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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04
February
2010
Tags: Gratuitous Nudity, Naked Male Celebrities, Olympics
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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?

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29
January
2010
Tags: Gay Marriage
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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.)

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18
January
2010
Tags: Boston
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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.)

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12
January
2010
Tags: Madonna
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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.

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08
January
2010
Tags: Music
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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.

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06
January
2010
Tags: Literature
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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.

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04
January
2010
Tags: General
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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.)

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07
June
2009
Tags: Gay, Gay Marriage, General
1 comment

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

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