09
March
2013
Tags: Food
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Further Adventures in the Kitchen: A Startlingly Good Success

To counteract my dismal dahl doings (and combat a few days of the dreadful BRAT diet), this is a successful kitchen creation story with a super happy ending. While laid up with the nasty stomach flu, I tortured myself by watching the Food Network and seeing all the things I couldn’t eat. (It’s a little thing I do.) On ‘The Barefoot Contessa’ (is she even a real Contessa? What is a real Contessa anyway?) Ina was having some of her favorite chefs give out the recipes for what they liked to cook after a day of hard work at their respective restaurants – so these were supposed to be good, but relatively quick and easy. Chef Julia Turschen explained her Kimchi fried rice dish that looked so good, and simple, I knew I’d have to try it as soon as my stomach allowed.

Here is the recipe – it worked so well you just need to follow it word for word:

Kimchi Fried Rice with Fried Egg
  • 5 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
  • 1/4 cup finely chopped yellow onion
  • 1 small garlic clove, finely minced
  • Coarse salt
  • 1/2 cup finely chopped very sour kimchi
  • 1 teaspoon soy sauce
  • 1 cup day-old cooked rice, at room temperature
  • 1 very good egg
  • 1 scallion, white and light green parts only, very thinly sliced
  • 1 generous pinch coarse Korean chili powder
Directions:

Heat 3 tablespoons of olive oil in a large nonstick skillet over medium heat. Add the onion, garlic and a pinch of salt. Cook, stirring now and then, until the onions begin to soften and just begin to brown, about 10 minutes. Turn the heat to high and add the kimchi and cook for 2 or 3 minutes until it begins to crisp on the edges. Add the soy sauce and rice and stir thoroughly to combine. Cook until the rice is warmed through and beginning to brown, about 5 minutes. Transfer the rice to a warm, shallow bowl and set aside.

Wipe the skillet clean with a paper towel and add 2 tablespoons of olive oil to the pan and return it to the stove set over high heat. Crack the egg into the skillet, sprinkle it with a pinch of salt and immediately cover the pan with a lid. Cook until the egg white is cooked through and the yolk is barely set. Slip a spatula underneath the egg and transfer it on top of the rice. Scatter the scallion over the dish and sprinkle with the chili powder. Eat immediately, being sure to break the yolk and let is act like a sauce over the rice.

I doubled the recipe (if I’m going to invest the time and effort into cooking something, it better damn well feed more than one person at one sitting), and went a little heavier on the rice (about three cups, cooked) because I wasn’t sure how much heat I could take (kimchi is no joke). It was said by the chef that kimchi totally changes once it is cooked – and this proved true. When it first hit the pan, I wasn’t sure. That initial aroma is intense, and some might find it off-putting, but after a few minutes it transforms into pure goodness, and by the time the rice is added it all comes together in almost-miraculous alchemy.

The double dose of fried egg was killer – and this dish is all about that fried egg topper. (I sent the recipe to Suzie, who tried it before I could, what with a working intestinal track and all, and she agreed that it was the egg that sent it spinning.) I used cayenne pepper for the Korean chili powder and it seemed to work just as well, if a little less coarse. Don’t skip out on the scallions either – they’re much more than a simple garnish here. All in all, this is one supreme recipe that even Andy enjoyed. (And he’s not easy to please.)

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09
March
2013
Tags: Gay, Madonna
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The Madonna Show at Rocks: Tonight!

I’ve always been a fan of drag shows. The fact that a few select gentlemen have the courage and balls (no matter how well-hidden) to put on a dress, paint their face, and go out to put on a show as a lady will always thrill, impress, and fill me with pride. When you throw Madonna into that equation, it’s practically a religiously-orgasmic experience. Such will be the case tonight when Rocks presents ‘The Madonna Show’ at 7 PM.

