Category Archives: Madonna

01
December
2011
Tags: General, Madonna, Music
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The Madonna Timeline: Song #57 – ‘Little Star’ ~ Spring 1998

{Note: The Madonna Timeline is an ongoing feature, where I put the iPod on shuffle, and write a little anecdote on whatever was going on in my life when that Madonna song was released and/or came to prominence in my mind.}

Never forget who you are, Little Star
Never forget how to dream
Butterfly
God gave a present to me
Made of flesh and bones
My life, my soul
You make my spirit whole.

This is a non-traditional Madonna Timeline, going back to something I wrote ten years ago, and an event that happened twenty years ago. The song is ‘Little Star’, from 1998’s epochal ‘Ray of Light.’ The hazy fog of early Spring is trying to arrive, while the chill of Winter has not yet limped off. The musical beauty of the entire ‘Ray of Light’ album finds a highlight here, with its light, skittering beats, but soothing overall lullaby-ish feel. An ode to her newborn daughter Lourdes, it is a heartfelt gem of motherly love and a wistful blessing for her baby’s future.

Never forget who you are
Little star
Shining brighter than all the stars in the sky
Never forget how to dream
Butterfly
Never forget where you come from
From love

Yet as personal as Madonna’s songs can sometimes be, they speak on a universal level as well, and for me this will always remind me of the story I wrote for a now-defunct newspaper back in Amsterdam, NY. As I wrote it, I listened to this song on repeat, felt the thawing of a long upstate Winter, and the new breeze of Spring. My story has little to do with the song, but somehow the melody, the yearning, the wish for something good came to be a part of what I was writing. The love of a mother for her child also has resonance here, in heartbreaking ways.

You are a treasure to me
You are my star
You breathe new life
Into my broken heart…

It’s been over twenty years since the boy in the following story killed himself. There are songs that were popular then that take me instantly back to those dark days that followed – ‘Hard to Say Good-bye’, ‘Save the Best for Last’ – but it’s this one that has come to symbolize the healing powers of time, the way life continues to go on, no matter how devastating the moment. In some ways it’s like it never happened, and in others it’s like that was all that had ever happened.

The Boys of McNulty
(Written for The Sidewalks, Spring 2001)

We were never supposed to have been friends. By high school he was a popular jock and I was a dorky honors student. He played basketball while I played the oboe. We didn’t exactly travel in the same circles. In the end we both gave in a little, distancing ourselves from one another and pretending the past had never happened. But I can’t forget. It’s been almost ten years since this city lost Jeffrey Johnson, and still I can’t forget.

We were far from good friends during our waning years of high school. Though our lockers were close together, there couldn’t have been two more outwardly different guys. It didn’t start off that way. In the beginning we were equals, similar in many ways. We both went to R.J. McNulty Elementary School, we both lived in the Van Dyke area, and we were both lovingly brought up by two good parents. Jeff and I each had different best friends, but the boys in the honors class of McNulty were in many ways a brotherhood ~ bonding together against the icky, and more numerous, battalion of girls.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

In Mrs. Loomis’s second grade class we were awarded stickers for a good day of work. We amassed these treasures on a personal folder with our names printed neatly across the top, and at the end of the year the student with the most stickers would win a prize. We all had more or less the same number of stickers, though the subtle differences were discussed and debated among us.

One day my Mom innocently told me how Jeff’s Mom had once said that Jeff wished he had as many stickers as I did. Never one to let an opportunity like that go by, I confronted Jeff and he embarrassingly admitted it. I felt badly as soon as the words left my mouth, and his slightly crestfallen mood confirmed that I had unnecessarily inflicted pain to make myself feel better. But kids don’t realize this, and while outwardly I acted superior to him, inwardly I wondered at who the better person really was, and why it even mattered.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Each February his family threw him an elaborate birthday party. I begrudgingly attended these events, mostly on the stern advice from my parents, but I inevitably had a good time, always glad I had gone when all the other kids were talking about it the following day at school.

There was a lot of love in the Johnson house. Jeff’s parents and his brothers might have sometimes seemed at odds, but they had an easy way of getting past all disputes, talking and laughing through it all in a manner that differed from the quiet turbulence of my own home. His Mom organized the party games: Pin-the-Tail-on-the-Donkey, and a homemade party task that involved dropping a clothes-pin from the height of your waist into a thin-necked jar on the ground (this being the only one I had a chance of winning due to my height, or lack-there-of). These were innocent parties, where boys and girls were friendly and everyone seemed to get along with each other.

It was in gym class where Jeff was truly at his best. He was by far the tallest and most athletic out of all of us: the first to climb to the ceiling on those giant ropes, the kid who routinely hit home-runs during wiffle-ball, and the one who kicked the ball farthest during kickball. Once or twice a year Mr. Noto brought out a gigantic sphere ~ five feet across and covered in patches of ripped cloth. The class played various games with this ball, the culmination being a contest between two teams who fought to get the ball to the opposite side of the gym. We started in the middle, and groups of us tried to push and maneuver this impossibly immense thing across the lacquered floor.

One contest featured three boys against three boys or three girls against three girls, another pitted all the boys against all the girls (the girls usually won, but only because they outnumbered us two-to-one). In a novelty match-up, Mr. Noto himself challenged our greatest player, Jeff, who was almost up to the teacher’s height anyway. Still, it wasn’t quite a fair match, so he gave Jeff a little help: namely, me. (And little help I was.)
It was Jeff and I against the brawny teacher. Huffing and puffing and exerting all their energy, Jeff and the teacher battled it out while I fought not to step on my cardigan sweater. Needless to say, Jeff and I lost, but we had put forth a valiant effort, and that was what mattered.

A few months later we were taking part in the end-of-the-year physical education tests, a time when we journeyed outside to figure out how many push-ups and sit-ups we could do in a minute, how far we could throw a shot-put, and other essential tasks which would no doubt prepare us for a well-rounded life.

Apparently not content to humiliate us with the gigantic ball episode, Mr. Noto discreetly approached me as Jeff was preparing to throw the shot-put (that eight-pound ball of iron that people throw for… whatever reason). He said that he’d throw it past Jeff, and I was to run out as though it was my throw. Even I thought this was funny since Jeff was at least a foot taller than me and had muscles where I had bone. As he reached the length of his shot-put effort, my supposed throw flew past him by a few feet. His jaw dropped and he looked around incredulously, eyeing the shot-put, eyeing me, and eyeing how far it had out-distanced his throw. For once I had beaten Jeff Johnson outside of the classroom, if only for a moment, and when he finally figured out what we had done, his smile was grand.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

On one spring day I got a call from Jeff. School was out for the day (was it the week of Easter vacation?) and a group was playing Dungeons & Dragons at Bill’s house. It was Bill, Jeff, Chris, Joe, and Ben, I think ~ the boys from McNulty. I wasn’t really into the game, and would have much rather stayed at home watching soap operas, but they needed another player to make it even. Reluctantly, I agreed to come down.

I did not have the first clue as to what went on in a Dungeons & Dragons game, and I still don’t. I saw a bunch of weird dice, some crazy rule books, and told them to just tell me what to do and when to do it. The day was burning slowly along, my disinterest in the game somewhat mollified by the presence of friends and the suggestion that we go outside and act out a scene from the game. Someone (and I swear to God it wasn’t me) threw a bunch of stones to signal a battle or something, and one of these flying boulders hit Jeff right in the head. There was a moment of surprise on his face, just before the pain registered, followed by Jeff scrunching up his face, holding his head, and crying.

Like all tough boys our age, we avoided eye contact at first, embarrassed and ashamed in the presence of anything remotely akin to naked emotion, but to our credit we worked up the courage to see that Jeff was all right. We trudged back inside ~ perhaps our re-enactments were better left to our imaginations ~ but I wanted no more to do with Dungeons & Dragons. Jeff’s crying had spooked me. He was the strongest boy I knew. If he could crumble with the well-aimed toss of a stone, what would become of the rest of us? After allowing them to divide the rights to my character, I cited a pressing engagement and walked the few blocks to my home.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Such was the then-slow passing of our years at McNulty. There were battles and fights and disagreements, but we always managed to stick together. As we prepared for Middle School, we seemed to linger a little longer after class, and laugh a little more. When our time at McNulty came to a close, we shared a distinctive bond, but it was the elusive bond of childhood ~ a bond that would quickly disintegrate with the onslaught of adolescence.

Jeff and I shared a unique friendship ~ sometimes brotherly, sometimes adversarial, often competitive, occasionally poignant, always honest ~ and in some small but fundamental way we each had a hand in shaping and influencing the other’s life, as all childhood friends do.

I can still vividly recall our last meeting during that summer. School had just ended for the year and I hadn’t seen Jeff for a few days. He had been our paper boy for a while, and I was purposely avoiding him during the afternoon delivery hours. I can’t say why, except that I didn’t want to face him for some reason. On this day, he caught me by surprise.

He rode his bike up to our side-porch, his worn, gray newspaper bag slung heavily over his shoulder, and he sheepishly handed me an envelope. It was near the end of June ~ the end of our years at McNulty, the end of our innocent friendship, and the end of our Youth.

“My Mom wanted me to give this to you,” he said. I opened it as he sat on his bike on the other side of the gate. It was a picture of the five of us at a Gifted and Talented Competition, taken a few weeks prior. We had to get an egg through an obstacle course without breaking it. Dubbing ourselves the ‘New Yolkers’ (most decidedly NOT my idea), we were dressed alike in white T-shirts with a ‘NY’ Logo inside of an egg, drawn on with black marker. Of course, our egg broke within ten seconds of beginning the challenge, but I still had a fun time. After we lost so dismally, Jeff’s Mom rounded us up for the picture I now held in my hands. I remember his embarrassment at having his mother take the photo, and his red cheeks are still there, framing his forced smile. Such parent/child sentimental ways touched me ~ his Mom trying so valiantly to hold onto her youngest son, even as he inched and yearned to grow up.

I thanked him for the picture and felt a sudden sadness, despite the hot sun and the promise of a full summer ahead. I think I knew that we would never be the same again.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Upon entering Wilbur Lynch Middle School, our little group was splintered into five different factions. I was placed in the Honors program and I think Jeff was in Regents. Our lockers were close by, but we rarely spoke. We had one class together that year ~ our last one ever. It was Health 101 with Miss Siebe. Jeff sat behind me ~ Johnson following Ilagan in the abysmally tiresome alphabetically-ordered classroom configuration. We passed answers back and forth during tests and cracked jokes at our not-so-well-liked teacher. The next year we didn’t share any classes at all.

I don’t remember much about Jeff during our early high school years. Did he attend Bishop Scully for a while? I don’t recall. We registered each other’s presence peripherally, if at all. It wasn’t until our junior year, and a few days before his death, that we made any sort of meaningful contact, and to this day I’m not sure what it meant.

