Alan Ilagan

With the exception of one incredibly-wrong-but-well-intentioned gold-banded amethyst ring (have we met?), I have never exchanged or returned a gift in my life. Even if the size is wrong (and it often is – I am usually a Men’s Small, not Medium) I’ll wear the baggy sweater because it was a gift. See, despite my darnedest efforts to prove the contrary, I am quite a sentimental soul, and the idea of returning or exchanging a gift that someone cared enough to pick out for me is unthinkable.

If someone did that to me, I think, as unflappable as I like to pretend to be, I’d be just the tiniest bit hurt. (So if you have, don’t tell me.) Sometimes we’re not who we profess to be. This is one of those times.

Luckily this year I was fortunate to have my family stick to the Wish list I posted a while back, and they did not disappoint. My favorites were easily this Cole Haan bag and the magnificent new Private Blend from Tom Ford, ‘Santal Blush’. The Brooks Brothers’ certificate will come in quite handy as well. Christmas isn’t just about the gifts and presents, but I certainly won’t complain if they’re always like this.

I wasn’t going to do this, since all I wanted for Christmas was a trip to London, but as that’s not happening I’ll put this out – mostly for my parents (and any online fans who want my eternal gratitude).

Let’s begin with the unattainable (it makes what I really want look that much more reasonable) – I’m not even going to bother with Louis Vuitton this year – not in these economically-lean times. I will, however, make an unimpassioned plea (I’m too lazy to work up passion right now) for a piece from Mulberry. Here we have the “Walter” – in black embossed leather, at just $1200 a pop. I know what you’re thinking – how many bags does this boy need? Just this one, and I’ll stop. I swear. Try me.

Now onto the real wants. In order to satisfy my travel yearnings, I’m eyeing a solo trip to the Southwest – somewhere with a desert, somewhere with a spa, somewhere where I can find myself. Simple enough, no?

But as is my wont, I only want to do it in luxury – starting with something akin to the Four Seasons. I don’t often get such highfalutin accommodations, and when I do it makes for an unforgettable experience.

Second, the gift of scent – always a safe bet for this olfactory-obsessed guy. Of course fragrance options are only safe when you don’t veer off the selections. (If you think you can pick out cologne I’ll like without my input, you will always be wrong.) Here are the few I’m feeling and fiending for right now.

Frederic Malle’s ‘Dans Tes Bras’ is the last of the current Malle fragrances that I want. (Here’s a trick I’ve done in the past – if you like an expensive scent like Malle, at most Barney’s stores you can ask for the travel size – which I think is 30 ml – for less than half the $225 price point of the regular size. It’s the best thing for a cologne chameleon like myself.) Obviously, I’m not going to turn down the regular size, as it would last me a lifetime, so use your own discretion.

As for perennial favorite Tom Ford, I offer a trio of choices, so there can still be an element of surprise: Amber Absolute, Lavender Palm, or Santal Blush. Any one of these would be a prize and, with the possible exception of Lavender Palm (which may not be out yet), should be available online at Neiman Marcus.

Third, the gift of wardrobe. When I was a kid, I hated the rectangular clothing boxes more than anything – no matter what was in it – a sweater, a pair of pants, a selection of socks – it was always a ho-hum gift that paled next to toys. My how times have changed – it’s hard to imagine there was ever a moment when I wouldn’t appreciate an item of clothing (Mom’s annual L.L. Bean matching fleece fiasco is the exception to the rule). This year I’ve got my sights set on a few shirts from Brooks Brothers – contact me directly for size and style, or just go with a gift certificate and save us all the trouble.

Fourth, you can never go wrong with a libation, and the makings of a cocktail are a perennially-classy choice. This year I’m wallowing in whiskey – preferably the 15 YO Fine Oak from Macallan as suggested by someone in-the-know. Or, if you’re looking to splurge, add three years for the 18 YO. Either way, whiskey warms the cockles of the heart better than just about anything.