It’s actually been a while since Andy and I have been to a drag show, too long in fact. But if there’s anything that will get us back into the swing of things, it’s Madonna. The fact that two stellar performers are putting it on – Duchess Ivanna and Penny Larceny – makes it all the more special. Both ladies are nothing short of fierce – and they know how to put on a proper show. (And considering that I’ve been house-bound for the better part of two weeks, I am ready to get out and partay!)

Don’t just stand there, let’s get to it.

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09
March
2013
Tags: Food
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Adventures in the Kitchen: Doing the Damn Dahl

Everyone said dahl would be an easy recipe – and it was. The problem may be that I just don’t like it. Some might joke that I don’t know my way around the kitchen – and if you’re talking about making pancakes from scratch without the aid of something like Bisquick, you’re right. (And, okay, I occasionally forget that the stove-top is on until the smoke alarm goes off, and some things have unintentionally burned – NEVER food though, just pans or cork trivets or plastic ladels). But for most everything else, I’m pretty damn serviceable. If you’ve graduated from high school, you should be able to follow a recipe. (Those are always my famous last words before a cooking disaster.)

Sometimes though, either the recipe is off, or mistakes are made, or a lack of professional training comes in as far as flavoring and tasting goes. I’m going to blame the recipe this time. I wanted to make a simple dahl. I got the recipe online (which is always going to be a crap-shoot no matter how many stars or reviewers have glowingly rated it) and I liked it because it did away with the coconut milk.

Which brings to mind a question for FUSSYLittleBLOG: is coconut milk a dairy product? I’m guessing no, as it comes from a plant source, not a mammal, but does that mean it doesn’t have any lactose in it? I believe the lactose is the issue for me, so I avoided it just in case. However, that may have proved fatal to this recipe.

I obtained the necessary ingredients from the Asian Supermarket. We had most of the spices on hand, with the exception of cardamom, but we don’t have a supply of red lentils. I rinsed them off, assembled and cooked the onion and garlic, then added the water and other ingredients. It looked and smelled like it was coming together nicely. I brought it to a boil, then turned it down to low and covered it, allowing it to simmer for 45 minutes or so. When I returned, the lentils had softened and expanded, and the soup had turned wonderfully rich and thick.

But here’s where I’m a bad cook, and my amateurishness would be blasted by anyone of those scary chefs on the Food Network: I don’t taste until the end. The reason being is that, apart from salt and pepper and possibly sugar, I wouldn’t know what else to add or change to rectify things. I’m not Julia Fucking Child.

In this case, the taste was just off. Well, maybe not off so much as unimpressive. It reminded me a little bit, in its blandness, of the mung bean dish that I used to try, and hate, at family dinners. Maybe that’s what dahl tastes like, but with all the spices involved (coriander, cardamom, turmeric, cumin, cayenne, cinnamon, and fresh ginger) I expected more. At that point, I could have added a ton of salt and pepper, but that always seems like cheating to me. If a recipe’s no good without having to add a shitload of salt to it, then the recipe’s no good. This one was bland, and bad.

Never one to dismiss anything before it’s plated up properly, I poured the dahl over some rice. It looked good. It looked hearty. It looked like how I wanted it to look. Unfortunately, it still tasted the same. If anything, it was more disappointing because the appearance was so at odds with the lack of flavor. I was bummed. Andy was kind and blamed it on the recipe. I chalked it to up to a failure not quite on a par with pancakes from scratch, but a waste nonetheless. However, my next cooking adventure would prove far more successful…

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08
March
2013
Tags: General
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Neither Wonderful Nor Wicked Enough…

… but not as awful as the more atrocious reviews and commentary would have one believe. ‘Oz – The Great and Powerful’ – a new telling of ‘The Wizard of Oz’ story focusing on the Wizard and how he came to be ‘The Wizard’ as well as how the witches related before Dorothy arrived – was actually a visually-arresting, but not entirely spellbinding event movie. I have yet to see a Sam Raimi film I loved enough to see again (not even the oft-lauded ‘Spiderman’) and this was par for that plodding course.

