10
December
2010
Tags: General, Madonna, Music
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The Madonna Timeline: Song #19 – ‘Waltz for Eva & Che’ – December 1996

{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.}

Continuing the Evita theme of late, the iPod has chosen another selection from that famous Andrew Lloyd Webber musical and it’s a duet between Madonna and Antonio Banderas. God knows I love a waltz, and God knows I love Madonna, so this is one of my favorites from the album. The final flourishes of the instrumental portion towards the end are especially inspiring.

Though it came in the midst of a questionable time, this song doesn’t have any heartache attached to it – only a happy memory of my college graduation party, held December 23, 1996 at my parents’ home in Amsterdam, New York. I wore a tux with tails, and even a bow tie and cummerbund. A lone calla lily served as a boutonniere. Suzie went so far as to wear a dress that was almost sleeveless. It was a big night.

The house was decorated for the holidays, lights twinkling around every corner, and the whole evening seemed to sparkle. I had managed to finish a full semester early, completing my Brandeis journey sooner than expected. I wanted out – I wanted freedom – I wanted to see the world – I wanted to waltz. And starting in the next month, I embarked on just that, but that’s another suitcase in another hall, and another story for another iPod selection.

Better to win by admitting my sin
Than to lose with a halo…
Song #19: ‘Waltz for Eva & Che’ – December 1996
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08
December
2010
Tags: Boston
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Table For One

Since I’m hoping to make one more trip to Boston before Christmas, and Andy will likely not want to come, I’ll probably be eating dinner alone one night. When I mentioned this to one of my co-workers, she balked and was taken aback that I would actually go into a restaurant and eat by myself. I’m not talking about sitting at the bar or grabbing a quick meal in the food court – I mean a real, sit-down dinner with full table service, time to look over the menu, and however long it takes for the meal to be prepared.

In a way, I get her surprise, and once upon a time I shared in that disbelief. Why would anyone eat in a restaurant alone? Well, why wouldn’t they? Usually I’ll have a book or a folder of writing with which to occupy my time and attention, but I’ve gone in without armor and had a perfectly nice dinner all by my lonesome, listening surreptitiously to the conversation around me or watching how the wait-staff interacts with the customers and then reacts privately when they think they’re not being seen. There’s always something entertaining going on, and even if there’s not, there is a plate of food before you.

I suppose my habit of eating alone goes back to college, when all I wanted to do was get off campus and go into the city (and not hang out with college kids). That’s also when I started going to the movies alone – a habit that continues to this day. (Not surprisingly, the movies I want to see don’t always intersect with the movies Andy wants to see, so I have no choice in the matter. And if I really want to see a movie, I don’t need it to be a social event, so I don’t tend to invite friends.) Again, I see nothing wrong with it, and rarely feel self-conscious.

That said, it is easier to melt into the crowd at the movies than at a restaurant, and there are certain restaurants where I would not dare to eat by myself. For instance, I won’t do it in a fancy or formal place where everyone’s arrival is noted and judged – and I do try to go earlier in the evening to avoid a big crowd.

Of course, it’s easier to eat alone when you know you have someone waiting for you at home, so I’m not going to pretend that doesn’t matter. It’s a choice in that respect. My real admiration is for those who eat alone because they’ve reached the point where they’re okay being alone. Society frowns on the singles of a certain age, judging those who dare to enjoy a decent meal on their own, and the stigma attached to solo diners is something I will always fight against.

For me, it’s a reassertion of my independence. It reminds me of a time before Andy, and while I don’t necessarily want to go back to a time without Andy, it’s nice to know that I can still go out by myself and be all right being alone. There is power in that, and it led to a belief in myself that enables me to get through the weaker moments.

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06
December
2010
Tags: General
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The Sadomasochism of Sixth Grade

We were all at the sixth grade dance – our very first dance at McNulty – and the girls were on one side of the room and the boys were on the other. We had split into such factions in about the fourth grade, and while my heart (and humor) were with the girls, my allegiance (and feigned loyalty) was bound to the boys.

The dance was painstakingly dull. Nothing was happening. A pathetic bowl of soda punch sat on a colorful paper tablecloth. Some stale, soggy chips went untouched in a bowl. Most of us boys stood with our arms folded, daring the girls to approach us. I don’t remember if any did, or if any of us said no, or what happened. There were no memorable embarassments, no life-altering snubs, and nothing of particular note. I only remembered the walk home.

His name was Craig. Well, that’s not his real name, but it will do for these purposes. Craig and I had been friends for a while, though he was from a completely different way of life. He wasn’t in the “gifted and talented” program that half of my class was in (what a wretched and unfairly exclusive group that was monikered). He didn’t wear nice clothes. He sometimes smelled of his parents’ cigarettes. But while rough around the edges, he didn’t mind my, well, attitude.

I did not like like him – he was a friend and no more. I did not have a crush on him, not in the least (and I had had crushes on boys by that time). I felt a certain tenderness toward him, and all that he didn’t have. We were friends – and that is all. I say this now to preemptively strike any notions of anything romantic between us. Craig was, and to my knowledge remains, completely heterosexual.