His locker was near mine again. The bell had rung for the next class to begin, and Jeff and I were straggling behind everyone else; the halls were quickly emptying of noise and students. Looking up at him as I picked out books from the bottom of my locker, I first noticed his cross ~ a silver one hanging on a black cord around his neck. I made note of it because it struck me as vaguely uncharacteristic for Jeff Johnson to wear anything remotely like jewelry. When I rose to my full height (and still looked up at him) I saw that he was staring at me strangely. It was the most we had looked at one another in years.

There was a slightly disturbed expression on his face, an unsettling look in his eyes and I wish so badly that I had asked if he was all right, instead of giving him a disgusted glance and demanding in a sarcastic, annoyed tone, “What?!” He simply shook his head slowly and awoke from his weird trance. It would be the last time I saw him, at least the last time that I remember.

A few days later my parents would knock on my door, sit down on the bed, and scare the hell out of me with their grave faces before saying that Jeff Johnson had shot himself. I managed a quiet “Oh…” and didn’t say anything more about it. The rain started shortly after that, and wouldn’t let up for days afterward. Amsterdam’s perfect All-American boy was gone forever, and we were all left wondering why.

For reasons of my own, I couldn’t stop myself from thinking, ‘That should have been me.’ Jeff had everything. He was attractive, smart, friendly, and well-loved by everyone. I often doubted that I possessed any of those traits. I wanted suddenly to go back and give him all of my stickers in second grade.

I did not attend his funeral. Almost everyone else in the high school did, but I simply couldn’t. That wasn’t the Jeff I knew, at least it wasn’t the Jeff I wanted to know. Or maybe it was, and I couldn’t bring myself to go because of that. I didn’t need to say good-bye ~ I had done that in the summer after sixth grade, when we both said farewell to the shared past and began walking different ways.

The sad truth is that if Jeff were alive today we probably would not be friends. I have trouble enough keeping in touch with people from last year, much less someone from high school. I mourn for the many other people who would have been lucky enough to have known him ~ but mostly I mourn for the boy who handed me the picture of our childhood, and somehow quietly understood.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

May the angels protect you
And sadness forget you
Little star
There’s no reason to weep
Lay your head down to sleep
Little star
May goodness surround you
My love I have found you
Little star
Shining bright…
Song #57: ‘Little Star’ – Spring 1998
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25
November
2011
Tags: General, Madonna, Music
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The Madonna Timeline: Song #56 ~ ‘Words’ – Winter 1993

{Note: The Madonna Timeline is an ongoing feature, where I put the iPod on shuffle, and write a little anecdote on whatever was going on in my life when that Madonna song was released and/or came to prominence in my mind.}

The iPod has gone back to the early 90’s, when Madonna released the darkly-shaded ‘Erotica’ album. It was the perfect fit for an icy winter, and the somewhat icy heart I had at the time. I wasn’t always the best boyfriend. Oh, I tried, but in my younger years I was much more selfish (if you can imagine), much less concerned with any sort of altruistic love, and extremely exacting that I would be the one in charge. It is with a bit of embarrassment and shame that I admit one of my ex-girlfriends claimed that ‘Words’ was the perfect embodiment of the man I was when I was with her.

You think you’re so smart
You try to manipulate me
You try to humiliate with your words
You think you’re so chic
You write me beautiful letters
You think you’re so much better than me.

Now, I’ve honestly never thought of myself as better than anyone else (better-dressed perhaps, never wholly better), but that was the only line that didn’t ring true. There was manipulation, humiliation, and I could write a killer letter. Balk if you will, but I also don’t consider myself the most attractive guy, so I developed other talents, starting with my way with words. If my face and body didn’t entice (and more often than not they didn’t), or my fancy outfits failed to impress (as if!), I could still capture a heart with a clever turn of phrase. A little bit of laughter went a long way, and women were somehow better than men at seeing through to the heart of who I was, to the kindness and goodness of a soul even when the rest of the package paled in comparison. That didn’t bode well for the life of a gay man, but back then I was still forging my way with the ladies.

But your actions speak louder than words
And they’re only words, unless they’re true
Your actions speak louder than promises
You’re inclined to make, and inclined to break.
Words, they cut like a knife,
Cut into my life, I don’t want to hear your words
They always attack, please take them all back
If they’re yours, I don’t want anymore.

It carried over to the men I dated as well, and when you’re the one who finally gets hurt, you sometimes make up your mind to be the one who’s on the inflicting end from that point on. To be in control of your emotions, to act as if you could not care less – these were the desired states of existence.

You think you’re so shrewd
You try to bring me low
You try to gain control with your words.
But your actions speak louder than words
And they’re only words, unless they’re true
Your actions speak louder than promises
You’re inclined to make, and inclined to break.
Words, they cut like a knife,
Cut into my life, I don’t want to hear your words
They always attack, please take them all back
If they’re yours, I don’t want anymore.

While it’s a standard slice of 90’s dance-pop, ‘Words’ is a pretty strong song, unfortunately under-rated like much of the ‘Erotica’ album. Dark and gritty, with the residual heat of love-gone-awry, Madonna’s delivery reeks of disdain and regret, both with the object of her derision and herself. There is anger here, backed by strength and simultaneously under-laid by vulnerability – a rather nifty accomplishment for a piece of pop filler. Not to mention the fact that the bridge is just pure heaven:

Friends they tried to warn me about you
He has good manners, he’s so romantic
But he’ll only make you blue
How can I explain to them?
How will they know?
I’m in love with your words, your words…

Looking back on that time, on the almost-man I was becoming, I see my folly, and my cruelty. I hear the words and cries of those few women I’ve ever dated, and I know the ways I’ve hurt them. I would inflict similar pain and heartache upon some of the men in my life. Hurt is hurt, regardless of sex and gender, and I did deserve a come-uppance.

You think you’re so sly
I caught you at your game
You will not bring me shame with your words

There aren’t many blog posts where I openly admit to my failings. I have thousands of ‘friends’ on FaceBook and Twitter to regularly take the piss out of me; this is the sole space of the Internet where I can craft and create the image of the man I would most like to be. Yet there is room for honesty, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. Besides, we have to own up to our mistakes if we are to learn from them. If they never happened, we wouldn’t improve or evolve, and I am hell-bent on both. Even so, it’s tough thinking back to the jerk I could be, and even tougher when it was Madonna’s words being used against me.

But your actions speak louder than words
And they’re only words, unless they’re true
Your actions speak louder than promises
You’re inclined to make, and inclined to break.
Words, they cut like a knife,
Cut into my life, I don’t want to hear your words
They always attack, please take them all back
If they’re yours, I don’t want anymore.

The bottom line: guys can be dicks. And, technically speaking, I’m still just another guy. To hear Madonna aiming such accurate accusations at the man who has done her wrong had its own influence on me, even if it wasn’t until years later. God knows I’ve certainly had my dick moments. Some days, I still do.

Too much blinding light
Your touch, I’ve grown tired of your words…
A linguistic form that can meaningfully be spoken in isolation
Conversation, expression, a promise, a sigh, in short, a lie
A message from heaven, a signal from hell
I give you my word, I’ll never tell.
Language that is used in anger
Personal feelings signaling danger
A brief remark, an utterance, information
Don’t mince words, don’t be evasive
Speak your mind, be persuasive
A courage, a commitment, communication
Words.

Song #56: ‘Words’ – Winter 1992-1993

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14
November
2011
Tags: General, Madonna, Music
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The Madonna Timeline: Song #55 ~ ‘Drowned World/Substitute for Love’ ~ March 1998

{Note: The Madonna Timeline is an ongoing feature, where I put the iPod on shuffle, and write a little anecdote on whatever was going on in my life when that Madonna song was released and/or came to prominence in my mind.}

PART 1

A late-winter evening – sometime after midnight. I am scheduled to work at Structure the next morning, but now I sit, wide awake, thrilled and enthralled. A new Madonna album – the Madonna album of all albums, Ray of Light, has been released. The date is March 3, 1998. The opening track ~ ‘Drowned World/Substitute for Love’ ~ fills the room, downstairs neighbors be damned. I lie on the hardwood floor – solitary, isolated, alone – and, for perhaps the first time ever, all right with that. At least, as all right as I’ll ever be ~ and it may never be entirely all right.

It begins with an ambient sonic atmosphere ~ chilly and yet pulsing with life. It ushers in a new era for Madonna, and a new chapter for me. Then, clear as the purest crystal, the plaintive coo of the woman I have followed for all of my cognizant life.

I traded fame for love,
Without a second thought
It all became a silly game
Some things cannot be bought…

On the night at hand I stare up at the ceiling, wondering at the whole, well, wonder of it all. Having graduated from college, having traveled the world, and having ended up right where I began (working retail at a ridiculous salesperson job that I couldn’t help but love), I have no idea where to go or what to do, but at twenty-three years of age that’s exactly where I’m supposed to be. That doesn’t ease the restlessness, or the melancholy.

My heart has been broken ~ not in a very real sense, and not in a sense that anyone who’s been through any serious heart-break will honor or understand ~ but in my own way it’s been a painful few years. My best friend Suzie, when asked by her brother if I have a boyfriend, responded, “He’s had a lot of… bad boyfriends.” Which wasn’t entirely true, but not entirely untrue either. Count on Suzie for a telling sound-bite. As magnificently melodramatic as it is, it’s still not quite accurate.

I’d had a lot of men in my life who didn’t treat me well ~ not just lovers, but family and friends ~ but it was mostly because they didn’t want anything to do with me ~ not due to some personal antipathy they felt. If only I could inspire such a depth of feeling.

My heartache stemmed from an absolute apathy that many of the men I fancied ~ romantic and otherwise ~ felt, or profoundly didn’t feel, for me. There’s a very different sort of emotion that evolves from being ignored as opposed to being actively disliked. If there’s a heat to hatred, at least there’s that heat. The cruel chill of indifference is somehow more insidious, more ruinous, in the long run. It slowly decimates the soul, instead of instantly destroying and offering the bitter salvation of strength in re-building. It simply defeats, without a chance of redemption. That apathy would be the ultimate downfall of my life ~ as well as the unlikely savior. But I’m getting ahead of myself again. I did not know that then.

Got exactly what I asked for
Wanted it so badly
Running, rushing back for more
I suffered fools so gladly
And now
I find
I’ve changed my mind…

Back then I thought the key to happiness did not lie in my own hand. (I wasn’t quite ready, privately at least, to believe Madonna’s words of wisdom from 1994’s ‘Secret’). Publicly I pretended I was strong, that I could make it on my own, but deep down, in the secret inviolable insecurity of my heart, I had always believed that I needed someone else to validate my existence ~ a partner to make my life whole. Chalk it up to one too many Victorian novels, or Disney’s deluge of brainwashing happily-ever-afters. Whatever the reason, and whatever the politically-incorrect inclinations, I thought I needed a man, and wouldn’t be all right without one.