Okay, fine, I lied about the one-more-bag only, but here’s a more decently-priced one from Cole Haan, which you can find online HERE at Zappos.com of all places. See, I do mingle with the people, dipping into the population, etc…

The scent of leather has always reminded me of sex. Not in any kinky S&M fantasy sort of way, but for the fact that the first person I ever had sex with sometimes wore a leather coat that smelled deliciously of the beaten hide. It was both warm and comforting, brutal and raw. It lended danger and swagger, and a supple strength too. In the ensuing years the leather fetish took on more of an over-the-top comical air, as I chuckled over the outfits in silly sex shops and decked myself out in dog collars for ridiculous holiday photo cards, but every once in a while I’ll smell a certain type of leather, and it always brings me back to sex. It’s the perfect accompaniment to a night of holiday debauchery.

To that end, the Naughty or Nice Holiday Party invitations will be slightly scented with the fragrance of one of Tom Ford’s Private Blends – Tuscan Leather – because nothing says naughty like Tom Ford and leather.

For the past several months I’ve been on a Tom Ford fragrance mission, collecting samples of his Private Blend collection from across the country (literally). I’ve narrowed it down to the following scents, and once I have a definitive favorite I’ll add it to the top of my Christmas Wish List (you know, the one that gets posted on here every single year and that no one ever uses).

Amber Absolute
Champaca Absolute
Oud Wood
Santal Blush

This is, given its rather exorbitant (for cologne) price tag, a luxury gift, and one very special bottle that will be used for special occasions when I want to create and conjure memories for the future. It suddenly struck me that one of my greatest fears is not having good memories to keep me comforted when I get older. By making them now, and sealing them with a scent, I’m insuring that even when the days get lonely, I’ll have something to bring me back to, at the very least, a memory of happiness.

Regarding these four fragrances, I am very much torn. The Amber Absolute and Oud Wood are on the masculine side of scents, while the Champaca Absolute and Santal Blush have a more feminine slant. Of course, that has no bearing on what I will or won’t wear – one of my favorite scents is the decidedly ladylike Lulu, which is about as feminine as they come. It’s really going to come down to how the chosen fragrance will work with the season and the style – and to that end I’m leaning toward the Santal Blush and Champaca Absolute… It looks like the ladies will be duking it out for olfactory duty this season – and God knows I love a good bitch fight.

{The Venetian at Las Vegas}

I am sitting in V Bar at the Venetian, my subtly-scented home for the next few days. It is my first drink in Las Vegas – a grapefruit cocktail concocted by the bartender upon my request. Not too sweet, but not too terribly tart. The day is hot. As luck, and poor planning, would have it, Las Vegas has had three consecutive days of record-breaking heat (think 110 degrees) that looks to continue for the duration of my stay. On a good day, I hate the heat. When it gets to the high 80’s I’m uncomfortable. In the 90’s, I’m miserable. And in the 100’s, there’s no telling what atrocities I’ll inflict on an unsuspecting public.

Everyone told me not to worry – that this is a dry heat, not as sticky. Well, everyone is full of shit. 104 degrees is still 104 degrees – dry, wet, or soaked in gin. This is the kind of heat that hits you in the face as soon as you leave an air conditioned area. It’s difficult to describe if you’ve never been in it. Most of us have had that hot summer day moment in a city, when a bus or subway train stops in front of you, and the intense heat from the engine hits you right in the face, and it’s awful. Then the bus or train moves along and there’s the relief of coolness immediately afterward. Well, imagine that intense heat around you ALL THE TIME. It is relentless, it is energy-draining, and it literally left me with a headache after a few minutes of walking around outside. Still, Las Vegas, or so I was told, is not about what’s outside, but what is in…

After touching down at the airport and getting an initial thrill from seeing the Strip right there – big, bold and brash in the midst of the desert, and then watching it get bigger and bigger as we approached, my first impression was that it was, actually, largely unimpressive. It had immensity, it had bold, bright neon colors, but mostly it had the blatantly hollow and unmistakable air of FAKE to it. There was nothing real or authentic here – and while that may be the whole point of Vegas, it’s something I could never quite reconcile.