After the dance drew to its excruciating close, Craig and I walked a few blocks together. Beside us the land dropped off where a steep hill led down to the four diamonds. While the baseball fields below were level and meticulously mowed, this hill was wild and unruly with knee-high grass and a few shrubs that threatened to turn into trees. Craig and I playfully started pushing each other closer and closer to the edge of the hill, and as boys at play tend to do, we escalated into a friendly competition to see who could hang onto the upper ground for the next block or so.

Craig was about a foot taller than me (everyone was), and at least fifty pounds heavier, but I was scrappy, and though by rights I should have been down for the count, I managed to gain the top of the hill more than either of us expected. But that wasn’t my goal. My thrill was in being slung back down the hill, scrambling against someone more physically powerful than me, and meeting that force with defeat – and relishing it.

Beyond the sexual, beyond the sadomasochistic – somehow I felt that I deserved to be punished. And somehow I think part of me liked it. The martyrs, the downtrodden and the put-upon – is there not something exquisite about them and their plight? It goes deeper than simple gluttony for punishment, penetrating further into the recesses of the psyche than simple sadomasochistic pleasure.

Every time he threw me back down the hill a part of me thrilled in the brutality of it, in the raw act of aggression – all the while knowing that Craig would never really hurt me. It was play. What went through my head was the furthest from his, I’m sure, and that only added a secretive element of subterfuge to the game. All the time he thought he was the dominating force, I plundered his power for my own amusement and excitement.  I sought out the role of submissive, knowing full well that Craig never stood a chance at matching my wits or outsmarting me if it came down to it.

For that day though, it was enough just to have him fling me through the air, push me down on the ground, feel the force of his strength and the pull of gravity have their way with my little body. I knew it wasn’t the same enjoyment that other boys got out of wrestling or playing, and I knew enough to keep that to myself. I also knew that one day I would seek out excitement in other forms, far more terrifying and dangerous than a hillside tussle, and this quaint little game, for which I made Craig feel great guilt over his power, with feigned injuries, heavy breathing, and willfully injured pride – was but the beginning of a boy’s strange entry into adolescence.

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05
December
2010
Tags: General, Madonna, Music
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The Madonna Timeline: Song #18 ~ ‘Supernatural’

{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 wake up with your fragrance and it’s all over me
What cologne do you wear?

The ipod has chosen its first B-side Madonna song in the form of ‘Supernatural’. Thematically, this is more of a Halloween song than a Christmas ditty, but since it arrived in December of 1991, it has the holiday connotation, whether fitting or not. I ordered it from some overseas mail-order company (it was actually a 3 inch CD – the cutest little thing, really.) As the B-side to’Cherish’, it actually was released a year or so prior to when I got around to receiving it.

At this point in my life I was more concerned with fish and Madonna than romance, so the supernatural love story alluded to in the lyrics didn’t impress me much.

You transcendentally imposed yourself upon my bed,
You know you didn’t say very much…

Around this time I had also ordered a batch of live rock, so this song brings me back to the saltwater fish tank that housed a Heniochus and a lionfish, along with three (then two, then none) damsels. It was as exciting and pathetic as it sounds, with much of my world revolving around a closed-off bedroom, Madonna music, and an unruly head of hair that hadn’t discovered the proper products yet.

You’re not demanding for a man, that’s really quite rare
You’e not the least bit obsessed with your hair
You’re not upset when I come home later than ten
For a ghost you’re a very good friend.

I felt estranged from my whole family, isolated and powerless, scared and lonely, and my only outlet was in letters and mix tapes to Suzie, who was spending a year abroad in Denmark. She was one of my only lifelines- she and my friend Ann. Without them, I don’t know what I would have done. The world was closing in around me, and it was a world in which I played no real part. I longed for something else, somewhere that I belonged – another world perhaps – but ‘Supernatural’ was not cutting it for inspiration.

I had such high hopes for this ‘Like A Prayer’ out-take, and it was the first time I realized that some things are better left on the cutting room floor. Not that this song doesn’t have its own Halloween charm, I just couldn’t get into it at the time. It took a few more questionable B-sides before I would truly get it into my head that not every Madonna song is a keeper (‘Goodbye to Innocence’ anyone?)

A ghost baby?
Song #18: ‘Supernatural’ – December 1991
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02
December
2010
Tags: Boston
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Our Boston Home

In the fall of 1995 I was living on-campus at Brandeis, but working about 35 hours a week in downtown Boston. I made the suggestion to my parents that they get a place in the city. I tried to paint it as a real estate investment, not really expecting them to show much interest, but they gave the go-ahead to start looking, and within a day I had procured a real estate agent.

He would show me three South End condos in the next few days – this was in the time just before prices in that area went prohibitively through the roof – and most were in the $130,000 – $180,000 range. (Insane, I know – but somewhat predictable: I knew that where the gays went the market value was sure to rise.)