With no one to guide me, I made my own way, carving out my own set of rules designed to distance and safeguard against heartbreak, but they never worked. I could get the guy for a night or two, but that was it. Maybe they were all just looking for a quick one-off, or maybe there was something wrong with me. I never had the courage to ask. You can tell when you’re not loved ~ especially when you love the person. No matter how much you may desperately wish to see that love returned, in their eyes you can see when it isn’t.

The face of you
My substitute for love,
My substitute for love…

To hear Madonna questioning her own worth, to listen to her search for love, was emboldening. That the woman I had long admired for steely strength and ultimate control had her own doubts gave me a certain hope, and made me feel less alone, less unsure. She saw me through that bitter end of winter – and the brutal awakening of spring. There would be lonely nights, tear-stained pillows, and solitary walks with nary a concern for safety. I would throw and thrash myself across one-night-stands and men who only wanted their way with me. I hid the pain with drink, smoking clove cigarettes with throat-bleeding abandon. I tried to fill the void with distractions of every sort, vices that were their own slowly-suicidal path to the end, to oblivion. And through it all, the voice of the woman I adored carried me along.

Should I wait for you?
My substitute for love,
My substitute for love…

PART 2

In the messy sheets of sterile hotel rooms, I find myself looking out at cities strange and fantastical. Bodies of water ~ some rivers, some oceans, some lakes ~ stretch out from day to day. A different place, a different room, a different way of escape. Time passes, as do the men in my life. They shape me, they make me into someone else, then they too move on. The dense solitude of searching for companionship takes its toll, yet I do not feel lonely. Not yet.

I traveled round the world
Looking for a home
I found myself in crowded rooms
Feeling so alone…

There is occasionally kindness here, in the crook of an arm, even after the spurt of quick passion. Sometimes – most times – I don’t want to cuddle, and I don’t mind if they leave without a word. Once in a while I’d like them to stay, and whenever that is they never do. Somehow, I am still so young, still not quite removed from boyhood, even if my heart is worn.

I had so many lovers
Who settled for the thrill
Of basking in my spotlight
I never felt so happy…

In the darkness of these gatherings, the hurried push and pull of trying to find my way into another human being, the desperate clawing at skin, at hope, at connection ~ I search to find salvation. At the hands of cold, hard men, whose sweat and heat are only deception, whose smiles and twinkling eyes are but a mask, I cry out in rage or passion, and they never know the difference. What do they see when it slows, when face-to-face we look into each others’ eyes through the hazy salty film? I do sometimes cry, and never at an opportune moment, but most do not see. It’s better that way.

The face of you
My substitute for love
My substitute for love

Was there tenderness in those days before Andy? There was. It was just fleeting, abstract, and infuriatingly obtuse ~ impossible to rely upon, cagey to the very end. It lent everything such an air of defeat, of pointlessness. The struggle of it all seemed too much, too elusive, and the promise of happiness of, dare I even say it, love ~ proved futile.

When I did find it, for a few months, even a few years, the rapture felt fleeting, and always a bit false. I was never quite myself, lost in a gauzy world of the person I thought they wanted me to be, this soft-focus bundle of nerves and unsteadiness. It would never feel real to me. Even Andy ~ stalwart, safe, steady man he would prove to be, never quite felt real for years. Maybe I wanted too much. Maybe what I wanted did not even exist. Maybe my own whole existence was a fool’s mission. And so I wondered.

Should I wait for you?
My substitute for love
My substitute for love…

PART 3

It is not all sadness or solitary rumination, and there are glamorous moments of decadence and distraction to ease the emptiness. Parties to fill the nights, cocktails that overflow into the morning, and a wardrobe bustling with only the most fashionable accessories. To some it seemed a life of enchantment, a charmed existence where I could be made giddy at the purchase of a Prada bag or the tilt of a couture hat. Trendy sunglasses hid dark eyes, and streamlined suits compensated for slouchy hangovers. Traveling to distant cities and following friends around the world became a mainstay ~ it was easier to call a suitcase a home, to consider my friends a family, and to distract myself with everything that didn’t matter.

There were so many substitutes for love. And, yes, even love ~ if it makes any sense, became a substitute for love. For that pure self-love ~ that ‘greatest love of all’ that I would forever be lacking, and forever making up for in any other way. That sense of self-worth and self-respect was never instilled in me ~ and I would never be good enough. If I could get someone else to love me, maybe that would be the way to self-acceptance. It had to be. There was no choice. All other possibilities had been exhausted.

I recognized then in Madonna, as I do now, an incredible insecurity ~ I share with her that need to be loved and adored unconditionally, with all the conditions we place upon it and none other. It will always be unfair, and we will always be just a little bit unhappy because of it. But we try harder too.

So we search to fill that void in manners both bizarre and inappropriate, over the top and attention-getting. It’s not attention we’re after though – it never was and it never will be. If that were the end to our means we would have been there right after we started, lo those many years of crazy costume antics ages ago. The attention is the aftermath of our destruction, the result of our romantic quests, because in the end that’s what it’s always been about, hasn’t it?

The best part of the song is at hand. It is the key to so much ~ the litany of shared experiences, echoing loneliness ~ the glory of musical abandon and emotional release all at once. Everything hinges on this. It is the summation of a lifetime searching for Love, and the dim, terrifying realization that it may never be enough.

No famous faces, far-off places,
Trinkets I can buy,
No handsome stranger, heady danger
Drug that I can try
No ferris wheel, no heart to steal
No laughter in the dark
No one-night stand, no far-off land
No fire that I can spark…

We speed to the bitter climax, music building all the while, and the guitars crash into oblivion as our desires collide at that tricky triangle of want and hope and need. The nights blur into one night, filled with grays and shadows and whispered kisses of abandoned dreams. An empty pair of underwear lies crumpled by the door. A trail of two socks leads to the bed. A young man bereft of his usual armor of garments thrashes restlessly among the sheets.

The pillow is damp.

The memory is torrid.

The man is alone.

PART 4

It is the song I play whenever I feel lost or upset, and while that may make it a strange choice for my favorite, that’s the way it’s always been. My heart and my head find a necessary solace in the acknowledgement of sadness ~ there is something more meaningful to that than the giddy dance-break of joy. As the woman at hand once proclaimed and questioned, “What’s the point of sitting down and notating your happiness?”

It changes through the years and seasons too, lending itself to multiple meanings, endless readings, shifting into a symbol of universal significance ~ because in the end it’s always about love, no matter how highly singular or specific.

It is there for the first chill of fall, when I meet the first man I will ever live with, and there when I realize it’s over, on a cruel winter’s night, as crystalline snowflakes flutter silently upon the Windy City. It is there in that healing spring of Boston, and every healing spring since then, when the cherry blossoms dangle like little ballerinas, floating overhead in the night wind. And it is there in the subsequent summers, the time of the year in which I met Andy.

Sitting in the parking lot of a supermarket, in the high, dull heat of one of those summers, on an all-too-quick lunch break and wanting nothing more than to drown my boredom, I listen to Madonna’s voice, and the song opens up again ~ as one of deliberate rumination on the distractions of life, and the crutches and self-medicating ways we choose to relieve our pain. For me, there was no greater discomfort than boredom or stagnation.

I wondered if I could live in upstate New York and not get restless, provided there were outlets ~ of Boston, of New York, of London ~ even as they were growing further and further away, if not falling apart altogether. I wondered if I could live with someone who didn’t want to do the things that I wanted to do, whether we could compromise and make it work because he was a good man and I might never find that again ~ but was that really the way to live? I thought of the things we give up for love, for recognition, for the simple act of doing something that mattered ~ and the trade-off suddenly seemed blurry and undefined. The darkening swirl of a world drowning.

I was both touched and repulsed by the inability of him to read my mind, all the while knowing how unfair it was of me. There was a greater tenderness and resonance to the love that I had for him, and at the same time I wondered if I was willing to give it all up for one moment of heartfelt understanding. And what exactly did I lack that he needed? Those doubts were getting more numerous, more challenging. I knew I was at fault too.

Then the love of a life together, of partnership and marriage, and the subtle maneuverings required for both, impresses itself upon my mind – such glad and grateful relief – growing more resonant as the years pass, forging a deeper bond than any flight or fancy could ever create, and I am made happy again, as happy as I may ever be. Does anyone ever really know happiness until it has passed?

The song swells with the heart, and she sings the sadness complete. It is an exquisite sadness. A fiery and quick slash of rage, a burning tear ~ the salty, searing droplet of love, of life ~ and an ache so lasting and raw it throbs under the burden of the ages.

…And now I find I’ve changed my mind…

PART 5

Tonight, I write this as I sit alone in the condo in Boston, where I sat the first time I heard this song over thirteen years ago. I cannot tell you how far I’ve come since 1998 ~ or if I’ve come very far at all ~ the same uneasiness with myself, the same insecurity and doubt, pervades my existence, and I have to wonder if this has all been a substitute for love, every last bit of it. It kills me to question that, but it would kill me more not to say it. That’s where we are, that’s where I am. But in the song, as in most of Madonna’s best music, there is some brief bit of solace, of aural understanding and empathy. She’s been there – she knows, and she continues to go on.

The journey of finding love, especially that ever-elusive self-love (so much more than ego and self-confidence, and so often mistaken as such) is proving a life-long one, and even when the heart is full, I want for more. There are distractions enough in this world, but all the trinkets and fancy bags and new shoes will never fill the void ~ there is no substitute for it.

Some people are born with what I would call a ‘happy gene’. They are, for the most part, kind and good people who do what they’re supposed to do with their lives, and are made happy and content from it. This is not to say they don’t suffer ~ and often suffer much more tragic hardships than the rest of us, but their ‘happy gene’ remains intact ~ they carry on, they don’t let it destroy them. The one thing I was born without, and the one thing I have almost killed myself to create, was this happy gene. But you can’t make it. You can’t will it into being, or learn how to access it. You’re either born with it or you’re not ~ and I, like Madonna I suspect, was not. It doesn’t mean we don’t feel happiness ~ we just feel other things a lot more, even if we never let on.

The early darkness of Daylight Savings Time has descended upon Boston. In the distance, the John Hancock building sparkles high in the sky, while the neighboring hotels blink with the lights and drawn shades of strangers going about their transitory time in the city. The world goes on as it always has. It feels as if the last thirteen years have sped by outside the window while inside I remained unchanged ~ yet in those thirteen years how much has happened, how much life has been spent and mourned and celebrated.

