Category Archives: General

While it’s certainly cold enough for it, it’s not as wet as most winters tend to be, and I’m not mad about it. Kira and I were loosely tossing around the idea of going skiing this year (at her insistence), and decided we would look into some resorts. (After my first, and last, skiing fiasco in the late 80’s, I’ve rather gone off the sport – but that’s another Suzie cruelty story that will need to be told another time, and not in the flimsy mid-day post.) I promised Kira I would support her 100%, from the cozy perch of a fireside lounge, with a Manhattan in my hand and a cashmere scarf around my neck.

Oh February, you wretched thing, please have some happy surprises stored in your cold heart. And I don’t mean Valentine’s Day either (though I will update my Amazon Wish list for those looking to appease my romantic nature, ahem). It’s time to get those doilies out and make out some Valentine’s Day cards. It’s also time to hunker down and make some soup. On this first day of the month, I offer a messy post of miscellany for Februarys past.

Random shit like jockstraps, Superbowls, Shameless movies, Beckham’s bulge and oh so much more. Narcissus, nests, nudity, & new bedding. More incongruous stuff like male models, Tibetan singing bowls, and manic Mondays. (I can’t even talk about all the zaniness of February 2015, and neither should you.) But do revisit last year’s February mayhem, with some Naked Madonna, ruinous beauty, Anderson Cooper and brotherly love.

PS – February is National Bird Feeding Month. How ridiculous.

Earlier this month, and completely forgotten by me, we celebrated (or rather didn’t celebrate) the unheralded 14th anniversary of this website. ALANILAGAN.com premiered in January of 2003, which makes it one of the oldest personal blogs out there. If we compute the age of blogs in the same manner in which we compute the human age of dogs, this little space would be a whopping 98 years old, which, given my stiff neck, feels about right. I take a small bit of pride in the fact that I’ve been doing this for far longer than most other bloggers, but it’s just a bit. The truth is that this is a labor of love, an outlet of creative expression that takes the place of a diary, a project, and an artistic gambit all at once. I’d be doing this with or without an audience, but from the responses I get, I’m very thankful we’re on this road together.

“It’s so much friendlier with two.”

There’s not much fanfare traditionally made over 14 years, and I’m fine with that. Perhaps next year we’ll do something bigger. For now, it will be enough to get through this morning post without boring myself to tears. If I think back to my own fourteen-year-old moment, we’re in for a wild and wonderful ride.

It arrives tomorrow, but here’s a quick look back at another January or four before this one departs. (I don’t know anyone who’s sorry to see it go.)

January 2012 found a mixed bag of familiar places and faces, including Madonna, New York City, and straight allies.

January 2013 brought us to Washington, DC (long before the swamp moved in), family and friends, some nakedness, and some more Madonna.

January 2014 lifted us out of a kitchen renovation, thanks to Andy and some other friends.

January 2015 displayed an onslaught of Hunks, trickery, and Tom Ford.

And last January took us back to Boston, candlelight, and beauty.

Ho-hum, tweedle-dee-dum, it’s another damn Monday, and another damn weekly recap, mostly because who wants to face the start of another work week when we can look back for a moment and I’ve in the glorious past? I don’t give a hoot, you’re getting a recap regardless. See, when I’m tired and uninspired, I get silly and stupid. Deal with it, or move on. On with the doings of the past week!

Tyson Beckford got naked in motion, because there’s nothing better than a nude male GIF.

I got naked on Instagram because I like a big… following.

I also had a big stiff one that lasted way longer than necessary.

Poof! Be gone.

Music for mobsters.

A visitor in the night.

Back on the road, and naked again.

You broke the boy in me, but you won’t break the man.

Flower Bomb Balm: Part Three, Part Four, and Part Five.

Fill in the missing Hunk.

Acts of love and defiance.

The Hunks of the Day took a trip around the globe, including such luminaries as Adam Rippon, Paolo Amores, Gabriel Loureiro, Anatoly Goncharov, Dylan Sprayberry, & Ryan Stack.

Sometimes love can be the most defiant move you make.