The first place we looked at was on Clarendon, right across the street from his office, in the heart of the South End. A brick wall in the kitchen lent it a cozy feel, as did a lone bouquet of dried flowers hanging on the wall. How long had it hung there, fading as the sun moved over its brittle leaves?

It was a small place, but on that brilliant Fall day the sun lit up the expanse, a moment of October clarity in between gray showers. The key to a successful real estate agent is seduction – and our agent was quite adept at that. (Yes, I had a small, okay, big, crush on him. But that’s another story for another time.)

The second place was the largest of the lot – a labyrinth of rooms really, right near Washington Park – and while spacious, it was almost too much – so easy would it be to get lost in these rooms. And though it’s prime space now, at the time it seemed a bit of a trek to the nearest T stop, plus there hadn’t been the businesses and restaurants that currently inhabit the area. Still, there’s a big appeal for that kind of space in a city – and I did contemplate whether a long walk might be worth an extra room or two. But the three things you’re supposed to look for in a place kept ringing in my ear: location, location, location.

The very last stop was on Braddock Park, looking out onto the Southwest Corridor, and we saw it after dusk had fallen. The lights of Copley glowed in the distance, the spires of the Hancock Building and the Marriott reaching into the night firmament. Seeing a place for the first time at night is often deceptive. The building adjacent had a pad lock and chain on its front door, and looked slightly dilapidated, but the bones looked strong. A first impression after sundown also doesn’t give a good indication of light, even with the promise of a floor-through with double bay windows.

We walked up one flight of stairs to the second floor and went into the condo. The ceilings soared, and the floor was a warm shade of amber. The hardwood, just the slightest worse for wear, could easily be redone. A marble fireplace commanded the central focal point, while a pitiful gray leather sofa from Miami circa 1988 sagged to its right. In the front of the room was the first bay window, and a kitchen. A small counter separated the space. A wooden wet bar lined the wall leading into the bedroom, the original gaslight fixtures still in place. It certainly had a bit of Boston charm. The bedroom was in the back of the layout, and had its own bay window. It was next to the bathroom, which had an accent wall of clay-colored brick and a dark-tiled floor.

While I liked what I saw that night, it had to be seen during the day, and my parents had to see it as well. After walking down the steps of the building to the street, I took leave of the real estate agent and made my way through the Southwest Corridor Park and into Copley Square. It was a short walk, and if location was our prime consideration, there was no contest. A new home was in the making…

A month later we closed on the Braddock Park condo. I had finished my finals at Brandeis and there were just a few days of work before I went home for winter break. I stayed at the condo during that time – alone in Boston at last, and thrilled at every turn. Winter had almost arrived, but the new place was warm, if empty and unfurnished. A small table lamp set on the floor, and a thin, limp cot from home (without even a box spring) constituted the bedroom, and my sleeping arrangements.

The only bit of technological entertainment was a clock radio that I didn’t even bother to turn on. That quiet and stillness was what I needed, and I would look back on those first few days with wonder at all the material luxuries I didn’t have, and the peace that I did. It was the most uncluttered time of my life, literally and figuratively.

In the morning I awoke to sunlight streaming into the kitchen and front room. There were no chairs to sit on, but I didn’t mind standing at the counter as I ate my breakfast. Bagels and orange juice were the only two edible items in the kitchen. I didn’t even have butter or cream cheese. Instead, I’d tear off chunks of spongy goodness from Finagle-a-Bagel and take swigs of orange juice straight from the carton. A dozen bagels would see me through those first few days, with supplemental meals out. The city was on my doorstep if I needed anything else.

That pocket of time, in which a world of possibility unfurled unfettered before me, had more of an impact than any number of seemingly-grander events. I learned that, if need be, I could exist quietly and contentedly on very little. Granted, coming after a few years of the less-than-desirable lodgings at Brandeis this wasn’t saying much, but it was more of an emotional state of well-being, and the actual maturation of a young man just beginning to make his way in the world.

Even without a television or a computer or a cel phone, I was not bored for a moment. It was exciting enough just walking around my new neighborhood, planning and envisioning where some furniture might go, or reading by the lone light on the bedroom floor. A few items of clothing hung in the closet (I did have to go to work after all) but even my wardrobe was almost non-existent and I didn’t mind. The in-between time that now gets filled with FaceBook or gas-station stops was then spent in silence and solitude – and, in its own way, meditation. In that quiet, empty space with white walls and wooden floors, and a couple of bay windows, it was enough to stop and think.

Sometimes it still is, and when I find myself troubled or discontent or simply yearning for something more, I return to Boston, most often alone, and find that peace again. The furnishings are a little better, the parking is a little worse, but the memory of those first few days there lingers, along with that wondrous world of possibility, still out there, still waiting to be explored.

