Alan Ilagan

If there is one person more enamored and idolatrous of Madonna than me, it is Matthew Rettenmund from Boy Culture. Hell, he even wrote the book on her (literally – the Encyclopedia Madonnica – and it’s brilliant, but more on that later.) A brief while ago, Matt got to meet Madonna and her daughter Lola at a pink carpet event for their Material Girl clothing line, and their meeting, so many years in the making, is documented touchingly on his site here.

I’ve never been all that interested in other people making their dreams come true. I mean, yes, I’m happy for them, but the whole dream-realized moment is usually a let-down (and far too Oprah-like for me). Once in a while, though, someone’s dream touches me, and if you’ve been a part of their journey for a long time, it means a lot more. That may be the reason that Matt’s encounter with Madonna was such a happy event, even if I’m viewing it through vicarious distance.

My admiration of Mr. Rettenmund goes back a long way – to 1995 when the Encyclopedia Madonnica was published. It had been a difficult few years for Madonna, what with the big Sex backlash and some questionable behavior (dating Dennis Rodman, fouling up on David Letterman) so for a fan this sort of book was a welcome reminder of what we loved most about her. While Bedtime Stories worked wonders for her music and video rehabilitation, we were not yet to the miraculous double-come-backs of Evita and Ray of Light, so it was still rocky going.

At the time, I was a rabid Madonna fan, lining up at midnight for any new album release, skipping class on a day that a new CD maxi-single was out (hello Junior’s Luscious “Bedtime Story” remixes, good-bye “Madness & Folly in Renaissance Literature”), and lining my dorm room with posters of her. When the Encyclopedia Madonnica arrived at Tower Records, I hungrily devoured it, poring over every word, savoring each glimpse into every detail of her life, and cherishing the compendium of collected facts in one convenient tome. More than that, however, was the voice of the author, for while Madonna alone was inspiration, the perspective of a gay guy who had found his way in the world was even more compelling. I remember sitting in my dorm room and recognizing something in his writing, some familiar understanding, coupled with a kind of longing for a gay friend. I needed someone to show me the ropes, to indoctrinate me into this world that was both inclusive and impossibly exclusive – a guide or a mentor – and for a while, the narrator fulfilled that role. I didn’t have a lot of close gay friends – I still don’t – so it meant a lot to find so many shared feelings and thoughts on a favorite subject.

It didn’t matter that I never met him, or that I was in Boston and he was in New York. It didn’t matter that he wouldn’t know me if we were the only two people in an elevator. All that mattered was that someone had seen what I had seen in Madonna, and had put it eloquently into words. There was nothing overtly personal about Matt in the book, but he was there on every page – his love, admiration, and honest critique of the woman I so loved resonated deeply within.

That such a love of an artist could result in another work of art was a joyous bonus. In our shared love and appreciation was a way to feel less alone, and less lonely. Those cold winter nights of coming out – first and only to myself – were comforted by two people whom I still have not yet met. But at least now I know that they have met each other, and the world somehow feels a little warmer because of it.

Apologies for another Madonna song reference, but if you don’t like it, you don’t have to play it. (Video-wise it is definitely one of Madonna’s weaker ones, the kind of throwaway soundtrack work she does between albums of brilliance.) Besides, so many summer memories are attached to songs. Like my online bud Matthew from Boy Culture once wrote in his brilliant compendium The Encyclopedia Madonnica, “Summer has a way of burning music into your consciousness.”

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 propensity to sleep with each other.

I also had other concerns, in the form of  a 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 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, her last number one Billboard single prior to the Erotica years. 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.

It’s no secret that I love Madonna, and have for about 25 years. She had me at “You’ve got style, That’s what all the girls say.” Yet within that quarter century of obsession, fanaticism, admiration, and occasional ambivalence, I’ve only dreamt of her three times.
 
The first was around the release of Truth or Dare – or a little afterward, in 1991. In the dream she was wearing the Dolce & Gabbana bejeweled body-stocking/corset number that she wore to the New York premiere for the movie, and she had brunette hair and smoky eyes. I forget what I said to her, but she seemed friendly and responsive to it, so “it was a good dream.”
 
The second one I can’t quite remember, but I believe it came around the time of her Reinvention Tour. I think she invited me and Andy to hang out after a show or something.
 
This third one was last night, and it was much more detailed and memorable. I was hanging out with Matthew Rettenmund (of Boy Culture and The Encyclopedia Madonnica fame) and we were at his house. This was both strange and fitting: strange in that I’ve never met Matt in person, fitting in that he’s the Madonna expert and go-to guy, as well as a kindred fan and admirer.
 
Anyway, in the dream Madonna comes into the room we’re in, and just plops herself down in a chair. Her hair is again a deep brunette, and piled in a loosely-curled mop on her head. She mentions that she has a new watch but nowhere to put it, so Matt comes out with a watch holder like they have in jewelry stores. For some reason she signs it, “Matt gave me this!” with a pen, and he is giddy.
 
At that moment, I take out a tissue and blow my nose. “Did you just stick your fingers in your nose?” she asks.
 
“I used a tissue! I’m not a heathen!” I reply indignantly. She is amused and laughs a little. Sensing my chance, I ask her the only question I can think of at the moment (and I know it’s lame, but it’s all I really want to know about right then): “So what’s the new record going to sound like?”
 
“I don’t know,” she says.
 
“Liar!” I say with a smile. She gives a little laugh.
 
“Seriously, I have no idea.”
 
And then, abruptly and too soon, the dream is over.