This moment of solitude does not have a neat or happy ending, and the resolution of the song is one of indeterminate proclamation, not unlike this last post on my favorite Madonna song.

The face of you, the faith of love, the way of the heart.

This is what I have learned.

This is where I have been.

This is where I must go.

This is my religion.

Song #55: ‘Drowned World/Substitute for Love’ ~ March 1998

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10
October
2011
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The Madonna Timeline: Song #54 ~ The Power of Good-bye ~ Fall 1998

{Note: The Madonna Timeline is an ongoing feature, where I put the iPod on shuffle, and write a little anecdote on whatever was going on in my life when that Madonna song was released and/or came to prominence in my mind.}

Dear ~~~~,

I should have known by the way it started how it would all end. It was fall – no romance of mine that started in the fall has ever lasted. Certainly not one that began at the very time Madonna was releasing ‘The Power of Good-bye’ from her yet-to-be-topped ‘Ray of Light’ album. I can look back with fondness and tenderness at what once hurt me so badly I had to put it from my mind.

We were both so young then. I don’t think we realized how young we were. We thought we knew it all. We had the whole world at our fingertips – and we had each other. That’s what really mattered to me. That’s the only thing that mattered to me.

Your heart is not open so I must go
The spell has been broken I loved you so
Freedom comes when you learn to let go,
Creation comes when you learn to say no.

The wind was drifting through an open window, curtains moving slightly in the breeze, and the moon peeking through the blinds. We laid in the dim light, you sitting up slightly, my head on your chest as it rose and fell with your breath.

“This is… perfect,” you whispered.
“What is?” I asked.
“This… night.”

I wanted to see years ahead, but my head, or my heart, could not. Something blocked it. There would always be that fogginess that fall. It would obscure us from seeing one another, and we embraced it because I don’t think we were ready to see each other. I didn’t think I could let you see me, because surely if you saw – if you really and truly saw – you would not stay. So we let the fog linger, creeping into the bedroom in the night, and even in the crisp cool mornings. It was better than way.

You were my lesson I had to learn
I was your fortress you had to burn
Pain is a warning that something’s wrong
I pray to God that it won’t be long…

On my way to work I stop along the sidewalk to pick up some blood-red maple leaves that have fallen in the night. I will dry and preserve them in the pages of a heavy book, then frame them for your birthday in the winter. I already know this. I know, because I will want to remember this fall – our first together, our only beginning. Somehow, you know too, and in our embraces and our nights together, we cling tightly, desperately to each other, to the idea of us, forging a bond in the colder days to come.

There’s nothing left to try
There’s no place left to hide
There’s no greater power than the power of good-bye…

There was happiness that fall, even as the plaintive notes of this song played in the background. Madonna cried for lost love, while we wept for finding it – two very different points on a very similar trajectory. Cozy nights in the condo, intimate dinners by candlelight, the occasional show, and lots of walking in the fallen leaves. An autumn in Boston is magical, and we wrapped our coats around us merrily, huddling against each other and tumbling along as one slightly awkward but giddy mass of first-love.

Your heart is not open so I must go
The spell has been broken I loved you so
You were my lesson I had to learn
I was your fortress…

Our relationship was based in the night. Days were usually spent at school or work, and even the afternoons were getting darker earlier. Your apartment was always cloaked in dim candlelight – a somewhat claustrophobic corner room, stultified by waxy smoke, buried in the ancient labyrinthine layout of Beacon Hill. I stayed there only once during the day, after you had gone off to class, and in that light I looked around and wondered at your life. In those days, simply being in the space that you occupied was precious to me. I rolled over in bed, curling into your pillow, but it would never be home to me.

I’d walk along Charles Street and imagine you doing the same thing, tucking this tiny corner of Boston into my pocket and keeping it there, next to you. When we would fight, when a gray rainy night threatened to tear us apart, I would return here, lost in the cobblestone of the centuries, eyes skyward and soaking up the tears of clouds, where they mingled with mine, where I crumbled. And then the acts of apology and forgiveness – which I never quite got right, neither giving nor receiving – acts I still find daunting and terrifying in their own way. Somehow the fall cushioned us, with its fallen leaves and gray hazy days. The very fog that kept us in soft-focus, the buffer between us, had also bound us in swirling ropes of safety and, yes, love. It kept us together because it was too dreary to be apart.

There’s nothing left to lose
There’s no more heart to bruise
There’s no greater power than the power of good-bye…

It would not be enough to sustain, but we would not talk about it then.

Learn to say good-bye…
I yearn to say good-bye…

You had the power to do what I could not do. You had the power to end us. You alone had the power of good-bye. You wielded it kindly, and forcefully – and I will always be grateful for that. I did not have the strength to do it. I did not have it in me to finish us off. But somehow you knew, and somehow you did it.

Thank you for being the brave one. Thank you for setting us free. Thank you for letting us walk away before there was someone to blame.

If no one else understood, I knew that.

There’s nothing left to try
There’s no more places to hide
There’s no greater power than the power of good-bye
There’s nothing left to lose
There’s no more heart to bruise
There’s no greater power than the power of good-bye.

Song #54: ‘The Power of Goodbye’ ~ Fall 1998
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03
October
2011
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The Madonna Timeline: Song #53 ~ ‘Material Girl’ ~ 1985

{Note: The Madonna Timeline is an ongoing feature, where I put the iPod on shuffle, and write a little anecdote on whatever was going on in my life when that Madonna song was released and/or came to prominence in my mind.}

Some boys kiss me,
Some boys hug me,
I think they’re okay.
If they don’t give me proper credit,
I just walk away.

You always remember your first time, and your first Madonna song. ‘Material Girl’ was mine. We didn’t even have a stereo, or MTV, so how I got to hear the song is a miracle that seemed destined to be. We were at a neighbor’s house for a summer night gathering in their basement. Curtains draped beneath the staircase, hiding a makeshift DJ booth. A washer and dryer stood on the far-off corner, gently droning in the background. The kids were putting on their Friday night song and dance contest, whereby we would all dance and lip sync to a record of our choosing.

Most of the boys sang guy songs, and most of the girls sang girl songs, but we were just young enough that it didn’t matter. I chose ‘Material Girl’ ~ the 7″ single that my friend so casually had at her disposal. When you think of what Madonna has done in the three decades that followed, that record sleeve is a piece of history, and our failure to realize the import of that single is one of those comical hindsight moments of nonchalance. How could anyone know what was in store for her?

They can beg and they can plead
But they can’t see the light
That’s right!
Cause the boy with the cold hard cash
Is always Mister Right.

It was my turn to go. The record started spinning. I didn’t even know all the words ~ how could I? ~ but I knew the chorus, even if I had no idea what it all meant. It was catchy as all get out, had a hook that was instantly embedded in the brain, and a chorus that sounded part human, part robot, and paved the way for the 80’s ~ and while I didn’t make sense of the words at the time, I had fun singing them. The greatest of pop songs often have the silliest of lyrics, though in this case there was irony and tongue-in-cheek humor to go along with the greedy money-grubbing of the decade.

Cause we are living in a material world,
And I am a material girl.
You know that we are living in a material world
And I am a material girl.

I’m not going to even bother acting all humble: I was a good dancer. I even threw in some acrobatic moves gleaned from an all-too-short week of gymnastics at the local college. Yeah, I could have been a contender… but I digress.

Back to the contest,  if you could call it that. I had been losing them for weeks. Like my Student Council run in 9th grade, and my Best Dressed in High School nomination in 12th grade, and countless other times I was nominated or in the running, I failed to secure the top spot. I was never the chosen one.

I was the noticed one, the one everybody watched and knew about, but who never won out in the end. On this night, I danced my heart out, and I had Madonna on my side, but I had reached the point where it did not even matter. I gave up trying to win and gave in to the sheer joy of abandon, of doing something I loved simply for the sake of doing it. Don’t get me wrong, when it was done, when everyone had performed and we waited for the votes to be tallied up, my heart was beating quickly, and I really wanted it. But I couldn’t count on it.

Some boys romance
Some boys slow dance,
That’s all right with me
If they can’t raise my interest
Then I have to let them be.
Some boys try and some boys lie,
But I don’t let them play.
Only boys who save their pennies
Make my rainy day.
Cause we are living in a material world,
And I am a material girl.
You know that we are living in a material world
And I am a material girl.

The announcement was made. I won. I had never won before, but no one believed it. That’s the problem when you’re consistently good: everyone assumes you’ve already won everything so you don’t get the time of day. Self-aggrandizing jokes aside, they really didn’t believe that I had never won and were about to give the prize (which I no longer recollect) to someone else. I had them check the record book, where all the winners each week had been written down in kids’ block print, and lo and behold my name was nowhere to be found. They still didn’t believe it, claiming they were certain I had already won. Umm, no, not the case, and after all the effort convincing them I had never won, it seemed a hollow victory. Even back then, the masses didn’t want to give it up.

Dancing excellence and showmanship aside, I left my performance career in that basement, beside the dusty record player and washer and dryer. It was enough just having that song in my head.

Boys may come and boys may go
And that’s all right you see
Experience has made me rich
And now they’re after me…

Right then, Madonna became my muse, guide, and inspiration. Like countless gay boys before and after me, I found in her a kindred rebellious spirit, with the sass and style to turn heads, and the strength and determination to not care if we never won.

As for Ms. Ciccone, this was her breakthrough video, and the one that proved her talents were in reinventing herself. Morphing wildly into Marilyn Monroe for the very first time, and showing off a knack of inhabiting video characters, Madonna was flexing her chameleonic muscles. As one of her first incarnations, it would be the one that stuck. A self-professed bothersome moniker she holds to this day, ‘Material Girl’ remains the one nickname she has never been able to shake, try as she might.

Cause everybody’s living in a material world,
And I am a material girl.
You know that we are living in a material world
And I am a material girl.

She was the ultimate pin-up girl of the 1980’s. She personified that decade, ruling the charts alongside Michael Jackson and Prince. It was a decade of greed, and people wanted to see the money keep rolling in as much as they wanted to keep Madonna in her Material Girl box. But she, and the world, would not have it.

A material, a material, a material, a material world…

As the echoes faded, and the music grew dated, she was already gone, already on to something else. I grew up in her wake, following and watching, inspired and in awe.

Song #53: ‘Material Girl’ ~ Summer 1985
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01
October
2011
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The Madonna Timeline: Song #52 ~ Get Together ~ Summer 2006

{Note: The Madonna Timeline is an ongoing feature, where I put the iPod on shuffle, and write a little anecdote on whatever was going on in my life when that Madonna song was released and/or came to prominence in my mind.}

The original post for this song has been lost, and for me that’s fitting for an unremarkable song. Like some of her other soft-focus disco songs, I think Madonna gets lost in the filler, so we move on without seeking out a proper post. Some absolutely love this song, and to each their own.