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01
December
2010
Tags: General
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What Happens in the Men’s Room

The photo below illustrates a no-talking-zone. There is nothing so important that it can’t wait until I am finished peeing to discuss. I don’t even want to say “Hello” when I’m standing at the urinal. And yet the number of guys who think it’s appropriate and perfectly fine to talk to me while we’re peeing is insane. Whatever happened to simple urinal etiquette?

This has nothing to do with being pee-shy. I could pee on you if I had to go badly enough (and I know for a fact that I’ve peed for photos more than I care to recall). But I still don’t want to talk when it’s all coming out. It just feels wrong.

It’s the same feeling of minor discomfort I get when there is a row of ten urinals and someone comes in and stands at the one right next to me. Is this necessary? There will always be guys who are curious out of desire or who like to show off (and that’s a different level of discomfort entirely) – I’m not talking about them. I mean the ones who are there only to pee, and feel the need to stand next to you, talk your ear off while you both have a dick in your hand, and act as if it’s no big deal at all.

I like to observe what I thought was an unsaid rule in restroom etiquette: leave an empty urinal between you if at all possible. More than one and you run the risk of having people question your manhood, but when you go to the closest urinal and start yapping about dinner at your mother-in-law’s, no one is having a good time.

At my workplace there is no way around this, as there are only two urinals right next to each other. In this instance, silence is the only way to go, but not everyone goes that way. In fact, it’s not unusual for guys to be shouting over the stalls, urinal to urinal, and out into the hallway to keep the talk going, and it’s just insane.

The only way I can think of to combat this (because silence and dirty looks clearly aren’t working) is going to be to talk back. And trust me, the kind of talk I do with a dick in my hand is not what you want to hear when you’re going on about the game last night.

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30
November
2010
Tags: General, Madonna, Music
2 comments

The Madonna Timeline: Song #17 – ‘Don’t Cry For Me Argentina’

{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.}

Her voice has never sounded better. Even in the bustling pre-Thanksgiving buzz of Logan Airport, I can hear her clearly over the headphones of my portable CD player (this was 1996). I am about to board a flight to San Diego, my emotional state is shaky at best, but when Madonna is singing one of the most famous Andrew Lloyd Webber show tunes of all time, ‘Don’t Cry For Me Argentina’, I pause to listen. There are storms moving in from the West, but the flight is departing on time. A heavy coat is slung over my arm, and I wish I could leave it in the cold of a Boston November. But I’m getting ahead of myself. The iPod has chosen ‘Don’t Cry For Me Argentina’ as the next selection, and while I was hoping we might get an Evita song at this time of the year, I suddenly feel ill-equipped to fully convey the sad connotations that this song evokes.

It won’t be easy,
You’ll think it strange,
When I try to explain how I feel
That I still need your love after all that I’ve done…

The Fall of 1996 found me living in Boston, and commuting to Waltham for my last semester at Brandeis. I had fallen for a classmate in my Literary Criticism course, and for a brief moment he seemed smitten with me. We shared a love of musicals, the cute guy at the Boston Chipyard, and my impeccable sense of style. We also shared a couple of late-night talks on the telephone, some pleasantly random encounters on campus, and a slight fear of our Literary Criticism professor.

I won’t go into other details here (that’s the ‘You Must Love Me‘ story, and the iPod hasn’t shuffled that way yet), but after a few weeks of flirting, one flat semi-date, and a risky letter laying it all on the line, he was not as enthralled with me as I was with him. And as my pathology has historically shown, it’s the ones who want nothing to do with me that I seem to love the most.

I had to let it happen,
I had to change…

And so, long story short, he broke my heart, in the kindest possible way, but a broken heart is a broken heart and there’s nothing much to be done about it. That November the ‘Evita’ soundtrack was released. It was Madonna in an Andrew Lloyd Webber musical – a gay man’s dream – but while the rest of the Madonna-mad homos celebrated, I tried to heal.

Back in those days, I lived a very organized and regimented life. Chalk it up to my Virgo birth sign, or my parents’ rigid structure – the point was, I had my school life and job and creative outlets strictly planned out, and there was little to no time for an emotional breakdown or messy feelings to muck up the flow. But I had read somewhere that Madonna claimed she allowed herself one day to get over a bad break-up, so the Tuesday that the ‘Evita’ soundtrack came out I designated as that get-over-it day.

Luckily, I did not have classes on Tuesday, so I slept in and putzed around the condo a bit. The day was dim and overcast, but there was no rain. I walked over to Tower Records (again, this was 1996, and it still stood on the corner of Newbury then) and bought the soundtrack.

I vividly recall the press Madonna was getting at the time, especially the one-two knock-out punch of Vanity Fair and Vogue. She was poignant, vulnerable, and poised on the brink of her first comeback following the Sex years. She’d had her first child – a daughter named Lourdes – and she was healing her lifelong hurt of a lost mother and a number of lost loves. In my dismal state I could somehow relate, and suddenly I wanted to be anywhere but where I was.