I’d say at least 45 minutes could have been judiciously excised (there is no need for munchkins to sing except in the original film version – their song and dance routine stopped this movie completely for me) and as much as I love Mila Kunis, (spoilerish bit straight ahead…), she did not translate well to the Wicked Witch of the West. As integral and indelible as that character has become (thanks to the movie, the musical, and Gregory Maguire’s masterful novel ‘Wicked’), the Disney version is just that – too Disney and white-washed, when what we need is a green terror.

The screechy, cackling, and fire-ball-hurling temper was wholly lacking in any tangible bit of the terrifying, perhaps because of the nearly-humanless CGI-heavy form she inhabits after her transformation. It’s an odd choice, given that the story tips on the ingenuity and resourcefulness of humans and our ability to conjure illusions so convincingly. Raimi would have done better to take note of his own lesson.

As it stands, it’s a nice, if slow at-times, re-imagining of that well-tread yellow-brick road, even if it ultimately rings hollow. But nice, as Stephen Sondheim once noted, is different than good.

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08
March
2013
Tags: General
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Fishy Fishy

It may seem strange to some, but I don’t eat meat on Fridays during Lent. My last bit of Catholic-raised guilt finds a home here, and it’s difficult to explain since I’ve been rather vocal about my issues with the Catholic church – particularly under the homophobic regime of the don’t-let-the-door-hit-you-on-the-way-out Pope. For me, though, it’s less about the religion and more about the ritual. It’s an act of sacrifice (I love me some meat, on a daily basis), but not in any real way (I also love me some fish – or lobster – or pizza). It’s more about just being mindful of something, and making a motion in honor of something I once believed.

In a way, it’s my own show of love for God – no matter how trivial or trifling. Not unlike giving something up for Lent, it’s an act to mark this time of year in the Catholic calendar. It doesn’t mean I subscribe to the dogma or the hate in any way. At its heart, it’s the one ritualistic remnant of faith I’ve retained – a largely inconsequential covenant that is more of a reminder of the story of Jesus – a story rife with love and forgiveness – two things we could all use – and two things that have always proven difficult for me to master. Whether or not one wants to believe in the big JC, there are valuable lessons to be learned from his story, and God knows I need them more than most.

For a few weeks at the end of Winter, when my faith and sanity are usually tested the most, I give up meat on Fridays. It just makes me more aware of things – the time of year, the state of my life, the condition of my spirit – and how can something like that be wrong? Andy rolls his eyes before diving into his ham sandwich, and I’m intelligent enough to understand there may be more than a little bit of superstition involved in my actions, but sometimes the heart over-rules the head, and a lifetime of tradition is tough to break.

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07
March
2013
Tags: Gratuitous Nudity
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Dreaming of Skinnydipping

Because at the technical tail-end of Winter, you do what you gotta do to survive – in this case, re-living summer glory, remembering sunny days, and re-visiting shameless shots. Bare with me until this season closes its doors. (I’m told we’re getting snow.)

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07
March
2013
Tags: Boston
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A Reunion With A Friend

I haven’t seen my friend Kira since late 2012 – which seems an eternity for someone whom I so adore. Her mother has been visiting family in Panama, so Kira has been bound to her house in Attleboro, watching the kids and holding things down on the home-front. As admirable as all that is, I missed our Boston visits. Then again, she was in Florida for ten years, so I can’t complain that selfishly. We’re gearing up for a reunion of sorts, to start off the spring season in Boston in a couple of weeks, and I’m in the planning stages of what to do.

A few highlights of our times together that always make me smile:

– A late-night dinner of Peking duck in Chinatown, followed by a walk through the Boston Public Garden (and a pose beneath an enormous Chionanthus tree in full fragrant bloom)

– A pre-holiday walk through Downtown Crossing, looking at the Christmas decorations and picking up Tibetan mittens

– A virgin taste of raw oysters on the half-shell at the Parker House, which soon became one of our favorite things to share

– A condo-stocking whirlwind shopping spree at Wal-Mart and Target to prep the place for JoAnn’s 40th Birthday party (and making all the trips up the condo stairs to bring the stuff in)

– A pre-party walk through the South End, on a sunny day in April, capped by another oyster stop

– A night-time talk backed by Ella Fitzgerald singing Cole Porter

– And the traditional cup of tea in the morning before we say good-bye, before hitting Boston for a few final hours together, stretching the time as long as we can.