What’s the point of recreating Paris or New York or the canals of Venice (and all pretty badly) and pretending it’s beautiful, or even an approximate version of the real thing? And why would anyone come to the desert to see such a theme park? The same notion of paltry imitation I felt from Epcot Center as a kid is back again in adult form. Or supposed adult form, as the baby carriages and screaming children were rampant everywhere we went. Someone once likened Las Vegas to a Disneyworld for adults, and I can see that. Though as someone who never fully loved the Disneyworld experience as a kid, I was similarly underwhelmed here.

A word on the accommodations: The Venetian Las Vegas, and its sister property The Palazzo, are, on the surface, pretty enough. They’ve done their best to recreate the charm of Venice, from the Gondola rides (at $16 a pop, and electronically-guided) to the baroquely-gilded ceilings and archways, painted garishly in Renaissance-like scenery. The grand hallway off the lobby is a sight to behold, as is the immense scope and size of the front courtyard, but it rings of emptiness, of façade.

As for the room itself, it was billed as a full-on suite, and it was. My sixth-floor location looked onto the roof of the rest of the Venetian complex, and not much else, so any stunning vista of the strip was a world away, replaced by endless vents and ducts and fans. When I checked in I had asked for a higher floor so I could take photos and do them a little promotional favor, but they weren’t having it.

Browsing the pamphlets on the hotel desk, I read that they recently received another 5-diamond AAA award, which seemed at odds with the two blown light bulbs in the bathroom and hallway, as well as the electrical outlet which the front desk tells me to simply reset, as it occasionally goes out. The holes in the pillowcases were disappointing, as were a few questionable stains on the couch, but those are nit-picky items – just unexpected for all the five-star billing that they’re so keen on advertising.

Overlooking all of that, I was determined to have fun, and to surprise my birthday mate Kim. The whole point of this trip was to meet up with JoAnn and Kim, and surprise the latter for her birthday. JoAnn and I hatched the surprise dinner at Tao a few weeks ago. We weren’t sure we could do it – a secret like that is too good to keep – but after putting an embargo on all things Vegas in FaceBook and my website, and only telling a few close friends of our plan, we looked set to pull it off. I dabbed on some of Tom Ford’s ‘Italian Cypress’ cologne – hey, when at the Venetian… and made my way down to V Bar to await the appointed moment.

Next to me, a woman with a 20’s-style bob, decked out in a sparkling, spaghetti-strap sequin dress, sits next to a man whom I assume is her husband, and whose outfit pales in comparison (a rather touristy striped polo shirt and khakis). I wonder if she is the slightest bit disappointed – her face is made-up perfectly, a slash of dark lipstick matches the severity of her bob. Her black earrings sparkle, catching what little light surrounds us.

The bartender has made an admirable effort, so I stay for one more drink before joining the girls at Tao. From the tray of nuts he has placed before me, I take a single walnut. It reminds me of Gram – and there, in a strange city, by myself at the bar, this melancholy memory makes me feel even more alone.

There is an exquisite joy – and sometimes grave pain – in being out of one’s element in a land far from home.

I admire Mr. Ford for keeping it real in the chest hair area, as well as for wearing this suit. I even like that we get to see so much of his fur. But personally, I doubt I could ever pull off such an unbuttoned look. It’s just so… low. Then again, Mr. Ford’s office is probably a little different from mine. (I’m guessing he gets more than a cubicle.)

David Beckham’s new Bodywear line will be distributed by… H&M? Well, if it’s good enough for Madonna… I suppose it will do for Mr. Beckham. I was just expecting something different. When the logo for his new line was revealed (as seen above) it had echoes of Tom Ford (font-wise) and a cool bit of mystery (even with the tattoos). For a moment, I thought he might impress me – and he still may – but H&M usualy isn’t all that impressive – not even if it’s Madonna – and Beckham is no Madonna.

That said, I’ll be first in line to step into Beckham’s underwear, just so I can say that again.