So I chose freedom,
Running around, trying everything new,
But nothing impressed me at all,
I never expected it to…

The next weekend my cousin’s wedding was taking place in San Diego. It was both exactly what I needed, and the last thing I wanted. A wedding is a wretched place to get over a broken heart, but at our darkest moments most of us turn to family – the people who have no choice but to love us. Or so we hope.

The truth is I never left you,
All through my wild days,
My mad existence…
I kept my promise,
Don’t keep your distance.

In Logan Airport, I took off my winter coat and waited for the plane to board. In my ears I listened to Madonna sing that epic song. Midway across the country, flying over all those square states, a storm appeared to the left of the plane – lightning and thick clouds swirled, and in the dark of night I almost dared God to take all of us down – I was that far gone.

Up in the sky, I felt removed from everything. The seat next to me was empty (are there ever any empty seats anymore?) so I could lie down and nap, and the flight attendants didn’t mind. While the night progressed, I was moving West and turning back time. What could be found in those three hours I was momentarily gaining? Would there be wisdom there, and would that soothe the ache?

Landing in San Diego was a healing moment of its own – the balmy humidity was a salve on the raw coldness I brought from Boston. I hopped in a courtesy van and arrived at the hotel where my family was already going about their wedding business. All except my brother would not be told of my state of mind. I wasn’t even out yet, and the accompanying loneliness and sadness weighed secretly upon me.

I tried to distract myself with the sunniness of San Diego, and the silliness of fashion, finding a tiger-print coat and a maroon ostrich boa in a vintage shop. I asked my brother to take a photo of me walking in a park, head down and countenance downtrodden, and it would become that year’s somber Christmas card. Through it all, I couldn’t shake the feeling of being unloved, and while my head (and my own brother) was telling me that this person was not worth the trouble, my heart would not be quieted – the heart wants what it wants.

At the wedding I talked and laughed with family. There were compliments on my outfits – there would always be compliments on my outfits – and if I had nothing else, I could still look good. I wondered then, if that’s all I had to offer. My lost suitor had been captivated by my clothes – in fact our first conversations revolved around clothing. How could such a superficial thing even compare to what I was feeling on the inside? And what do you do when you’ve built up such a pretty facade, but all anyone wants to do is look?

Such silly ruminations, and such a silly boy I was for feeling so devastated. Perhaps it’s even silly to speak of such things now. Yet these are the things that shaped me into the man I am today, and in so many ways those faults have not been perfectly patched. They run deep, and they run wide, and no matter how far I think I can go, they’re always with me.

And as for fortune and as for fame,
I never invited them in,
Though it seemed to the world
They were all I desired.
They are illusions,
They’re not the solutions
They promised to be
The answer was here all the time,
I love you
And hope you love me…

I didn’t cry for Argentina. I didn’t cry for Madonna and her newborn child and first shot at movie star credibility. I didn’t even cry for the boy who never sat next to me in class again.  I cried for that fact that love would never be easy for me, and that as good as I was at dressing up and making the ladies laugh, I could never be good at love.

In one of the magazine articles of the time, Madonna was talking about how she gained the coveted title role of the movie, and she said something that I grasped as hopeful for my goal of attaining a guy:

“I thought of a line from ‘The Alchemist’ that goes something like, “If you want something bad enough the whole earth conspires to help you get it.””

That’s not true in matters of love, and I think Madonna knows that too.

Have I said too much?
There’s nothing more I can think of to say to you…
But all you have to do is look at me
To know that every word is true.

Song #17: ‘Don’t Cry For Me Argentina’ – November/December 1996

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29
November
2010
Tags: Madonna
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The Madonna Timeline: Song #16 ~ ‘Isaac’ – Winter 2006

Staring up into the heavens,
In this hell that binds your hands,
Will you sacrifice your comfort,
Make your way in a foreign land?

It’s fitting that the iPod should select ‘Isaac’ from 2005’s ‘Confessions on a Dance Floor’ album, as it was released almost exactly five years ago. While never a single, ‘Isaac’ was one of the more challenging, and enjoyable, tracks from the record, named after the guy who also sang on it (and joined Madonna on her Confessions Tour). I love how Madonna can do such an adventurous yet danceable track like this and incorporate some rather deep and dark lyrics.

Wrestle with your darkness,
Angels call your name,
Can you hear what they are saying?
Will you ever be the same?

For all the frothy non-stop dance-party fun the Confessions album was supposed to be, this track is a pleasant reminder that even when she’s getting down, Madonna can still get deep.

Open up my heart,
Cause my lips to speak,
Bring the heaven and the stars
Down to earth for me.

As for her performance of the song on the Confessions Tour, well, just show me one other entertainer out there who could do this, and try to tell me you’re not impressed.

Wrestle with your darkness,
Angels call your name,
Can you hear what they are saying?
Will you ever be the same?
Song #16: ‘Isaac’ – Winter 2006
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24
November
2010
Tags: Gay
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A Gay Parade

Watching the Thanksgiving parade (which I usually do not do) I am reminded of the funniest gay stereotype I ever heard. I was working at the Rotterdam Structure for the summer, and a new co-worker who made The Situation from the Jersey Shore look like a classy gentleman had just joined our retail ranks. (I’m just talking about his overly-tanned appearance and penchant for excessive hair gel in his frosted up-do – he was actually quite a nice guy.)

