when my 40^th rolled around it actually took some internal persuading to make the day into something more substantial.

As for the way I honored the occasion, things were kept remarkably simple, with an indulgence in the form of a very sweet suite at the Lenox Hotel. It provided a home base (out of necessity, as my brother had told me he was going to be in the condo on my birthday) and so I reserved the Judy Garland Suite ~ a very generous gift from my parents. (Ms. Garland stayed in the hotel for an extended period, and they subsequently created a suite in her honor.)

Stepping back into a world of elegance, a world that seems to have gone by, but a world where exceptional customer service and personal touches still matter and make all the difference, we entered the suite and found this happy confluence of gifts ~ some chocolates, a card, a bottle of prosecco, and our very own stuffed Lenox lion. The beauty of a boutique hotel, and its personal charms, was in gorgeous effect.

When looking for birthday ideas, and being quite familiar with the city, I was on the hunt for something unique, and distinctly Bostonian. When the description of the Judy Garland Suite crossed my radar, I was instantly sold. It’s an expansive jewel-box of a space, wondrously appointed (with whimsical touches like a ruby red slipper on one shelf) and elegantly assigned with built-in bookshelves, and couches and tufted headboards of velvet.

Golden sconces and sumptuous drapery lent a timeless elegance to the scene, while two television sets (one in each living space) added the modern amenities that were mostly lost on me. (Who needs TV with so much beauty around?)

A little bit of upstate New York found its way into our accommodations, in the form of the Beekman Boys, whose Beekman 1802 bath products were newly acquired by the Lenox in a perfect alchemy of good products and good people.

The ‘Fresh Air’ products aligned fittingly with the environmental policies that the Lenox was one of the first to institute. (Yes, I will re-use my towel!)

We spent the afternoon settling in, and as with most gorgeous rooms we’ve had the privilege of borrowing over the years, it was enough just being there and soaking up the atmosphere. The complimentary bottle of sparkling wine added to the air of enjoyment, and we clinked to the eve of my 40^th birthday.

We would take an Uber to the Liberty Hotel, where we would dine at Scampo for my last meal as a 39-year-old, but for the moment we paused, alone in our quiet suite, and contemplated the stillness, the beauty, and the happiness of a late afternoon in the heart of Boston.

There’s no place like home, and home is where the heart is.