I can’t wait to make some new memories, and perhaps revisit a few old ones. It’s okay to do that with another person. There is nothing more comforting than the company of an old friend. Especially in Boston.

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06
March
2013
Tags: General
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Looking Up

In those days, did I know, then? Did I know what was to come, how it would all unfold, how it was futile to worry about what could not be changed? Of course not. How could anyone? A vague sense of worry or unease came with every thunderstorm, a gnawing, nagging bit of fear with every front. Yet after the storms always came the sudden sun, sometimes unexpectedly, and always welcome, and we rejoiced in it. How I wish I’d known then how easy it would be, at least as far as the things I worried about. There would be heartache more real and damaging than anything imagined at that point.

But we did not know that then.

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06
March
2013
Tags: Flowers
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Smell These

As a gift for Andy in honor of a recent rescue mission, I picked out a bouquet of light pink hyacinths, on the verge of blooming. They’ve lasted for over a week, stretching and filling the family room with their pungent fragrance, always verging just short of cloying, and in close proximity perhaps surpassing such a point. They’re more than welcome at this dire time of the year, especially with some more snow on the horizon, and sometimes just the slightest whiff of a spring bloom makes all the difference. Incidentally, out of all the new Tom Ford Jardin Noir collection of Private Blends, the selection I was most enamored of was the Hyacinth-based one – Ombre de Hyacinth. As a rule, I’m not a fan of floral frags, but this one spoke to me because of my fondness for Spring, and the happy correlation to one of its most delicious scents.

 

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05
March
2013
Tags: Music
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Sweet Dreams Are Made of This

My pal Parley pointed out that today marks the anniversary of the death of Patsy Cline, a favorite around these parts (and the closest I’ll get to appreciating country music, I’m afraid). Ms. Cline sang of heartache and heartbreak better than just about anyone else – it’s there in her words, there in her voice, there in the longing expressed by her heart. Certain singers have an intrinsic loneliness to their work – Judy Garland, Annie Lennox, and even Madonna (listen to ‘I Want You‘ or ‘You’ll See‘ – hell, the whole ‘Something to Remember’ album) – and I tend to gravitate toward them because of it. Not that they haven’t had a lot of love or romance in their lives, but because they somehow felt the heartbreak more acutely, or at least managed to translate that pain into song. A sad torch song or a bluesy siren’s cry will always trump a dance-pop tune for me, especially at night. I’m melancholy that way, even if laughing with friends beats crying with lovers.

Sweet dreams of you
Every night I go through
Why can’t I forget you and start loving someone new
Instead of having sweet dreams about you?
You don’t love me,
It’s plain I should know,
I’ll never wear your ring
I should hate you the whole night through
Instead of having sweet dreams about you.
Sweet dreams of you
Things I know can’t come true
Why can’t I forget the past, and start my life anew
Instead of having sweet dreams about you…?
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05
March
2013
Tags: Food
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The Bare-assed Contessa

Here’s a fun little thing I did on a recent day off from work, while stricken with that nasty stomach flu and on a strict BRAT diet of bananas, rice, applesauce and toast: I watched the Food Network. My favorite was the ‘Barefoot Contessa.’ Watching Ina Garten and her husband Jeffrey share a picnic of California BLTs (with avocado, thank you) on the docks of Montauk while waiting for Andy to get back with Gatorade from the local Price Chopper was my number one highlight. Seeing her tell Jeffrey that she was “ready to rock and roll,” and then calling him “babe” was a close second. They were laughing at me, I know it.