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29
September
2011
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The Madonna Timeline: Song #51 ~ Rainbow High~ Late 1996-Early 1997

{Note: The Madonna Timeline is an ongoing feature, where I put the iPod on shuffle, and write a little anecdote on whatever was going on in my life when that Madonna song was released and/or came to prominence in my mind.}

 
There again I’ve more to do than simply get the message through – I haven’t started.
Let’s get this show on the road, let’s make it obvious,
Peron is off and rolling…

Seeing as how the iPod has shuffled over to ‘Rainbow High’ from Madonna’s turn in Evita, it seems a good time to dovetail the timeline with an explanation of a Tour. After all, the woman who inspired it all was then portraying Eva Peron on the big screen, and I was on my ‘Royal Rainbow World Tour’.

It was the very end of 1996. I had graduated early and was about to embark on a few whirlwind months of traveling “from upstate New York to Florida, from Albany to Puerto Rico, from Seattle to the Philippines, from Hong Kong to New Orleans, from Washington to London to Wales to Ireland…” it was truly a world tour. While I actually went to all those places, I didn’t really perform or put on a proper show like most people who tour. My tour was just a name for a bunch of trips to see friends and family, encapsulated in a “tour book” that everyone had to sign as a memory-keeper for my travels. But when you hype and promote the hell out of something – no matter how trivial or insignificant – it sometimes turns into something more.

Eyes,
hair,
mouth,
figure ~
Dress,
voice,
style,
movement…

In those days I was running, trying to get away from the boys who didn’t like me and the girls I could never like enough. At the time it didn’t dawn on me that when you run away from one thing you inexorably run toward something else. In this case it was an idea of the person I most wanted to be – the fascinating, charming, enthralling character I had so much trouble expressing but wanted so badly to believe was within. It always came out wrong.

Hands,
magic,
rings,
glamour ~
Face,
diamonds,
excitement,
image…

The idea of a tour was pure fantasy and make-believe. That my friends supported and believed in it as well is a testament to them. That they stuck by me through the histrionics and tantrums, when my only way of self-preservation and survival was a vicious form of vanity, has been one of the greatest blessings of my life.

It was all I could do to put on a brave face for the world. In my costumes and couture was the armor that would shield me from injury. I thought that the sparkle of a sequin and the quill of a feather could penetrate the most otherwise-apathetic heart. I was hell-bent on not being ignored, even if that meant being grotesque.

I came from the people, they need to adore me
So Christian Dior me from my head to my toes
I need to be dazzling, I want to be Rainbow High
They must have excitement, and so must I…

If the world wouldn’t give me the time of day freely, I would demand it – and I would be ruthless about it to the point of arrogance and haughty defiance. I wanted it to come across as confidence – and in all fairness much of the time it did. The ploy was working. No matter how inwardly wracked with insecurity I may have been, I knew I could put on a smart coat, down a dry martini, and carry myself with grandeur.

I’m their product, it’s vital you sell me
So Machiavell me, make an Argentine Rose
I need to be thrilling, I want to be Rainbow High
They need their escape, and so do I…

Yes, I needed an escape, whether real or imagined. I needed love and adoration, and if I couldn’t find it from one person I’d find it in another. And another. And another…

The excitement came in ways I didn’t always invite. In catering to those who weren’t the least bit interested, I inadvertently crafted a persona that gained notice and admirers almost as an afterthought. In trying to impress one person who couldn’t give two shits, I ended up attracting the attention of three onlookers. But all I ever felt was the absence of affection from the very people whose love I wanted most. I was still alone.

All my descamisados expect me to outshine the enemy
I won’t disappoint them!
I’m their savior, that’s what they call me
So Lauren Bacall me, anything goes
To make me fantastic, I have to be Rainbow High
In magical colors…

From the lofty air of hotel balconies to the trundle of a night train, I traversed the world. A rickety jeep boldly navigated the treacherous roads of the mountains in the Philippines, carrying me to the place where my father was born. A steep tram pulled me up to a high peak overlooking Hong Kong where I had my first taste of dragon-hair candy. An enormous ship sailed me from Wales to Ireland, where I dangled upside-down to kiss the Blarney Stone.

It was the tour of a lifetime. Never again would I have such freedom to travel so far, and I made the most of it with the pomp and circumstance befitting royalty.

You’re not decorating a girl for a night on the town
And I’m not a second-rate queen getting kicks with a crown!
Next stop will be Europe!
The Rainbow’s gonna tour, dressed up, somewhere to go
We’ll put on a show…

It was over-the-top, over-blown, and completely out of proportion with the reality of the situation. But that’s what got me through. At some point the fantasy of it all bled into reality, bolstering what little faith I actually had in myself and coalescing into the living character I was becoming.

It was the little engine that could all over again, and the power of words, of hype, of an image that floated so mightily above everything, was enough to carry the insecure shell of a wisp that only I knew was there.

A belief in oneself, however misguided, can work wonders for the soul – and sometimes, if you’re lucky, you can keep the act going long enough to make it come true.

Look out, mighty Europe
Because you ought to know what you’re gonna get in me
Just a little touch of
Just a little touch of
Argentina’s brand of star quality.

On the screen, I watched Madonna as Eva Peron traversing the world on her own Rainbow Tour. Such a little lady, commanding such enormous power, yet so much of her life was lived alone. True, she had a husband, and the affection of an entire nation, but in the moments when it counted – when she laid her head down on her pillow at night – she was alone. Even when surrounded by mobs of people, jostled along in the busy day of a living icon, she was by herself.

Right then, my heart ached a little for Ms. Peron, a little for Madonna, and a little for myself.

Song #51: ‘Rainbow High’ – Late Fall 1996/Winter 1997
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26
September
2011
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The Madonna Timeline: Song #50 ~ Celebration ~ Summer 2009

{Note: The Madonna Timeline is an ongoing feature, where I put the iPod on shuffle, and write a little anecdote on whatever was going on in my life when that Madonna song was released and/or came to prominence in my mind.}

The summer of 2009 was the last summer before I got married. While I didn’t feel the need to sow any wild oats, it did not go unnoticed that technically this would be the last single summer of my life. My feet weren’t cold, but they were contemplative. Into this delicate time – and summer does have a way with swinging moods – Madonna released her third greatest hits package, ‘Celebration’, including a brand new title-track. The iPod has shifted to that club-ready song, and so we go back to two years ago…

I think you wanna come over,
Yeah I heard it through the grapevine,
Are you drunk or you sober?
Think about it, does it matter?
And if it makes you feel good then I say do it,
I don’t know what you’re waiting for…

My old friends from Cornell – the original College Ave. Crew – had planned a reunion in Ithaca, rented home and everything. As a sometimes-honorary guest (I was once told that my photo appeared on more end-of-the-year graduation slide-shows than some who had actually attended Cornell), I was invited to join in the fun, but I was hesitant. All but one had married and had kids (keep the faith, Chris) and a house with six kids ranging from two to five years of age was not my idea of an even tolerable time. But Suzie and Chris persisted, and I went against my better judgment and agreed. (Case #18465 in which I was right and should have listened to my instincts.) Andy didn’t want to go, so we had a bit of a fight about it, and I left – alone and in a foul mood – for Ithaca.

I arrived at the house first, and the family renting to us was trying to locate their cat that was missing. The first strike – a cat in the house. For someone deathly allergic to cats, this did not bode well. At long last they managed to find the thing, cage it up, and went on their merry way, leaving me alone in a large Victorian. The wood everywhere was dark, the recesses were dim, and even on the sunny day it seemed to suck a bit of cheer from the world. I love a Victorian home – especially around the holidays – but summers suffer there. Even Suzie’s childhood home – as much as I loved it – was a darker place in the summer.

When faced with the inevitable onslaught of kids and parents, and an atmosphere to which I was decidedly unaccustomed to say the least, I did what any adult would do to hang onto a shred of sanity: I fixed myself a very stiff drink. And then another. And then another. And possibly, though memory doesn’t serve, another.

Feel my temperature rising,
There’s too much heat, I’m gonna lose control.
Do you want to go higher?
Get closer to the fire?
I don’t know what you’re waiting for…

By the time my friends arrived, kids in tow, I had managed to take a bit of the edge off, but it was too late. I was gone, and hadn’t eaten a thing. For an all-too-brief moment, we settled in and had a very good time, but then it was time to puke – all over the bottom bunk bed in my room. (Oh, did I not mention I was staying in a bunk bed?) Anyway, after I lost my liquid lunch there, Chris decided against the top bunk for the rest of the weekend, sleeping on the couch (poor thing) right in the line of early-to-rise children. I was too sick, and embarrassed, to do much else but sleep into the next day.

The crew headed into campus that morning, while I stayed behind to clean up the mess I made, find some new bedding, and vainly try to air out the stuffy, and now pukey, bedroom on the third floor. The day was hot, but brighter than before, and the sun drifted in through the open windows, lightening the house a bit in spite of all the dark wood. I relaxed a little in the quiet. The importance of time alone impressed itself upon my mind, and I was grateful for the solitude.
Soon they would return, and ask me to join them for lunch, but I wasn’t ready. A bit of shame was at work – both for my behavior, and the fact that I was there without my fiancé. I just wasn’t entirely comfortable, even if they were some of my closest friends, so I declined lunch, and walked down to Ithaca Commons on my own.

Come join the party – yeah!
Cause anybody just won’t do
Let’s get this started – yeah!
Cause everybody wants to party with you…

Suzie called a little while later, asking if everything was all right. I told her I needed some alone time, but would be back for an early dinner. I walked around the Commons a bit more, ducking into incense shops and hand-made jewelry stands, watching how other groups interacted with one another. I have often wondered whether this is my lot in life – to watch from a distance. It lessened the risk of humiliation. It was safer, if lonelier, and sometimes safety is better than risk, even when the risk pays off. Too many times I would have traded in the pay-off for the calm. The reward of the steady and true may not be as flashy or exciting, but it is often more profound.

I walked back up to the house, where some of the kids and their parents were playing and relaxing on the front porch. I remembered the day in 1995 when I sat on their porch on College Avenue, waiting as each of them came home from class. It was the Spring then – both of season, and of our lives. We were just beginning. Fourteen years later, it was Summer, and the sun slanted down on a perfectly lovely afternoon.

They were ordering a Korean feast and I was finally ready to eat. As everyone sat around the large kitchen table, laughing and remembering, amid the noise of kids rushing by, I felt slightly more at ease, but still out of my element. It was all in my head, perhaps, but the next morning I awoke early and was the first to leave.

