A shell of discarded clothing.
A rumpled mound of wrinkled fabric.
A cottony corpse of crumpled threads, woven together into something more.
How colorful the world can be, if you pull on the right underwear.
But be wary: there are trade-offs for such gaudiness.
No one can stand a star that burns too brightly.
Today is the day the granite countertop gets installed, and the last major part of the kitchen is, at long last, implemented. We’ve been in a bit of limbo waiting for the template and the granite to be cut, unable to do any serious cooking yet as the sink is not in, and cleaning dishes proves impossible in our little guest bathroom sink. Still, we’re on schedule, and I’m in the midst of preparing the new curtains and re-upholstering the chairs in the dining room, so a little extra time is welcome.
I’ve purposely refrained from posting any additional photos of the progress, as I’m thinking of waiting until the finished product is complete and doing the big ‘After’ reveal. Of course, I will likely give a few hints before then. And so, the limbo continues – no photos, no Instagrams, no spectacular Hump Day treat. Instead, a quiet nod of ongoing work, perpetual improvement ~ the passing of winter about to get a little easier.
When the weather turned dismal and dreary, and rain made walking in Boston a bit of a drag, I stopped in for an early showing of ‘American Hustle’. Despite getting some rave reviews, I was hesitant about it. The 70’s were never quite as glamorous as people always seem to want to make them out to be. Flared collars, polyester, John Travolta? No thanks. But after the first twenty minutes or so (which were almost unbearably dull to me), the story took over, the performances coalesced, and the rest of the ride was pretty impressive.
If I’m going to be completely honest, though, the real stars of the movie were as follows:
Amy Adams’ side-cleavage. Hello halters.
Bradley Cooper’s impossibly-tight perm. Hello poodle.
Christian Bale’s pot belly. Hello piggy.
Jennifer Lawrence’s lip-gloss. Hello sexy.
If any of those entities fails to win an award, it will be robbery. Sheer robbery.
Eleven years ago this month I started www.ALANILAGAN.com. It had about 2 visitors (myself and my webmaster), twenty photos, twenty written works, and a vainglorious ‘About Me’ section overflowing with hubris. Over a decade later, we get a million hits on a good day (two million on one recent great day), and last year we clocked in over 100 million hits in total. Those numbers ring deceptively high, as hits aren’t an accurate gauge on how many people are visiting your site. Unique visitors, however, are – and we now get over 100,000 a month. That’s peanuts for most big-time websites, but for a personal blog about an often-off-putting prick like myself, it’s pretty damn impressive.
Anniversaries are a bigger deal here than they are in real life, mostly because it’s easier to link to the past online than in person. Madonna anniversaries, wedding anniversaries, and big ten-year anniversaries (and their hyped-up spin-off posts) get a lot of the glory, mostly because this is the one area of indulgence wherein I get to look back. So let’s do that for this morning.
While I don’t usually like to do it, sometimes the only way to move forward is by looking back. Examining what worked and what didn’t, what went well, and what went to shit. With an arc of eleven years, it’s easier to see patterns of happiness or distress, moments of melancholy and moments of contentment. Overall, though, even with all the troughs and peaks, you have to admit that I’ve kept things pretty steady, at least on this website – perhaps the only aspect of life over which I have complete control. As such, it is probably one of the purest places to find the truth – at least, as much of the truth that I’m going to reveal to the world at large. And, that’s actually quite a bit.
Thank you – yes, you – for visiting. Not just today, but for any day you’ve taken the time to stop by and peruse the silly antics, man candy, and Madonna moments that I post here not only for my entertainment, but for yours. I used to think that I did this solely for myself, but over the years it’s become more than that, and while we may never be as interactive as some sites, don’t think that I can’t sense you and feel you and appreciate you, out there in the dark. If you want to step out into the light and introduce yourself, you are always welcome to contact me directly at alanilagan1[@]gmail.com.
Happy 11th Anniversary – to us.
Torn between the Golden Globes and a new episode of ‘Downton Abbey’ (and in the absence of a DVR), I opted for both. Well, I interrupted the Golden Globes for the new ‘DA’, and all I missed was a crazed-looking Jared Leto (haven’t we all seen that already anyway?) Anyway, here are my bitchy takes on how the evening, and its gowns, unfolded. (BTW, can Tina Fey and Amy Poehler host every awards show from here on out? Pretty please?)
Amy Adams – The side-boob worked in ‘American Hustle’. Set in the 1970’s. Do the math.