After the Contessa, that buffoon Paula Deen had a kid from the Disney channel on (Kenton Duty). Could the nightmare get any worse? Yes, because the precocious fuck soon began singing a song he wrote for her. Accompanied by himself on the guitar.

[Sigh] – I’m going back to my banana.

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04
March
2013
Tags: General
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A Mid-Day Monday Recap

It was an angst-ridden week, both mentally and physically, most of which I’d rather not re-hash, so we’ll keep things light and smutty. Really, there’s no better way to squeak through these final weeks of Winter than pretending nothing really matters, so let’s just pretend.

There were hunks to catch the eye, including Stuart Reardon getting his kit off atop Louis Vuitton, David Bromstad creating his own shirtless color splash, Eliad Cohen showing off a rather fine pelt of fur, and Mike Ruiz coming out from behind the lens in fine form.

I couldn’t quite wait for Spring to arrive to enjoy a big bouquet of daffodils, so I splurged on these. It was worth far more than what I paid, because you can’t put a price on temporary sanity, particularly if it saves lives.

Finally, and most importantly, this past week marked the fifteenth anniversary of Madonna’s ‘Ray of Light’ album. The title song itself just happened to be the next in line for the Madonna Timeline write-up, so I waited a few extra days to give it pride of place among the posts of March third.

On that happy note, let’s end the recap, because the rest of the week was as ugly as it was upsetting. Here’s to turning the corner…

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04
March
2013
Tags: Gay
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Ease Into It

After a rather explosive weekend, let’s ease on into the work-week with this rather simple commercial. I can totally see myself doing this, if I were into reading off a Kindle, if I were more handsome, if I were at a tropical locale, and if I were talking to a lady in a bikini. In other words, I’ll never do this in my life. But I wish I could… well, just the tropical part. Oh, and the handsome thing. And the husband getting me a drink… And if the lady was nice… just not the Kindle – which is sort of the point of this whole exercise, right?

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03
March
2013
Tags: Madonna, Music
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Fifteen Years of Light

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…

The incantation came three-quarters of the way into the opening track of Madonna’s ‘Ray of Light’ album, celebrating its 15th anniversary today. As I listen to the song now, it resonates differently than it did then, in ways both wonderful and wistful. On this day, Spring seems light years away, as snow falls down coating the outside world in white. Back in 1998, the season of rebirth was in the air at the midnight hour of ‘Ray of Light’s release.

That enchanting evening, rife with mystical magic and musical majesty, has been well-documented in this space numerous times. Today, I listen to the album from start to finish as Andy sleeps and snow falls. It is, literally and figuratively, the morning to 1998’s night. The wondrous thing about the album is that it works so brilliantly in both.

It seems that everyone – even non-hard-core-Madonna fans – has a ‘Ray of Light’ memory. It is, far more than any other period in her career, the one moment when the world collectively came together in love and support of the Queen. Critical notices were glowing, sales were stellar (in spite of the fact that the album failed to reach #1, held down to the #2 spot not by that “damn Bodyguard soundtrack”, but by another cultural phenomenon, ‘Titanic’), and Madonna was back in vogue, ending the tumultuous 90’s as she began it: on top.

This was, even more-so than the glorious ‘Like A Prayer’, the album that solidified Madonna’s musical legacy, defining her once and for all as a serious artist, with a lasting body of work. Listening to the album now, it sounds as classic and pure as it did fifteen years ago, with nary a notion of nostalgia or dated-ness. In fact, ‘Ray of Light’ may be the most timeless of Madonna’s albums, thanks in no small part to its marriage of guitars and electronica, the latter of which might have worked against it, had electronica not been around since the 70’s.

The album also found Madonna at her most melancholy and contemplative, which is where I’ve always felt most connected to her. Sure, there were racing highlights like the title track, and the classic-Madonna-backed-by-Niki-and-Donna dance of ‘Nothing Really Matters’, but at its heart, this was a dark, moody, moving album – less concerned with getting people on their feet, and more intent on getting into their hearts.