Apparently he only knew one other gay person in his life – his Uncle – so he was curious about me. I never have a problem with that – in fact, it’s admirable when people want to learn more, and I’ve never dismissed or denigrated earnest questions from those who have an open mind and are willing to expand their knowledge.

Anyway, we were talking and out of the blue he asked whether I liked parades. It was a perplexing question, and I told him no, not particularly, then I asked him where that came from. He said his gay uncle always liked to watch parades so he thought that’s what gay people did. I busted out laughing.

As for the parade on television right now, I only hope that the poor flag girl who dropped her baton in front of all of America didn’t just ruin her life forever.

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23
November
2010
Tags: General, Madonna, Music
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The Madonna Timeline: Song #15 ~ ‘Nobody Knows Me’

{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’ve had so many lives since I was a child,
And I realize how many times I’ve died…

The iPod bops along to Madonna’s incendiary ‘American Life’ album from 2003, shuffling over to ‘Nobody Knows Me’, a blippy, vocally-distorted stop/start stilted jolt of a song with a neat little funk-out. I think this will be perhaps best remembered for Madonna’s performance/lip-syncing of it on her Reinvention Tour (summer of 2004), when she strutted across a conveyor belt, doing some crazy-fun half-moon arm gestures.

After seeing the show in NYC, I remember marching along Broadway to my hotel with this song in my head, feeling solidly empowered and like I could take on the world. That’s the best thing about some of Madonna’s songs – they pump you up to the point that you don’t care who is staring at you as you dance (or trip) your way down Broadway.

This is, in my opinion, the only real ‘dance’ song on American Life (prior to remixes), and one of the few ‘lighter’ selections from that brilliantly dark album – in other words, it’s not indicative or representative of the rest of songs, but it is definitely a stand-out track, perhaps because of that.

The big disappointment in the concert version (as seen below), is that Madonna takes out the best part of the song – the quasi-bridge break-down:

I don’t want no lies!
I don’t watch TV!
I don’t waste my time!
Won’t read a magazine…

I’m not that kind of guy
Sometimes I feel shy…
Song #15: ‘Nobody Knows Me’ – Summer 2004
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17
November
2010
Tags: General, Madonna, Music
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The Madonna Timeline: Song #14 – ‘Frozen’ ~ Winter 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.}

 
You only see what your eyes want to see,
How can life be what you want it to be?
You’re frozen when your heart’s not open…

I had been hoping that the iPod would not choose this song for a while, as it’s one of the most emotional Madonna songs for me – the kind that perfectly aligns with a momentous time in one’s life, that both illuminates and shades that time, becoming a mini-anthem, dirge-like or not, and I cannot hear the song without being somewhat affected and reminded of that moment in my life.

You’re so consumed with how much you get,
You waste your time with hate and regret,
You’re broken when your heart’s not open…

It was the winter of 1998 – January – and I was living in Boston but searching, as always, for a break from where I was. Upstate, friends awaited me in Rochester, New York – and I headed there for a few days of carefree fun to dispel the wickedness of winter. We headed to a club for drinks and dancing, and in the darkness between the flashing lights, I saw him for the first time. A cute guy in overalls and a baseball cap – and a smile that was somehow, and unfathomably, meant for me.

My friend Gina went up to him and introduced us, much to my embarrassment, but he was nice and we talked. I’m not going to lie – when you’re 22 and single, every first meeting carries with it the possibility of being the first time you meet ‘the one’. (When you’re 35 and married, you realize that’s not how life really works.)

He must have known that then, but I did not. We went our own ways at the club for a while, but found our way back together at the end of the night. He wrote his name and number on a cocktail napkin and told me to call him the next day.

I was staying at Gina’s apartment, and when we got home she told me that he was a chef at a new restaurant. The next day we made reservations for dinner there, and he invited us into the kitchen to say hello. We agreed to meet up after his shift.

If I could melt your heart…
We’d never be apart…
Give yourself to me…
You hold the key.

The intervening time between dinner and meeting him is a blur, as is much of those few days. I remember being incredibly nervous until I saw him, as if I could never quite believe he was real, and whenever he was absent (which was most of the time), I felt panicked and desperate and almost manically hopeful. (Attractive traits all around.) I hid this as best as I could. There would be no crazy letters of self-saving ultimatum (not yet anyway – they would come later), and in those first few days I was free to imagine that this was the start of a great romance. That night it certainly felt so.

We went to the Avenue Pub – a local haunt less keen on style and more concerned with cheap, strong drinks. We sat at the bar and I met a few of his friends. At one point his hand rested on my knee – a sign of affection or camaraderie, I wouldn’t ever know – and though I usually cringed at being touched, with him it was all right, it was endearing, and it made me feel like I might be loved. Such a simple gesture, I don’t know how I could allow myself to believe it was so fraught with import, but there you have it. My state of mind. His casual carelessness. Our mutual desire.