Boy you got a reputation
But you’re gonna have to prove it.
I see a little hesitation
Am I gonna have to show you
That if it feels right, Get on your mark,
Step to the beat, boy, that’s what it’s for…

A short time later I went back to Boston for another weekend alone. The summer still held onto its warm spell, and I walked through the night unarmed – no coat, no bag, no sartorial armor – just a pair of shorts, some flip-flops, and a T-shirt. A night wind, not much cooler, blew in from the harbor. I found myself in the downtown business district, walking by empty office buildings and closed restaurants. There is no sadder area than a business district at night.

Put your arms around me
When it gets too hot we can go outside
But for now just come here,
Let me whisper in your ear
An invitation to the dance tonight…

I skirted Chinatown, flirted with the South End, and finally made my way back to the condo along Columbus. Back in the light of the living room, there was a certain safety from myself. No matter how much you might safeguard yourself against the outside world, it’s what’s inside that always gets you in the end.

Come join the party, it’s a celebration!
Anybody just won’t do
Let’s get this started
Cause everybody wants to party with you.

In the midst of those heady weeks of my last single summer – from Ithaca to Boston and Albany in-between – I needed to be reminded that this was all supposed to be a good time ~ a celebration ~ and there was only one woman in the world who could do that for me – and she sang it out. I needed to get out of my headspace, I needed to stop over-analyzing, I needed to join the party.

And so I did.

Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?
You look familiar…
You wanna dance?
Yeah…
I guess I just don’t recognize you with your clothes on…
What are you waiting for?

Song #50: ‘Celebration’ ~ Summer 2009

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19
September
2011
Tags: Madonna, Music
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The Madonna Timeline: Song #49 ~ 4 Minutes ~ Spring 2008

{Note: The Madonna Timeline is an ongoing feature, where I put the iPod on shuffle, and write a little anecdote on whatever was going on in my life when that Madonna song was released and/or came to prominence in my mind.}

Come on boy,
I been waiting for somebody to pick up my stroll,
Well, don’t waste time, give me a sign,
Tell me how you want to roll.
I want somebody to speed it up for me then take it down slow,
There’s enough room for both,
Well, I can handle that, you just gotta show me where it’s at,
Are you ready to go?

It’s hard to believe that it’s been over three years since Madonna released a proper studio album. It’s one of her longer stretches, and I believe it’s been due to her touring schedule (the ‘Sticky & Sweet’ show was a two-parter) and her directorial duties on her upcoming movie. Usually after an absence like this she comes back big – witness ‘Like A Prayer’ following her Broadway run in ‘Speed-the-Plow’, and ‘Ray of Light’ in the aftermath of ‘Evita’. Both were stunning examples of her musical relevance and prowess, and with Lady Gaga stealing much of the musical thunder on the last few years, Madonna does have a little something to prove. ‘Hard Candy’ was fine for what it was – though in retrospect it was mostly her riding on her laurels and employing the hit-makers of the moment to give her some up-to-date credibility. It didn’t fail spectacularly, but it wasn’t a highpoint in her musical career.

I do, however, happen to like the next song on the iPod ~ ‘4 Minutes’ ~ the lead-off single to the whole ‘Hard Candy’ experience. Musically I’ve never been a huge fan of Timbaland or Justin Timberlake, but Madonna has a way of making all her collaborators fit her style – even if she has to expend her range to make it work. For ‘4 Minutes’ she does just that – sharing billing for a lead-off single – a sign both of humility as much as clever zeitgeist calculation. With its pounding bass and blasting horns, it was a new sound for Madonna, but it seemed that she was just playing a bit of catch-up with the musical scene.

Madonna doesn’t usually fare well in duets – in fact, most of her rumored duets never get off the demo ground – and this is probably a blessing. (Anyone who’s heard her work with Britney Spears can attest.) The only way it succeeds is when she subverts her partner to the point where itís really a Madonna song with a featured performer, as was the case with ‘Take A Bow’ and Babyface, and, in some respects, ‘4 Minutes’, though she clearly is giving Timberlake greater billing than anyone else ever got.

Though it’s a bit of a lyrical muddle, the music is engaging enough, and it’s good to hear a beat that matches the cumulative power of Madonna. That thundering intro was used to great effect when she performed the song on her Sticky and Sweet Tour – the lights were lowered and it felt like Armageddon approaching.

As for the video, there’s a bit too much Shakira-hair and flesh-colored corsetry for my taste, and not enough plot-line or interaction with Mr. Timberlake to make it truly interesting. It’s almost as if they thought the pairing was enough, and by some accounts it is – particularly when you take into account the fact that Madonna normally doesn’t pair off with stars of equal, or even close, magnitude. (Most of her romantic co-stars in videos are relative unknowns.)

The song itself may prove as forgettable too. In the ensuing years, it has not held up as well as some of her others, attributable in part to its of-the-moment sound and production. It’s a fate that belies much of her work – but she usually manages to make one or two songs on each album that are so classic that they carry her through. I’m not sure if ‘4 Minutes’ was enough.

The road to hell is paved with good intentions,
But if I die tonight, at least I can say
I did what I wanted to do.
Tell me how about you?
Song #49: ‘4 Minutes’ ~ Spring 2008
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12
September
2011
Tags: Brandeis, Madonna
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The Madonna Timeline: Song #48 ~ You’ll See ~ Late Fall 1995

{Note: The Madonna Timeline is an ongoing feature, where I put the iPod on shuffle, and write a little anecdote on whatever was going on in my life when that Madonna song was released and/or came to prominence in my mind.}

A castle turret, high above the campus of Brandeis University. The lights of Boston glow far off in the distance. A cold wind blows, deep into the fall. The window stands open, and a young man walks precariously along the ledge. The burning remnants of a letter leave his hand, swirled into the wind, lighting up the night and disappearing into ash. An act of defiance, of empowerment, of having no other choice. Then the tears fall, the countenance crumbles, and a crushed boy still stands on a ledge in the night wind. He thinks of dropping to his death – he will not deny it. But there is strength to be found in the most trifling pop song – and a legend-still-in-the-making for its singer – and perhaps even its listener.

You think that I can’t live without your love,
You’ll see.
You think I can’t go on another day.
You think I have nothing without you by my side…
You’ll see – somehow, some way…

This is one of those special Madonna songs ~ the ones that coincide perfectly with a life experience ~ and it is, for me, in my top-ten ~ if only for sheer emotional resonance. It joins the pantheon of watershed Madonna moments.

In the fall of 1995, ‘You’ll See’ was Madonna’s hit from her ‘Something to Remember’ collection of ballads. I was living in a single dorm room at the top of Usen Castle at Brandeis. While I loved it for its rustic charm, and the fact that it was a single (no more room-mate), the shower situation was, quite possibly, the worst I have ever experienced in my life. It was down a flight of cement stairs (super fun in the winter), and so dimly lit that you almost couldn’t use it at night. It was also the smallest shower I’ve ever seen, so tiny that it was a task to simply turn around in it.

Luckily, Boston beckoned, and I wouldn’t have to put up with campus castle-living for much longer. I was about to find a place right between Copley and the South End, which at that time was on the verge of blooming into the unaffordable family-friendly bourgeois battlefield it is today. At that time, it had not yet turned, but Braddock Park looked to be a safe bet, and I convinced my parents to purchase the place.

There was a romantic aspect to the city, in its seductive cobblestone paths and magical tree-lined history, and it was almost enough for me to simply look out at the lofty height of the John Hancock Tower as its windows twinkled in the night sky. In those early days the condo was all but empty. I slept on a thin, smaller-than-single-sized mattress from an old cot, not even supported by a frame. A fringed accent lamp sat on the floor, barely illuminating the bedroom at night. In the kitchen, I stood by the counter when eating a bagel, or drinking from the lone carton of orange juice in the fridge. There wasn’t even a couch or chair in which to sit, but I loved it. Copley was at my doorstep and the whole South End was my backyard. Yet in spite of all that was out there, I remained alone. I had no one with whom to explore the new restaurants, or go grocery shopping, or simply walk the quaint side-streets lined with brownstones. At the end of every night, there was silence, inadequately filled with the static-tinged radio of an old alarm clock.

You see, far more than a place in Boston, I wanted a boyfriend ~ someone to share my life with ~ to be there for all the moments in life, most especially the simple ones. The thought of going to bed while someone else showered or read filled me with longing. It wasn’t the passion or the excitement of love that I was after ~ it was the companionship, the camaraderie, the feeling and security of simply having another trusted person who loved you as you loved them. For all my drama, for all my emotional mayhem, all I wanted was a partner. I wanted the shared quiet, the down-time. I wanted the simple act of existing beside another, with no need for words or fancy outfits, no desire to act out or put on a show. Yet despite the simplicity and earnestness of my hope, I didn’t know how to manifest it ~ and so it turned into desperation, and a penchant for obsession and misplaced (and largely unwanted) affection.

Enter unwitting object of desire. He would be, if things went my way, the third man I ever kissed in my life. But at the start he was just our real estate agent. Yes, I fell for my real estate agent. I couldn’t help it. I fell for his seductive real estate sales pitch and his occasionally-physical sensitive-frat-guy hand-on-the-shoulder moves. I didn’t do the physical stuff ~ I enjoyed a healthy five-feet of personal space around me at all times ~ but when he did it I didn’t mind.

Before we ever looked at Braddock Park, he took me around to visit a few different properties, the first within minutes of meeting him. It was across the street from his office, and the day was bright after a run of rain. The yellow leaves of a maple tree were lit brilliantly against a suddenly deep blue sky. The stained glass window of a former church loomed above us. He let us into the building and we climbed to the second floor. On the clay-colored brick wall of the kitchen a small bouquet of dried and desiccated flowers hung sadly on a nail. All these years later, that image has stayed with me.

He showed me the other places later, both at night. There was something secretive-seeming about going into these empty places, switching on lights and walking across barren rooms that echoed with our footfalls. He offered his ideas on how to improve the space, what might be done with the floors ~ everything a live-in-boyfriend would suggest ~ or a savvy real estate agent.

The first man I ever kissed had dumped me before I even realized we were going out. The second man I kissed I dumped before he even had the chance. The third man ~ this man ~ seduced with a smile, endeared with a twinkle in his eye, and revealed just enough vulnerability and compassion to snag me with all sorts of messy emotions. It didn’t matter that he was only trying to sell me a property, or that he had given me no indication of romantic interest other than the occasional wink (which is always tricky to read) I pinned my sights and dreams on him, and conjured a blissful future all within my mind.

In his defense, he made it very clear where we stood and ~ this is important ~ I never asked him out. I didn’t ask if he was interested, I didn’t ask if he wanted to grab a drink or coffee, I didn’t ask anything. I hinted, I strongly hinted, but that was all. There was nothing between us other than the sale of a condo.