It was a spiritual journey, which sounds a lot more lugubrious than the melodies would have you believe, and it’s a testament to the alchemy between Madonna and William Orbit that it worked so well. With its extreme themes of love, death, fame, desire, heartbreak, childhood, and even sanskrit, it’s amazing how cohesive the roller-coaster of emotions ends up being, but Madonna’s voice encapsulates it all, backed by the guitar-based delicacies of Orbit’s music.

For me, the lightning and thunder will always be found in the first track, ‘Drowned World: Substitute for Love.’ Nowhere else has Madonna sounded more genuine, more heartfelt, more emotionally open than on this song. For anyone who has ever searched for purpose in love, or who has been left unloved or unwanted and tried to fill that emptiness with something else, this is the song that should matter most.

The entire album is a movement of meditation. It can be as light and airy as an ambient breeze, or as heavy and rich as a centuries-old tapestry of woven filaments of valuable metals. It opens up to you when you are ready to receive it, changing and evolving with the years, minding your shifting consciousness, touching you in new ways upon every listen. Many of us have that one artist we love more than all others – the one who speaks to you in ways that no one else ever could – whether it’s Bach or Beethoven, the Beatles or Bon Jovi, Billie Holiday or Britney Spears – for me, that artist has always been Madonna, and ‘Ray of Light’ was the record that confirmed it.

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03
March
2013
Tags: Madonna, Music
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The Madonna Timeline: Song #88 ~ ‘Ray of Light’ ~ 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.}

Copley Square, Boston, MA ~ On a beautiful Spring night, the very start of the season, he glides in front of Trinity Church. A flowing black coat billows behind him, and it makes him look like a night creature soaring forth from some Frozen video. The throbbing bass pumps through the headphones on his ears, and he cannot hear the drone of blades upon pavement. He flies in front of the statue of Phillips Brooks, taking sharp turns among the rockier cobblestone, then gaining speed as the space opens up before the square. Whizzing by some late-night straggler, he cuts a wide curve, approaching midnight and the expansive green that leads to the library. In the night sky, clouds hover between earth and stars, and the mottled glow of the moon peeks through the wispy blanket. A gentle wind from the West lifts him, and he is flying…

Zephyr in the sky at night I wonder
 

 

Do my tears of mourning sink beneath the sun?
 

 

She’s got herself a universe gone quickly,
 

 

For the call of thunder threatens everyone.

Standing in the midnight release line at Tower Records on Newbury Street a few minutes before the calendar marked March 3, 1998, I listen as her voice fills the space. From the opening of ‘Drowned World: Substitute for Love‘ to the undulating guitar currents of ‘Swim’, this is the premiere of Madonna’s new album, ‘Ray of Light’ ~ her first since the vocal calisthenics of ‘Evita’, and a bit of a proper pop comeback. (‘Bedtime Stories’ had gone some way toward mending the implosion of ‘Erotica‘ and the ‘Sex‘ years, as did her turn in ‘Evita’, but it was ‘Ray of Light’ that would bring her back to the pinnacle of critical and commercial success to which she was rightfully accustomed.)

Along with a growing group of Madonna fans running around the perimeter of the store, I am giddily awaiting to get my hands on her first original studio album in four years. Advance word was that this record was brilliant, and as I listened to her crystal-clear tone, it felt like she had just returned home, to the place where we’ve always wanted her to be: in the music.

And I feel like I just got home
And I feel…
And I feel like I just got home
And I feel…

At that point, working in retail and living in Boston, I was still not sure of where my own home might be. It certainly felt like Boston, but it also felt like Amsterdam, or Rochester, or wherever I found my suitcase and my friends. Sometimes I felt most at home in a strange land, an unremarkable hotel room, an airport gate, or a pair of empty train seats. At other moments I felt home was in the arms of a stranger, a nameless body and a handsome face, a nightly delight of transitory in-between states, both the people and my mind. The ‘Ray of Light’ album informed this period of my life, becoming the soundtrack to one of the most soul-evolving transitions in my life.