Making up for the missing Hunk of Yesterday, here is a brief collection of previous Hunks striking brand new poses. Hey, it’s Sunday, a time for shirtlessness and laziness – and a time to come home. Enjoy the guy candy/eye candy/man candy/David Gandy moment.

Chris Pratt got naked the last time he appeared here, and prior to that he was also a Hunk of the Day.

Simon Dunn is always a joy to behold, as evidenced by this post. Or this post. Or this post. Well, you get the idea.

Austin Armacost has made a career off his ass alone, and here’s why. You want another one? Bam.

Tom Daley is such a hit here that he has his own category. Click it and flick it.

Ashley Parker Angel has certainly been sent from above; his body is simply heavenly. (Sorry, but hotness precedes cheesiness.)

And finally, Adam Gumula is even better when doubled.

The footprints led away from our front door, then down the path to the driveway. A fresh coat of snow allowed for them to be seen clearly, and the impressions were strange, as each ‘finger’ was clearly delineated, and longer than that of a cat or a squirrel. An opossum perhaps? Maybe one of those bandits – a raccoon?

I don’t know, but it’s both a comfort and a terror to think of what goes on here after I’m asleep.

Meant to evoke the political bickering on Twitter, this is an art installation that shows two clouds in battle. The end result is always the same.

It wasn’t as bad as this, but it was enough to keep me out of work for a day. Just another sign of my advancing age, I must have slept the wrong way on my neck the other night, as I am in deep pain right now, unable to turn my head without moving my entire body. Cue Mr. Roboto.

It started slowly, as the worst ones always do. I awoke feeling a little off, with just a slight soreness in my neck and shoulder area. I’d been actively taking it easy these past few days (there’s effort to that, I swear) so I knew there wasn’t an instance of overdoing anything. (Underdoing, perhaps.) As the day progressed, so did the pain, but at this point in my life, after several back episodes, I know how to carry myself to prevent further injury. Engage the stomach muscles, bend at the knees, go smooth and fluidly, and don’t force or make sudden jerky movements. Still, the pain in my neck grew. By nightfall, it was in full spasm, just as the ice storm began.

I like being inside during such a thing. The crackling of ice pellets against the skylight and windows is a soothing sound. Curled up with a book and a cup of tea, beneath a soft blanket and cradled by a conversation couch, I usually find peace and comfort as the wind rages outside. On this night, I could not get comfortable, no matter how I contorted my position. After asking Andy if we had a heating pad (we don’t) I did the next best thing and hopped in a very hot shower, where I let the water hit the sore spot and do its best to relax all my rigidness. The effect was minor at best, and I rolled myself carefully into bed with the hope that sleep would work its own magic.

At 3:42 AM my neck woke me up – the first time I’ve ever been awakened by pain. It’s as awful as it sounds. I managed to sit up on the edge of the bed and let out a whimper like some injured animal. I don’t cry easily (well, except for flash mobs) but I almost did. Stress, tension, and exhaustion can fell the mightiest non-crier, and I thought I was about to go down. Andy reminded me of the prescription for pain pills when my back went out a few years ago, and though it had expired in 2015, I took one, figuring it couldn’t hurt. The instructions said to take it with a lot of water and not to lie down for ten minutes. Great.

I walked out of the bathroom light and down the dim hallway. In the living room, the sound of ice falling down was still soothingly playing along the windows and roof. I wouldn’t be able to go into work, but there are worse things than being stuck home in the midst of an ice storm. Two birds with one stone, and all that. I thought about what might be causing my neck such stress – that’s where tension builds and collects until something like this happens. I leaned against the wall to support myself, and waited the full ten minutes before climbing carefully back into bed.

A blatant, empty, vapid place marker for better things, but such is the essence of the mid-day post. I consider it a cheat post because it’s really a link to a much more interesting site: Vogue. Not for fashion this time, but for a list of some of the funniest Instagram accounts. Just go there and follow. It’s an Instagram kind of day.