You think that I can never laugh again,
You’ll see.
You think that you’ve destroyed my faith in love.
You think after all you’ve done,
I’ll never find my way back home,
You’ll see – somehow, some day…

The fault was within, the fault was all mine. That didn’t make me want him less. It didn’t erase the need to be loved. That he happened to be the one there at the time was simply unhappy, and unlucky, circumstance ~ as it would prove to be time and time again. It still didn’t take away the hurt,  and sometimes losing what you never had is somehow more painful than losing something you’d actually had the chance to experience.

When you are told no, when you are told you are not wanted ~ not in that way ~ it stings. When you are told nothing, but can sense enough that you are not wanted, it hurts differently. You may have retained some shred of pride in not forcing the question to a head, you may have let another person off the hook from having to gently but insistently refuse, but you have let yourself down. You have wimped out.

I didn’t have the voice to ask him out. I didn’t have the courage. And I certainly didn’t have the confidence. Instead I saved face, withdrawing before revealing my hand, backing away before any real risk of being burned, but he had to have known. Granted, when you do ask the ‘Do you like me back?’ question there is always the chance that it will blow up in your face (See the insanity of ‘You Must Love Me’).

Yet if you don’t ask you will always wonder, and the darker side of you, the one you pretend to friends isn’t there, will blame the innocent. There was rage here, there was anger, and there was the humbling sadness of having to survive on your own. There was grit here too, and a steely, brutal resolve to pick myself up again, stoically wipe the tears away, and move on in the world. So though my question may have technically gone unasked, his silence and utter disinterest in me was an answer in itself, and one that I largely accepted (compared to what I would do in the future).

My anguish over a non-existent love affair was both silly and debilitating. Coming out as a gay man, as difficult as it sometimes was, did not hold a candle to the obstacle course of love. And to be worthy of love was some out-of-reach enlightened realm that seemed closed to me, inaccessible despite my best efforts. Upon realizing this, part of me crumbled. I had been defeated, and my heart grew bitter. If this was love, if this was what came of love, then I wanted nothing to do with it. Woe to those who followed.

From my hurt grew an icy chill, one that I’m sometimes afraid remains to this day. It’s an edgy bluntness that takes the offensive before there’s a need to be defended. I have to do it. It’s something I need to prove. I took the sadness and the hurt and the anger and turned it into the way I dealt with the world. I took the flippant disregard of a stranger and the questioning wonder of a friend to heart, and I raged against both.

Fall turned colder. Winter would be long. And all I had was a song.

All by myself, I don’t need anyone at all.
I know I’ll survive, I know I’ll stay alive.
All on my own, I don’t need anyone this time,
It will be mine, no one can take it from me.
You’ll see…

Back on campus, I opened my empty mailbox in the basement mailroom of Usdan Student Center. I listened as the new Madonna song came over the radio. A flicker of hope and fierce determination to never again be hurt lit my heart, but quickly went out as the song faded and I made my way back into the crisp fall air. There were times I wanted to literally fall down ~ in the hidden corner of the courtyard, at the train station waiting for the other commuters to board, and as I closed the door behind me at the condo.

Visions of sharing the place in Boston haunted the cold nights, rising and falling before my mind’s eye, teasing and tormenting with their just-out-of-reach possibility. I longed for companionship, I wanted for warmth, I wished I had someone to fall asleep with ~ such simple pleas, such basic prayers, and such soul-crushing loneliness. It crept up on me, and as I headed back to the condo one night I almost let it hit me. After rounding onto Braddock Park from the Southwest Corridor, feet shuffling through dry, brown leaves and the scent of burning wood in the air, I looked up at the dark windows of the living room. There was no one there. I hesitated and paused. I could not go in.

It must be said that I don’t usually get lonely. I am often alone ~ at lunch, on trips, in the car, even in my own home ~ but rarely if ever do I get lonely. This was one of the only times I felt it, the chill of loneliness, and it shook me. I turned around, retracing my steps the way I had come, returning to the lights and the bustle of Copley Place. I could not walk into the empty rooms at that moment. I knew that if I did, the loneliness would have its way with me, and I might never come back to the person I was, to the place I loved, to the way I wanted to be. So I wandered around the warm store windows of Copley Place, like I did when I was a kid, when we used to stay at the Marriott and Mom would only let my brother and me explore the adjacent Mall on our own. I didn’t need to talk to anyone, I just needed to be around people, to have them close, even if they were strangers. Once the loneliness subsided, I returned to the condo, and never felt that way again.

You think that you are strong, but you are weak,
You’ll see.
It takes more strength to cry, admit defeat.
I have truth on my side, you only have deceit,
You’ll see… somehow, some day…

There was still the winter to get through, and it would be a snowy one. Up to the very end of March – and even early April – a few late-season storms pounded Boston. Somewhere in that crystalline time, beneath the blanket of dirty snow, I healed, and I got over it. Even if it was all in my head, as most of these things tended to be, it changed me.

To this day, ‘You’ll See’ fills me with both dread and drive – a prickly little ball of courage, conviction, contradiction and inner-strength. Whenever I feel myself slipping, or losing sight of who I really am, under the wishes and whims of others – family, friends, anyone – I reach deep, think of this song, and persevere. That’s what this song has always meant to me – it’s a warning to everyone who ever doubted, to everyone who ever questioned whether or not I could do something, and to everyone who thinks that a fancy wardrobe and a cocktail are all I have to offer the world.

On the Madonna-centric side of things, ‘You’ll See’ debuted, if I remember correctly, at Number 5 on the Billboard charts. They likened it to a modern-day take on ‘I Will Survive’ and thematically that’s pretty accurate. She’s only performed it live a scant few times while on her Drowned World Tour. For the first time she added the song (in place of the lackluster ‘Gone’) for certain stops only. Usually a Madonna show is on robotic autopilot, with little to no room for variation or interpretation. That in itself was striking. That she performed it in Boston moved me even more.

It was my first time seeing Madonna live, and she was singing one of my favorite all-time songs on her Boston stop. She stood on that stage alone, a single spotlight glinting off her dirty blonde hair as she sang. Her husband, perhaps hidden somewhere in the shadows, or not even present at all, lurked only in the mind. Listening to her sing ‘You’ll See’, in the city where so much heartache and happiness had happened for me, I was brought back to the Fall of 1995.

I stood on the ledge of a castle in New England. The letter I had burned had just left my hand, fluttering into the dark air in a bright burst of quickly-fading flames. Bits of silky ash floated back up in the night wind. The stone felt cold against my hands as I reached for something to hold onto. Her voice, and her words, sounded in my head, pulling me back from the edge of despair, pulling me back into the warm light of my room, into the hushed safety and terror of solitude.

All by myself, I don’t need anyone at all.
I know I’ll survive, I know I’ll stay alive.
I’ll stand on my own, I won’t need anyone this time,
It will be mine, no one can take it from me.
You’ll see.

Madonna sang the song for all the broken-hearted among us. Yet for all its empowering qualities, at the end of it I felt nothing but defeated – tired and exhausted from loving those who would not, and perhaps could not, love me back. That takes its toll, that leaves its own casualties – and the parts of you that die from it don’t ever come back. At least not so far.
Epilogue:
Years later I would be sitting at the counter in Francesca’s Cafe, reading a book, and the man I thought I loved then – the man who found our Boston home – would tap me on the shoulder to say hello. He would have had no idea what I went through, how much he meant to me, and his smile would betray that. My smile betrayed nothing.

You’ll see.

Song #48: ‘You’ll See’ ~ Late Fall 1995

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07
July
2011
Tags: General, Madonna, Music
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The Madonna Timeline: Song #47 ~ ‘Spanish Lesson’ – 2008

{Note: The Madonna Timeline is an ongoing feature, where I put the iPod on shuffle, and write a little anecdote on whatever was going on in my life when that Madonna song was released and/or came to prominence in my mind.}

It was a tradition that started with ‘La Isla Bonita’ and the ‘True Blue’ album. From that moment on, in every studio record until 1992, Madonna had featured one Spanish/Latin-influenced track. The tradition continued with ‘Pray for Spanish Eyes’ on ‘Like A Prayer’, and reached its nadir with ‘I’m Going Bananas’ on ‘I’m Breathless’. Even ‘Deeper and Deeper’ from ‘Erotica’ had a tinge of Flamenco guitar in it, but since that infamous album, Madonna has kept the kitschy Spanish numbers off her studio albums.

From 1998 through 2007, she left the Spanish lullabies to Ricky Martin and Shakira, as she recharged with electronica and dance music. That changed with her last studio album, ‘Hard Candy’. Suddenly it was 1986 all over again, as ‘Spanish Lesson’ found her back in the Spanglish department, loosely translating common phrases (not exactly accurately – “Mucho gusto means I’m welcome to you” – umm, it does?) and turning up the silly factor: “If you do your homework, maybe I will give you more/ When you do your homework, get up on the dance-floor.” Yeah, it’s pretty painful. I won’t prolong the agony, and I won’t re-print any more of the inane lyrics.

About the only personal memory I have of this song is hitting the ‘Next’ button in the car or on the stereo. I assume it made it into the iPod in the first exciting flush of a new album (2008). I really need to update this thing. And Madonna really needs to get back into the studio… oh wait – she just did! The world has been waiting…

Song #47: ‘Spanish Lesson’ – 2008

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02
July
2011
Tags: General, Madonna, Music
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The Madonna Timeline: Song #46 ~ ‘This Used to be My Playground’ – Summer 1992

{Note: The Madonna Timeline is an ongoing feature, where I put the iPod on shuffle, and write a little anecdote on whatever was going on in my life when that Madonna song was released and/or came to prominence in my mind.}

It turns out I already wrote the entry for this song last year, before the timeline took shape, but it still holds true, so I’m going to step back into the sun, dip back into the pool, and re-hash what I already wrote, word for word.

It was July 1992. I had just returned from a trip to Finland for a wedding, leaving the extended European trip early to attend a summer course at Brown University. I thought it would be a good thing to pad my high school resume for college (well, my parents thought it would be – I personally didn’t really care either way). It was a biology course, with some hands-on study at the Roger Williams Park Zoo.

Upon arriving at Brown, I experienced my first and only real bout of homesickness (well, after the age of ten at least) – I didn’t even feel it when I went away to college. This time I was searching for a private place to cry and remembering how I used to look up into the fluorescent lights of my first grade class hoping that they would dry my tears faster. The crying part was over by the second day, and when I found myself with the time and private place to do it again I didn’t even need to. Still, I missed my family, and to assuage the pit in my stomach I spent my free time searching the library at the University for genealogy books. Not that I ever expected to find any Ilagans there, it just felt good to look and make plans in my mind of when I would see them again.