Now there’s no point in placing the blame,
And you should know I suffer the same,
If I lose you, my heart will be broken…

I followed him back to his place, a rather lengthy drive through the cold winter darkness. In the dim light of a night that was suddenly filled with falling snow, we kissed and undressed. Shades of silver and gray swam among wrinkled sheets. It was warm next to him, and it was one of the only times I fell asleep without unease next to a man. What followed would do that to me. Not through any act of deliberate cruelty on his part, but in the absence of returned love – the debilitating draining that inevitably befalls unreturned affection.

In the early morning light, a layer of white snow covered the waking world. He got up to take the dogs out. I asked, jokingly, if he was going to wipe the snow off my car. He grinned before closing the door behind him. I dressed quickly in the dark chill of that morning, my body knowing even then that I needed to leave. When he returned, he asked me to stay, but I couldn’t tell if he meant it. Outside, I made the discovery that he had brushed the snow off my car.

For the rest of my stay I will call him daily, to see if he wants to meet up. He will hedge, say yes, then cancel at the last minute. I will sit, showered and dressed, in Gina’s apartment, for the next two nights – even extending my trip with the hope that he would be able to make it, and then when I absolutely had to return to work I made the solitary drive home.

Love is a bird, she needs to fly,
Let all the hurt inside of you die,
You’re broken when your heart’s not open…

Once back in Boston, I had a few phone conversations with him in which he explained that he would have liked to see me, but he just couldn’t schedule it with his busy work week. I understood, and mentioned I would be back in Rochester in a few weeks, so perhaps we could meet then. He agreed, and like a fool I believed, and returned – by bus to Amsterdam, then with my parents’ car to Rochester.

It’s strange, and a little embarrassing, to look back at my actions then, but whenever a sense of shame sneaks over me, I remind myself that I didn’t know any better. I didn’t understand that there were romantic rules of attraction, and to go against these rules meant certain ruin. If I liked someone, I let them know it. I didn’t wait three days to call, or act unavailable. If I was smitten, I didn’t hide it, and if I wanted to see someone, well, I drove six hours to see them.

Like most of the men in my life, I loved him – or thought I loved him – more than he would ever love me. As I get older, it sounds sillier and sillier for someone to say, but at that moment, in that time of my life, it was anything but silly.

On my second, third… fourth trip there, he didn’t even bother to return my calls. I sat in the car and cried, wrenching tears from a writhing shell of a body. In a rare moment of desperation, I called my Mom and simply told her that things weren’t going well. I didn’t give specifics, I just needed to hear her voice.

It was winter, and Madonna was gearing up to release her ‘Ray of Light’ album, leading off with the single ‘Frozen’. The snow fell around me as I returned to my parents’ home, and I shoveled the driveway to keep from going crazy. Walking off into the backyard forest one night, I laid down on the frozen ground, letting the snowflakes tickle and melt upon my face. On a still winter’s night, you can hear them fall – tiny pings and rustling crystals – and if you wait long enough you can join in their frozen mass. I did not wait that night.

If I could melt your heart…
We’d never be apart…
Give yourself to me…
You hold the key.

There would be more tears, and more pain, and more feelings of doubt and insecurity, and always the wondering as to my own worth. I could gain the attention and enthrallment of any number of people – yet the ones I loved the most couldn’t be bothered to love me back. It would be the conundrum that informs my life to this day.

You only see what your eyes want to see,
How can life be what you want it to be?
You’re frozen when your heart’s not open…

As for the song itself, ‘Frozen’ marked Madonna’s masterful move into electronica, by way of Morocco. With its sweepingly majestic Middle Eastern strings and barren drum programming, it melded an icy chill with desert heat – exemplified by a Goth-like video shot in the desert night. The first time I heard it was on one of those obsessive trips to Rochester. Sitting in Gina’s sad little apartment waiting for him to call, I watched as the video came on MTV – and in the tradition of ‘Like A Prayer’, the first time I heard it I didn’t like it immediately. Soon enough, it was one of my favorites – the crux of yearning and learning, obsession and lonely resignation.

If I could melt your heart…
Song #14: ‘Frozen’ ~ Winter 1998
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17
November
2010
Tags: Shirtless Male Celebrities
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Matthew Morrison – Gleefully Shirtless

Here is Matthew Morrison’s shaved chest in the new issue of Details. You know what? I’m not even going to get into the usual chest-hair diatribe because it’s been said over and over about the likes of Stephen Dorff and Chris Evans, so just add Mr. Morrison to that list. What is it about being on the cover of a magazine that makes men feel like they need to shave their chests? Oh well, Mr. Morrison makes up for it in other ways, with the dulcet tones of his voice for prime example. 