As FaceBook and Twitter turn into political hotbeds of lies and deceit, I’ve been turning my attention to Instagram, which is a much more enjoyable experience these days. It’s just very difficult to argue with photographic evidence of things because, well… photographs. There’s also less room for political discourse and raving, and best of all there are no pesky links (despite my own ubiquitous ALANILAGAN.com branding). They still don’t like a woman’s nipple or a man’s penis (flaccid or erect) but they’re less hypocritical than, say, FaceBook when it comes to the human body.

I also get some pearls of wisdom from those whom I follow. I hardly ever LOL – in reality or on social media – but I did just that when I read this Instagram meme: “Treat life like a dick. When it gets hard, fuck it.” Hey, I didn’t write it. I only read it. And re-posted it. Cuz it’s funny.

Kinda like my Instagram account, which is a pictorial essay in ridiculousness. From my naked ass to a cookie, we cover any kind of sweet you want. We’ve got savory things too, from a bowl of pho to my sheathed cock. Jewels and jocks, cocktails and cockteases, Frangelico and freesias – there’s a smorgasbord of stuff to astound and dismay. With Ringling Brothers closing shop, there’s got to be a repository for the circus element. I’m happy to oblige. Save your side-eye; follow mine.

I will do my best to avoid and ignore the travesty that is the new President, because we don’t entertain the lying or the treasonous here.  There will be a few political posts from time to time, but that’s never been what this place is about, and to that end I’ll do my best to keep things light and frivolous. This is a bastion of beauty and art, and a celebration of joy and prettiness. Looking back on the last week, let’s see how well I did.

It began on a hopeful-enough note: words from Martin Luther King Jr.

We celebrated my Mom’s birthday.

Some people have called me Heloise. (Just kidding.)

Is this my new spirit animal? I think it may be.

Throwing it back to a 70’s shower stall.

Man candy came in the likable forms of Nico Tortorella and a naked Jude Law.

The Madonna Timeline returned as she took us on an ‘Inside Out’ journey.

Watch this Feud.

I made a banana trifle! And you can too!

A pink cacophony.

The hawk in winter.

Hair stems.

Hunks of the Day included this featured guy.

The maidenhair fern takes its common name partly from the way its black stems look after the foliage has been taken by the cold. Mounds of dark-hair are all that’s left in its winter places, signifying a fallen heroine, but also the promise of beauty to come. Despite their delicate appearance, these ferns are hardy even in the cruel environs of upstate New York.

This specimen was growing in a greenhouse, so it probably does deserve a delicate reputation. I’ve never grown these indoors, and I’m hesitant to do so because the air is so dry at this time of the year. I may chance putting one in a terrarium of sorts if I can find a unique and pretty one, but part of me doesn’t want to risk it. I’d feel terrible if I ended up ruining one of these gorgeous plants.

For now, I’ll keep it in the garden room of my imagination.

There’s a different kind of brilliance to the blue of sky at the height of winter. On the days when it’s not overcast or gray, when the sun is shining and the clouds have disappeared, it has a clarity that can only come from cold air. When it forms the backdrop to a hawk taking flight, it’s even more striking.

Being that we’re not outside as much in this season, I don’t notice the hawks as much as I do in the summer. They’re also less noisy at this time of the year. When the one pictured here took off into the air there was nothing but silence.

Winter is like that. Even with the wind and snowstorms, there is a silence and stillness to the slumbering season that’s different from summer. Maybe it’s the lack of insects singing in the night, the absence of any annoying buzz of a mosquito or cry of a hungry toad. Or maybe in winter I’m always in such a rush to get somewhere warm that I don’t take the time to listen to the sounds of the season opening up.

The hawk swoops among the pine trees, gliding swiftly through the sky in graceful arcs. Soaring over all, it is resplendent in the sunlight, backed by a lovely shade of blue. A predator airborne, its shadow sends rodents scurrying when it doesn’t succeed in a surprise attack. Amid such beauty, an element of danger.

The hawk recedes into the blue, without whoosh of wind or scrape of bark. Power can be still. Power can be silent. True power has no need to scream or put on a show. A flash of a red tail puts the ground below on notice. We are watching.