My chosen project at the zoo was a study on the lemurs. I had noticed that one of them sat quietly, while the others ran circles around him, occasionally chasing him out of the way. It was my ‘hypothesis’ that this lemur was more or less being hounded into submission, and was therefore not exhibiting all of his natural behavior. Looking back, it was probably the least scientific hypothesis ever almost-proven, but somehow I pulled it off and garnered an ‘A’ on it (which was the whole grade of the course).

By choosing the lemurs, which were off the beaten path of the zoo and not as exciting or awe-inspiring as the elephants or Tamarin monkeys, I could be alone, watching their antics and taking notes on behavior. I didn’t want to be around the other students, whom I suspected of intelligence greater than mine, but who displayed too many signs of immaturity. The ones I did find interesting – like the girl who wore a billion strands of tiny beads that she had strung herself – had ostracized themselves with their quirky fashion choices or frowned-upon habits of sleeping with each other.

I also had other concerns, in the form of one psycho red-headed roommate. He had written out a ten-plus page treatise on how he planned to join forces with Satan, take over the world, then double-cross Satan and have the power to himself. Not kidding. When he left for the day, I promptly took a huge risk, stole the papers, ran to the library and made a Xerox copy, then hid it in my luggage in the event that my body was found slaughtered under the bed at the end of the two weeks. Luckily he left me alone, as I must have seemed a non-threat in his quest for universal domination.

The noxious purple loosestrife was just beginning to show its bright color in the zoo’s natural wetlands, and staff warned us of how dangerous it was, in its propensity to take over the wetlands and choke out natives. Summer beat down upon the zoo paths, and I was grateful for the air-conditioned bus ride back to campus at the end of the day.

I didn’t explore Brown University as much as I perhaps should have. Part of me dreaded the idea of college so much that I shrank away from anything remotely connected to it, such as checking out what campus life was like, even if it was the doldrums of summer. I did walk around the small stretch of shops and cafes, and I explored some of the art shops that were there (being in proximity to the Rhode Island School of Design). On one such excursion I picked up an old Herb Ritts compilation – a beautiful pair of cloth-bound editions of some of his classic shots. In the black-and-white beauty found within its pages, I found a semi-solace from my loneliness, and a glimpse into a world so far and fully removed from my own.

On the radio I listened to Madonna’s ‘This Used To Be My Playground,’ a dirge-like lament on time gone by. It has not weathered the years well, and for quite a while I couldn’t even bring myself to listen to it because it was just so unspectacular. But it was part of my past, and part of that summer. A wistful look back on the season that used to be so carefree and celebratory. It was my last summer of innocence. The next Fall and Winter would bring my first girlfriend and last year of high school.

As for the song, it would prove to be Madonna’s last hit before the infamous ‘Sex/Erotica‘ years, though according to producer Shep Pettibone, it was one of the last songs written for those sessions. That’s a lot of ‘lasts’ for a season that never does.

Wishing you were here with me…
Song #46: ‘This Used To Be My Playground’ – Summer 1992

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30
June
2011
Tags: General, Madonna, Music
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The Madonna Timeline: Song #45~ ‘Miles Away’ – Summer 2009

{Note: The Madonna Timeline is an ongoing feature, where I put the iPod on shuffle, and write a little anecdote on whatever was going on in my life when that Madonna song was released and/or came to prominence in my mind.}

I just woke up from a fuzzy dream,
You never will believe the things that I have seen,
I looked in the mirror and I saw your face,
You looked right through me, you were miles away
All my dreams, they fade away,
I’ll never be the same.
If you could see me the way you see yourself,
I can’t pretend to be someone else.

The iPod must be on a ‘Hard Candy’ sugar rush, as it has moved from ‘Beat Goes On’ to ‘Miles Away’ for this Madonna Timeline moment. I think it is the sentiment that I can relate to most in this song, much more-so than the mediocre music. (Apologies for the lengthy absence of a Madonna Timeline post – it fell by the wayside as I was championing marriage equality.)

You always love me more, miles away,
I hear it in your voice, miles away,
You’re not afraid to tell me, miles away,
I guess we’re at our best when we’re miles away…
When no one’s around and I have you here,
I begin to see the picture, it becomes so clear,
You always have the biggest heart
When we’re six thousand miles apart.
Too much of no sound,
Uncomfortable silence can be so loud
Those three words are never enough
When it’s long-distance love…

‘Miles Away’ deals with the push and pull of a long-distance relationship, or a relationship that benefits from distance. It is meaty territory, but Madonna just nibbles around the heart of the matter without offering any truly personal morsels of revelation. She saved that for her live performance of the song on the ‘Sticky and Sweet Tour’.

The main memory I have of this song is watching her perform it in Boston, a day or two before official news of her divorce from Guy Ritchie made headlines. As she began strumming the opening notes on her guitar, she dedicated it to the “emotionally-retarded” ~ a rare, personal (if politically incorrect) glimpse of bitterness on a stage in front of thousands. That’s what they mean by “steely vulnerability”.

I’m all right,
Don’t be sorry, but it’s true,
When I’m gone you’ll realize
That I’m the best thing to happen to you.
So far away, so far away,
So far away, so far away…
Song #45: ‘Miles Away’ – Summer 2009
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11
June
2011
Tags: General, Madonna, Music
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The Madonna Timeline: Song #44 ~ ‘Beat Goes On’ – Spring/Summer 2008

{Note: The Madonna Timeline is an ongoing feature, where I put the iPod on shuffle, and write a little anecdote on whatever was going on in my life when that Madonna song was released and/or came to prominence in my mind.}

When I first heard the demo for this, it was rough, raw, and so unpolished I honestly didn’t see how it could be salvaged. So awful was it that I actually doubted it was a proper Madonna demo at all. I was wrong. With the power and precision of a well-seasoned pro, Madonna turned it into a pop gem, all bright shiny surfaces and perfectly chiseled angles. I should have expected no less, and its performance on her ‘Sticky and Sweet Tour’ was a fun intro to a flawless show.

Don’t sit there like some silly girl
If you wait too long it’ll be too late.
I’m not telling you something new,
There ain’t no time to lose,
It’s time for you to celebrate.

As is her habit, she crafted a fun, catchy pop song. Mindless in some ways, but mindful in others – a warning, perhaps to herself most of all, on the fleeting nature of time. Like much of the ‘Hard Candy’ album, time is the main concern – the way it goes by too fast and too relentlessly.

You don’t have the luxury of time,
You have got to say what’s on your mind.
Your head lost in the stars
You’ll never go far
It’s time for you to read the signs.
The time is right now,
You’ve got to decide
Stand in the back or be the star…

I won’t say much on the Kanye West rap interlude that somewhat mars the song. It’s interesting that the collaboration happened just prior to his going ballistic on live television and stealing Taylor Swift’s moment (she’s more than made up for it in successive successes, while he, though musically still a powerhouse, has owned up to his douche-bag image and held onto it defiantly). In these swift-to-forgive-if-not-forget times, Madonna got absolutely no negative publicity for her tenuous ties to Mr. West – though if this played out in the 80’s or 90’s far more damage may have been wrought upon both. Yet another reflection on the changing times – and the mirror ball of pop spins on.

I can’t keep waiting for you,
Anticipating for you
No time to lose…
Get down, beep beep, gotta get up out of your seat!
Get down, beep beep, gotta get up out of your seat!
Song #44: ‘Beat Goes On’ – Spring/Summer 2008
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30
May
2011
Tags: General, Madonna, Music
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The Madonna Timeline: Song #43: ‘Hung Up’ – Fall 2005

{Note: The Madonna Timeline is an ongoing feature, where I put the iPod on shuffle, and write a little anecdote on whatever was going on in my life when that Madonna song was released and/or came to prominence in my mind.}

Time goes by so slowly,
Time goes by so slowly,
Time goes by so slowly…

Madonna has never made her impatience a secret, yet considering that by 2005 she was two decades into her career, I’m not sure how she figures time goes by so slowly. That Fall she released the lead-off single ‘Hung Up’ for the non-stop dance-a-thon Confessions On A Dancefloor. After the floppy failure of the under-rated albeit dour American Life in 2003, she went back to the well that has always produced gold – the dance floor – and it resulted in her biggest international smash of the decade, propelling her to another #1 album.

Time goes by so slowly for those who wait,
No time to hesitate.
Those who run seem to have all the fun.
I’m caught up, I don’t know what to do.

Making the most of its pricey Abba sample, ‘Hung Up’ is a disco diva’s dream, and fittingly became a dance anthem and immediate staple in Madonna’s repertoire. Lyrically it’s a bit weak – and I’ll go so far as to say disappointingly lazy. (The opening is a word-for-word rip-off of her own ‘Love Song’ from the ‘Like A Prayer’ album, though the similarities end there.)

Every little thing that you say or do,
I’m hung up – I’m hung up on you.
Waiting for your call, baby, night and day,
I’m fed up, I’m tired of waiting on you.
Ring ring ring goes the telephone,
The lights are on but there’s no one home,
Tick tick tock, it’s a quarter to two, I’m done, I’m hanging up on you.

It’s fun the first few times you hear it, then you begin to wonder whether her youngest child had a hand in writing some of the lines. No matter, it’s the music and the driving beat that really move this song. Nobody does a pop-dance song better than Madonna, and with her ‘Saturday Night Fever’ homage in the video for the song, nobody does pop culture references like her either.

With a few clever flips of her sausage curl hair, she channels Farrah Fawcett and John Travolta in one fell swoop, bringing the disco back to the clubs, and the glitzy glamour of Studio 54 back to the world. Her look was fun, bouncy, jubilant – and the sound was a celebration of the simple joys of dance music. If it was nothing too profound, it still felt good, and after the darkness of American Life, it was exactly what her fans needed.

I can’t keep on waiting for you.
I know that you’re still hesitating.
Don’t cry for me, cause I’ll find my way.
You’ll wake up one day, but it’ll be too late.

Shakespeare it’s not, I’ll grant you that. In fact, lyrically and musically that may be one of her weakest bridges – and though she’s got some big-time bridges, that’s no excuse. Also, at this point it’s overplayed its welcome on my ears – for a year or two this was her go-to-performance for promo and award shows – but for the time it was epic. I mean, it’s Madonna and Abba. And who didn’t roll their fists along with that choreography?

Every little thing that you say or do,
I’m hung up – I’m hung up on you.
Waiting for your call, baby, night and day,
I’m fed up, I’m tired of waiting on you.

It came out as the party season was just getting into swing. It was just before the holidays, and a new Madonna album meant a rollicking good time, aurally at least, and Confessions did not let anyone down. To this day, it’s the perfect record to put on when you’re about to go out for a night on the town, in those moments when you’re choosing your outfit, getting dressed up and determining your glamour quotient. The anticipatory excitement that is so good all you want to do is dance…

Time goes by so slowly…
Song #43: ‘Hung Up’ – Fall 2005

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