Up until that album, I’d made a mess of things in every romantic endeavor I attempted, falling for guys who weren’t interested in me, or acting a fool with those who were. Romance was a scene of repetitive trauma, where the same obsessive mistakes and ill-fitting acts went on, without resolution or improvement, where I poured my heart again and again into situations that today I would balk at, or at the very least laugh. Back then it all seemed so serious, and I was too young to be such an earnest individual. When the opening guitar chords of ‘Ray of Light’ rang out over the speakers at Tower Records, I felt my heart on the verge of bursting ~ for regret, for hunger, for happiness and for hope. It was the moment of an audible shift in perspective. There, in that song, was an instant of sheer joy, as the bass pounded and the beat kicked in, rendering and revealing the moment as both the miniscule role we play in the bigger picture, as well as a representation of the immensity of our place in it. Suddenly it all clicked, and those years of hurt and frustration were left in the dust. I could cry over the sorrows of the past, dwell on the shame and embarrassment, and wallow in the pain of everything I could not control, but the only person who was harmed in all of that was me. In the words of another wise woman, “Ain’t nobody got time for that!”

 
 
Faster than the speeding light she’s flying

 

Trying to remember where it all began.

 

She’s got herself a little piece of heaven

 

Waiting for the time when Earth shall be as one.

 

It was a turning point in the way I saw life. The enjoyment of the present moment could now be seen as a flower in full bloom ~ tomorrow it might fade and fall apart, but that was no excuse not to enjoy today ~ in fact, all the more reason to make the most of it. Romance, once the heavy stuff of dusty Victorian novels, the impossible-not-to-be-dashed hopes of ill-fated suitors, was rechristened into something lighter, far more fun, and thrilling in a giddy way. Men ~ those strange, wondrous, enchanting figures that drifted so dreamily across my mind ~ lost a bit of their hold over my sway. And the moment you stop the search, the moment you really and truly come into your own, when you realize that you don’t need anyone to be all right, is the moment you become tantalizing to others. No one liked a cry baby, and no one wanted a wimp. All those years of moping around and going on about losing out on love were seen at last as a foolish waste ~ the indulgent sort of pain that those in true peril instantly dismiss.

It didn’t happen over the course of this one song ~ though it played a helpful part. It played out over the Spring and Summer of that year ~ and the next time I entertained a relationship would end up being one of the great loves of my life. For now, though, for the summer of ‘Ray of Light’, I was light-hearted and happy and fulfilled by some light play, some unexpected cuddling, and some sexy, sultry nights. It was an awakening.

 

 
 
And I feel like I just got home
And I feel…
And I feel like I just got home
And I feel…
Quicker than a ray of light…
Quicker than a ray of light…
Quicker than a ray of light…

Far more than romance, it also affected my friendships, and, more importantly, my ability to make friends. All my life I’d been almost painfully shy, even as I pretended otherwise. My barriers were always up, emotional weapons ever at the ready, for self-preservation and protection more than anything else, but the end result was the same ~ impenetrable coldness. The inaccessibility of the unloved, and the self-defeating/self-fulfilling whirlpool of swallowed feelings, of a perpetually downward spiral… well, at its most basic, I didn’t want to make a fool of myself. I didn’t want to be less-than-perfect. And perfection is both icy and wearying. It’s hard to love a perfectionist, and even harder to know what, if anything, about a perfectionist is real ~ because perfect people simply don’t exist. Once I stopped pretending, once I revealed my foibles and stumbles, admitted my ignorance, and loosened up on the hair product, I was much better company.