Lupita Nyong’o – Stunning in a red cape by Ralph Lauren. (Some of us did a red cape two years ago, but whatever…)
Cate Blanchett – One of my favorite red-carpet ladies makes me wish it was more permissible for men to wear sheer lace. Oh screw it, I’m gonna do it anyway.
Matthew McConaughey– Usually I find tuxedos boring, but that Dolce & Gabbana may have made me a believer.
Wait a second, who is reviewing these fashions? Where is the vitriol?
Sandra Bullock – All you need is circus peanut orange!
Jennifer Lawrence – I love you too much to say what I feel about that dress.
Clearly the person in charge of the seating chart never thought Jacqueline Bisset would win. As for the acceptance speech, all I heard was “Shit. Go to hell.†No, literally – that’s all that the editing allowed through. I loved it!
Whom can I blame for all this side-cleavage? I want names.
Paula Patton – Careful, Ruffles come with ridges.
I missed Jared Leto. Was it really that bad?
Emma Stone – That hair. No
Diane Keaton – Still on the Drag King kick after all these years, but since getting a proper tailor she finally made it work.
There are currently two television programs I’m watching (which is one more than is typical of me) ~ ‘American Horror Story’ and ‘Downton Abbey’. That about sums up my frame of mind, and my pathology in general. Taken together, they are a clash of cultures and sensibilities, and in many ways they couldn’t be more different. Yet I love them both. Such disparate taste makes it difficult for people to peg me, and all of those ‘If you like this, try this…’ Pandora-like recommendations that Amazon and other companies try to sell always fall flat. Just because I like Madonna doesn’t mean I’ll like Kylie Minogue. Most humans are too nuanced and capricious for such grand generalizations.
Occasionally they work: I was introduced to Jo Malone through all my Tom Ford purchases, and it’s been a nice working relationship thus far – nothing serious yet, but I’m open to pursuing something. Mostly, though, I ignore the pre-programmed suggestions. There’s something grotesque about being that predictable. No matter how accurate your algorithms may be, I will always surprise you. Just when you think I’m going to go straight for the new Tom Ford Private Blend, I’ll take an Hermes detour. And just when you think you have me pegged to an Hermes T, I’ll splash on a simple essential oil from Aveda.
As for ‘American Horror Story’ and ‘Downtown Abbey’, I’m quite enjoying the current season of each. The former, in its ‘Coven’ incarnation, is, I believe, enjoying its best season thus far. Jessica Lange and Angela Bassett are chewing up the scenery right and left, and the over-the-top antics (everybody seems to come back from the dead, for better or worse) continually manage to surprise and delight in their sickness. ‘Downton’ on the other hand continues to entrance with its own dichotomous study of the upstairs versus downstairs life at the Abbey. And there we have the duality that has always appealed to me. Like Batman and Wonder Woman, we are always more than one person. Most of us are several. Some, quite a bit more. Don’t make me choose a favorite.
The best part of not having a Christmas tree this year is not having to take one down. Usually I look around at the Christmas trees on the street at this time of the year with shame and disgrace (because ours often doesn’t get taken down until Valentine’s Day). This year I see them and smile in relief and glee.
Returning to our table at Shogun, I see Andy snickering and shielding his mouth behind his hand as he whispers, “Wouldn’t it be funny if that was Max?”
“What? Who’s Max?” I ask.
“What are the odds?” he asks in return.
“Who is Max??” I repeat.
“The kid who cut his finger off,” he says with a grin.
I turn around and look at the table behind us. A college-age kid sits before his sushi, a finger on his left hand bandaged in white. I look back at Andy, recalling that neither of us has ever seen the guy who lost part of his finger on a saw in our garage.
“Go ask him!” I exclaim. He shakes his head.
I hop off my chair and approach the table.
“Can I ask you how you hurt your finger?” I say, interrupting his conversation with a young woman.
“Oh, I cut it on a saw…”
“In someone’s garage?” I cut in.
He looks at me quizzically and says yes.
“That was our garage,” I explain, and by that time Andy is already over shaking his hand. And apologizing.
The odds of running into the guy who just cut his finger off while working on your construction project have got to be pretty low, but there we were, shaking hands – the good hand, at least – with that very man. We made some small talk – it turns out everyone knows someone who’s lost a finger – and then left them to their meal.
At the end of it, we bought Max and his date their dinner, figuring it was the least we could do. Hopefully the gods of kitchen karma have been somewhat mollified, and there will be no disembodied fingers haunting the garage.
(PS – Andy made me take the picture – and good-sport Max was game.)
We’ve had quite the frigid spell of late, which has kept me house-bound more than I’d like, and made things doubly-difficult when in the midst of home improvements and a far-from-fully-functional kitchen. However, progress continues, and that forms the majority of what went on here this past week. (New Year’s in Boston posts to come… if you’re good.)