Let this be a holding space until he gets a proper Hunk of the Day honor. That day will come with a nude scene. Hint hint…

“I don’t trust a man with curly hair. I can’t help picturing small birds laying sulfurous eggs in there, and I find it disgusting.” – Sue Sylvester

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16
November
2010
Tags: General
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Declaration of Frightened Independence

Up until the last year or so, I’ve never much minded the fact that Andy and I won’t have any children, adopted or otherwise. It’s not a secret that I’ve never been a big fan of the babies and kids, though with the recent addition of a niece and nephew that stance has certainly softened (and I’m still waiting for my brother to take me up on my earnest offer to babysit). At this point, most of my friends have had kids – and Suzie is already due for another one (in April). And again, none of it really bothers me.

First off, Andy and I are in no financial position to support a child. Second, neither of us has a lifestyle that is particularly suited for raising children – I would not do well being housebound for too long. Third, the adoption process for a gay couple is, from all that I’ve heard, a serious and sometimes difficult commitment that can take years to go through. And finally (and most importantly) I don’t know if I would want to bring a child into this world – or at least be responsible for a child in this world.

As I said before, it’s never bothered me. And if Andy really wanted a baby, I’d be willing to go through all of it, and probably end up being a pretty decent Dad too. (You don’t get to see my sensitive side, so you have a skewed view.) But the reality is, children are likely not in our future.

I haven’t thought about it much until recently. There will come a time when Andy and I will be old, and the only people we would have to take care of us will be each other. It’s hopefully a long way off, but it will happen no matter what. And being that Andy is a number of years older than me, it’s probably going to be me alone for at least a few years. Completely alone.

It’s a prospect that never really scared me until now, and in all honesty I can usually put it from my mind, but when the holidays creep around I am reminded that most people will have someone to look after them as they age. This is just one more thing that Andy and I will have to do on our own. And sometimes… it’s a little daunting.

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13
November
2010
Tags: General
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Xmas Gift List

No, not mine, believe it or not (I haven’t had time to get it laminated just yet). Right now I’m actually thinking of other people, and though I say the exact same thing every year to no different denouement, this time I’m doing my shopping early and mostly online so I can just relax and enjoy the season. I swear.

Being that we’re all in the poor house these days, I’ve decided to make a few gifts, much like I did as a kid, minus the sloppy execution and visible glue. I still remember one of the simplest, and most fun, gifts I ever made my Mom (though I doubt she does). It was one of those classic lined notebooks with the black mottled covers - completely non-descript on the outside (a travesty I would never forgive today, I don’t care how old anyone is) – and I was determined to fill it with little essays.

I started writing in it in November – and each day I wrote a  few sentences on a random topic (three-bean-salad, trees, yarn) like our third grade English teacher was having us do (the three-bean-salad was her topic of the day – I didn’t even know what it was so I faked hating it). Yes, this was the kind of crazy fun kid I was – getting off on a third-grade English assignment and turning it into a gift idea for my Mom.

For some strange reason, I hid the book under her bed so she wouldn’t find it. (?!?!) I figured it would be the last place she would look for a present from me – and I guess there’s a strange sort of logic to that, because to my knowledge she never did find it (or, and this is much more likely, she found it and simply didn’t say anything). I think I managed to fill about a quarter of the book with ramblings-on about coffee, colors, flowers, keys, and anything that drifted into the insane quagmire of my third-grade head, and by Christmas morning it was wrapped and under the tree.

While I don’t clearly recall her reaction to such a gift (I’m sure it was dutifully grateful, and I was probably too excited with my own gifts to notice (is that the stuffed unicorn I’ve been begging for?!) but I distinctly recall making the book for her, and hoping she would like it. This year, I’ll be doing the same thing (but don’t worry Mom, it’s not a book).

The bottom line is that this year the gifts are hand-made, so don’t expect much (even though my gluing skills have advanced markedly since the third grade.)

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12
November
2010
Tags: General, Madonna, Music
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The Madonna Timeline: Song #13 – ‘Forbidden Love’

{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.}

Once upon a time there was a boy and there was a girl…

Am I the only one who remembers that Madonna had a song called ‘Forbidden Love’ on her 1994 album Bedtime Stories that predates this ‘Forbidden Love’ from her Confessions on a Dance Floor album over ten years later? Regardless of the recycling, the iPod has chosen this ‘Forbidden Love’, and though I have no clear-cut memories of this particular bit of passable-filler, it’s always functioned adequately as a segue into ‘Jump’.

The title is probably the most exciting part of the song, though Madonna does no in-depth follow-through for her gay fans, playing it Romeo-and-Juliet straight. As for the music, this is one of the slower songs from the non-stop action of the Confessions album, reminiscent of some Scissor Sisters work of the same time. Madonna performed the tune admirably on Madonna’s Confessions Tour (right after she climbed down from her mirror-ball cross), but I’m guessing we’ll never hear it again.

Just one kiss, just one touch, just one look, just one love…
Song #13: ‘Forbidden Love’ – 2006
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