On a Spring night a few days after ‘Ray of Light’ was released, I had my friend Simon over for drinks. He was a straight guy ~ one of the few who worked at Structure at the time ~ and we shared a cocktail or two before heading out into the night. I asked if he wanted to come along while I tried out a pair of rollerblades (proof that I truly no longer minded making a fool of myself in front of people). I donned a ridiculously dramatic black coat that fluttered behind me in the breeze. I went slowly at first, as he was on foot, circling around as we chatted about work and other nonsense. This, then, was what others did ~ they talked with co-workers, they shared silliness, they slowed and accelerated to keep up with friends. We neared Copley Square, where Simon would get on the T, and I’d get to go as fast as I could in the open expanse of the space in front of Trinity Church. I turned my headphones up, and as the high-pitched scream near the end of the song sounded, I joined Madonna in falsetto-bitch madness, screaming at the top of my lungs. I couldn’t hear myself with the headphones on, but I saw Simon turn around, look at me like I was crazy, then bust out laughing.

Zephyr in the sky at night I wonder
Do my tears of mourning sink beneath the sun?
She’s got herself a universe gone quickly,
For the call of thunder threatens everyone.

I returned to my parents’ home in upstate New York for some of that summer, and Madonna was on the Oprah Winfrey show, where she performed ‘Ray of Light’ live for the first time. She looked radiant, relaxed, and gleeful. There had been tornado warnings that week, and thunderstorms stalked the area (there was even a Storm Watch warning that got recorded during the show, somewhere on that long-lost VHS tape), but at the end of the tumultuousness came the sun. That season of ‘Ray of Light’ found me having fun in Rochester, and Albany, and even Amsterdam. I bounced around to several places, taking Madonna’s cue for a more relaxed and less severe stance on life. I wore the remnants of some old beads I’d had from the ‘Like A Prayer’ days, lined my arms with ratty hemp bracelets, flirting with the ease of faded denim and hippy accents like a re-born flower child. And I found a glimpse of love here and there, not allowing myself to get bogged down with it, not allowing myself to stay anywhere for too long, but just enough to sustain the heart. In that way, I learned not to settle, even if not settling had its price too.

A few weeks later, I found myself walking along the tracks of a train terminal, coming or going from Boston, with this song running through my head. Luggage weighed down both my hands, but the sun shone brilliantly amid the departing and arriving trains, and my heart was light as the day. Perhaps this was my home ~ this perpetual state of journeying, this place of transitory transit ~ and perhaps home wasn’t a place, but a frame of mind. If that proved to be true, then maybe we’ve always been home all along, we just didn’t know it. It may not erase the terrors of the past ~ and that Wizard-of-Oz-like journey will never be completely forgotten ~ but it makes the way of the future a little easier to bear.

And I feel…
Quicker than a ray of light
Then gone for
Someone else will be there
Through the endless years
She’s got herself a universe
She’s got herself a universe
She’s got herself a universe

As a song, ‘Ray of Light’ was a momentous milestone in Madonna’s creative trajectory. It was an instant classic, and a high-point on her greatest studio album to date. While live performances have occasionally been spotty (a wretched VMA’s that year, and a dismal high note at a Live Aid event), she’s performed it admirably on a number of tours ~ perhaps too many, as its overexposure by the time ‘Sticky and Sweet’ came around almost made it feel like filler. I still think her straightforward reading of it (without playing guitar) on the Drowned World Tour was my favorite.

The video is a hyper-kinetic sped-up view of a day in the world, the first of a relatively long line to be directed by Jonas Akerlund. For some reason, this effort always felt a bit hollow, especially for the title track of such an epic album. Madonna is almost a supporting player in the tapestry of life that moves at break-neck pace across the screen, but it works in showing that she’s just a bit player in the universe too, so I guess I’m just being selfish in wanting to see more of her.

And I feel
And I feel
And I feel like I just got home
And I feel…

As for me, ‘Ray of Light’ will always be remembered as the song of the summer in which I learned to let the past go, and to love and laugh and live in the moment. It will always be one of Madonna’s greatest lessons ~ finding the simple joy in music ~ and whenever I find myself bogged down by dismal dwelling or onerous worries of future events, I think of this song, it takes me away, and together we soar.

Quicker than a ray of light she’s flying…
Quicker than a ray of light I’m flying…
Song #88: ‘Ray of Light’ ~Spring 1998
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