Christmas came but a short while ago, but I still want More.
Lucky #13: the end of a project.
The year came to a not-quite-perfect close, but that made for a not-quite-uninteresting epic recap: Part 1, Part 2, and Part 3.
Since the word of the year was ‘selfie‘, let’s look to James Franco to tell us all about it.
The days and nights may have grown bitterly cold, but there were naked male celebrities to keep things hot, especially with the shirtless likes of Brent Corrigan, Tyson Ballou, Ben Cohen, David Agbodji, Clarke Wesley, Brad Kroenig, and Wilson Cruz.
Even more exciting than a bunch of nude male celebrities. however, was the renovation of our kitchen. It’s come a long way, from the bare bones and wooden studs to an orange floor and the first bit of light at the end of the tunnel. There was a minor missing-finger-mishap, but the end result is coming together, and already looking like it’s going to be worth it all.
Throughout it all, my other home in Boston provided safety and sanctuary.
From their album ‘Pale Sun, Crescent Moon’, this is a Cowboy Junkies tune entitled ‘Cold Tea Blues’ – the perfect soundtrack for a snowy day. Sometimes it’s best to let songs speak for themselves – and for you – without my interruption.
The third and final installment of the Year in Review finishes with the fall and the start of winter. There are riches in the last months of a calendar year, buried treasures in the final stretches of the holiday season. And this last look back, much as I abhor looking back, is the best way to prepare the way ahead.
Music led the month, with such memorable songs as ‘Alone‘, ‘The Sunset Room‘, ‘When I Fall‘, and ‘Autumn Leaves‘.
London is the new black, and it will happen if I have to go on my honeymoon alone (which would make it the anti-honeymoon, as some things are non-negotiable).
Flapjacking off, poaching down, driving home, taking it all off, drinking it all down, and doing it in bed.
This was plum crazy, by way of Tom Ford.
Nine out of thirteen, and how it all began.
Down to my chakras.
Doing it doggy style, trying to recreate North End magic, and a decent cock.
There was nothing miserable about this production. And I have high hopes for this one as well.
One of my favorite posts of all-time.
Yes, I’m addicted. There, I said it. I’m a sinner, too. Dream on.
Put it in my mouth, fill me up, then piss on this.
Put some bass into it. Like David Beckham’s ass.
Just for the smell of it.
Ten.
October usually means a last stop in Ogunquit, before the season turns, and a first climb up the mountain.
A Madonna milestone, almost – and everything that came before ~ Part 1 and Part 2.
One of my favorite straight guys in the world.
For baseball season, I squeezed myself into a jockstrap again. And again… And one last time. And the ones that were too hot for FaceBook and Instagram.
A plan set into motion, and a bit of caffeine forgiveness.
A naked Zac Efron, for real.
Mounting it ~ Part 1, Part 2, and Part 3 ~ because sometimes it takes three times.
It’s all about popular, in the cold November Rain.
The Madonna Complex.
Home has always been a hotel, preferably in a city distant and exciting. Like Washington.
Keeping my pants on when friends are near.
And taking my pants off when alone.
Dress you up… Red, gold, and green.
Was this the most important announcement of the year? Maybe…
Holiday Strolling, with a very dear friend.
The best kind of blue is Tiffany blue.
I don’t know why, but music will always move me, in giddy ways too.
A surprise trip to Dallas, to get away from everything, came just in time ~ in time for an ice storm.
A dozen. A preview. And a song for winter.
Holidays cards past and present, naked and clothed. Memories unmasked.
Simply put, a masterpiece.
One of my favorite months of the year, May is always glorious in New England. The spring is ripe and full, and the first tantalizingly sun-drenched hints of the summer to come sparkle on the petals of flowering trees.
That time of year is burned even deeper into memory by a love song. Or a pair of songs. Or a memory that has yet to be made.
May also brings me back to our wedding in Boston – here, here, here, here, and here.
This woman never fails to thrill. Especially when telling Papa not to preach.
Thank God FaceBook was not around in the 90′s.
Not just good, great. But even then there is room for reinterpretation.
Growing up, and moving on.
Hung.
Heaven in a little orange shopping bag, courtesy of Hermes.
Of art and friendship, and interior design.
Up in the cherry tree, on a warm spring night.
It’s not easy being green, take it from the frog.
Here comes the rain again.
A secret path to start the first month of summer, where songs in the night whisper of hope and longing, or tell tales of early-morning madness.
A great party for a great cause (and a great boater hat).
Junes means roses and dogwoods and peonies – bucketfuls of peonies, spilling over and scenting the air around all. The climbers are up and about now too, as evidenced by this clematis. But the most fragrant of them all is the magnificent mockorange.
It also means fresh vegetables and herbs, some garden-grown, some market-purchased – all delicious. The grill was in effect too, allowing for wonderful yet simple meals like this.
The mantle of a lady. The poppy of celadon.
Six of one, half a dozen of another.
Summer fun with the twins.
Hitting Broadway with my mother, and my best friend, for ‘Kinky Boots‘ and ‘Pippin‘.
Nobody rocks a top hat harder than Madonna in Dietrich mode.
The pool. And accompanying cocktail. And requisite Speedo shots. Plus, skinny-dipping!
Enchanted by the sun… and even though it’s not needed, some things are still very much wanted.
I finally met my favorite stalker, and it was well-worth the wait.
High summer was crowned by a Super Moon, and I don’t mean my ass, or these butts either.
Eating well continued, with offerings from the grill and summer cocktails in full effect. There was a lychee drink, there were beets, things got Bloody, and things got sweet. Sometimes we got muddled, sometimes we got tart, and sometimes we kept it simple.
More summer fun in the pool with the kids and the family, along with some naked alone time. (Because some people can’t wrap their heads around that juxtaposition.)
This is my kind of weed. This one is pretty weedy too.
I was finally getting the hang of Instagram.
July marked a milestone for this site (which would be surpassed in later months). It also marked the time I was unceremoniously booted out of Starbucks!
A rare, but welcome, trip to Maine for the wedding of our pals Eric and Lonnie ended as it traditionally does. Before that, however, was this amazing stop in Portland, where Andy wore yellow pants. Ogunquit was in full, high-summer bloom, but I was too consumed with consuming. The beach was blooming too, but the moon was manifesting its tricky emotional machinations.
Stepping out on Tom Ford, but only if it’s with Hermes.
My 20th high school reunion was proof that I graduated from high school at age 5.
Boston is magical and mysterious in August. But so is our backyard when the right people populate it. Still, Boston beckoned with its charm and beauty, so did what came after the bridge – and high into the sky. Even when you have to say good-bye.
Summer: Season of the Speedo. And mooning the camera. And poolside cocktails.
Poach me, tie me, bitch-slap me, sniff me, disrobe me, and make it hard.
Wait, not Bill Murray, Chevy Chase, right?
An introduction to Mary Oliver, and the wonder of poetry. And figs, because God loves figs.
Summer music, makes me feel so happy-sad, even when it makes one Misty. Time to talk about such things that go on in the life of a day.
My birthday celebration was a quiet one, and by request we went to The Mount, Edith Wharton’s home, which was just a brief drive from Albany.
Outwardly, it doesn’t feel like 2013 was very eventful. Inwardly, though, there were some major cosmic shifts, some seen only in the rippling echo of a few subtle posts. This was the year that you had to read between the lines if you wanted the full picture, as I tend to not talk about family issues or relationships issues or any of the issues that most people want to hear me talk about. That’s the gloriously infuriating fun of this site – at least for me. Still, revelations were there for the finding, if one bothered to read closely enough and wade through the smut. Here, then, is 2013, in a nutshell:
The year kicked off with the tenth anniversary of this very website. Since 2003, I’ve been bringing this site into your homes and lap-tops, through your iPhones and Galaxies, and, for the more progressive locations, into your work places. Ten years is an eternity in the blogging world, and I’m a dinosaur in this game, but I like it that way. This tortoise is in it for the long haul.
A childhood memory, conjured by a sofa-sharing moment with my brother on New Year’s Day, was brought to life by the Gummi Bears. His kids also greeted the New Year with these precious smiles.
The Boston condo was the best place to ride out a winter storm, and it’s been keeping me safe and warm since 1995. It’s hard to beat Boston for a momentary Winter Wonderland.
One of Madonna’s greatest songs was selected for the Madonna Timeline ~ ‘Live to Tell‘. Yet it was newer fare like ‘Falling Free‘ that proved she still held sway over my musical affections.
A fun hotel romp, literary-style.
This dressing gown, a wedding gift, inspired more memories than I initially thought.
A new project received the quietest release I’ve ever done. Without the hype and hoopla, ’13’ began with a whisper.
My naked romp on a couch got more notice. So did this naked romp on a bed. And this naked moment in the shower.
Shooting the football shit with my brother.
Sometimes the only thing you can do is run.
I love a surprise, especially when it involves traveling. Several notable surprise trips were made this year, starting with this one to Washington, DC, which included a stop at one of my favorite fancy watering holes. And some hotel sauciness. But skip all of that and go to the condensed versions: Parts 1, 2, 3 and 4. Or just go here to see the underwear pics. (And the naked ones.)
It was a family affair honoring my Dad’s lifetime of work, and an overdue acknowledgement of all that he’s done.
A new series (which has fallen by the wayside of later, until I hear back from Taylor Hudson and Ben Cohen) premiered in January ~ The Straight Ally Profile. The very first installment – and the one that remains my personal favorite – was this profile on my friend Skip Montross.
Music continued to provide one of the main touchstones of inspiration for many of my posts, including this musing on a classic standard, along with this Sam Cooke treasure (that also includes an ‘Adventures in Babysitting’ anecdote) and a weekend with the twins – in a robe, no less. Peter, Paul and Mary provided another blast from the childhood past with ‘Leaving on a Jet Plane‘.
I love posting photos of naked men (myself included) that also feature favorite quotes from books I want people to read. One of the hallmarks of this site is hopefully the spoonful of sugar (nude males) that helps the medicine (writing) go down.
Try one, eat some.
New bedding.
Another new semi-regular feature of this site was established in February, with The Couple Profile. The first one is a favorite because it features these two amazing gentlemen.
Second verse, not quite the same as the first.
Tom Ford is my naked obsession.
Waiting for a new bed in Boston was surprisingly peaceful. As was lounging around in my underwear, and even unpacking and undressing. I blame James Baldwin for making me take my clothes off.
February was not too early for picking up a bouquet of daffodils and praying for the speedy arrival of spring.
It supposedly comes in like a lion and out like a lamb, but in between could mean all sort of craziness. Especially when one is felled by a nasty stomach virus. And you thought I was a brat before…
Fittingly, March marked the Madonna Timeline with this ‘Ray of Light’ entry. That epic album (to date, Madonna’s best) enjoyed its fifteenth anniversary.
Another one of my favorite albums of all time was by James, Laid. I love every single song in that collection. Music still has the power to make me cry.
Boston is often more enjoyable when shared with a dear friend. Or when it gets christened by brand new bedding.
Third time around.
As a child, I was severely traumatized by a certain frightening Easter Bunny. This past year, I overcame that fear with this unexpected Easter Brunch catharsis.
April flowers brought Boston back to bloom, and Boston Chops proved it was the meat and not the motion. Yet it was the Boston Marathon bombing that moved and united us the most.
When spring is carried in on the night wind, songs like this bring back adolescent memories. And sometimes songs like this one by Bon Jovi go back even further.
Does this inspire you?
April is usually the month that the gardens come fully back to life, but that doesn’t mean the battle is over. All the lessons of life can be found there. Weep not for the Lenten rose. Everything can be accomplished as long as there is a proper plan. And event if there isn’t, there can be peace in that too.
After hemming and hawing about starting an Intagram account, I finally did it. And soon enough naked-ass pics like this were being banned.
There once was a time when Madonna scared me.
But it was nowhere near as frightening as my pornstache. Or the wall-paper that goes with it.
This sort of thing only happens once a century. Not super-thrilled that this was that once-a-century moment.
Windmill and bridge, on the edge of a Cape.
Albany disappoints on a number of cocktail levels. Except in cases of statuary.
It was the year of learning.
It was the year of explosions, outward and inward – in the city I loved and the homes I thought I knew, in the culture of acceptance and the name of liberty, in political wars and social embattlements.
It was the year Miley Cyrus stole everyone’s thunder, but Madonna still made the most money.
It was the year I learned, from the wisdom of friends old and new, that being unhappy is quite different from being depressed.
It was the year I learned too that when the people who love you the most try to help without listening, it usually ends up hurting. (And a year in which I wondered why so many things done in the name of love result in the name of the opposite.)
It was the year I longed to be so many places other than where I was at any given time.
It was the year I learned to escape.
It was the year where renovation was begun for both the soul and the kitchen.
It was the year I learned how to cook.
It was the year Tom Daley surpassed David Beckham and Ben Cohen in hotness.
It was the year I had to pretend I was wrong to prove that I was right. (But in all fairness that’s every fucking year.)
It was the last year I do the above.
It was the year I almost started to doubt myself, but almost learned to let it go instead.
It was the year this website had 17 million hits in a single month – topping out at 2 million on one otherwise-lackluster day.
It was the year I finally understood that a stranger 3000 miles away could understand me better than some of the people I’ve known for 30 years.
It was the year of transition. And it isn’t over yet.
