Bravo, Andy Cohen

A number of years ago, when Bravo was first making its mark in the pop culture world, and I was sending out promotional missives to any and all interested (and mostly uninterested) parties inviting them to check out this website, I sent one to an executive profiled in Out or The Advocate (that was the way I networked) and Mr. Andy Cohen was kind enough to write back.

It wasn’t a lengthy diatribe, but it was enough encouragement from a man whom I would come to admire and respect, and whose conversational genius was about to explode on ‘Watch What Happens Live’. For me, it was a simple nod of acknowledgement, something that has often been missing from my insular world.

Since that time I’ve loosely followed Mr. Cohen’s upward trajectory as he landed fun gigs (Hello Miss America) and his reality shows stampeded onto the pop culture landscape. He even got me hooked (to my eternal guilty-pleasure shame) on a few of those Real Housewives (NY, NJ, & Beverly Hills only, thank you). What made him even more remarkable was the fact that he did all of this as an open, if unassuming, gay man. When he announced he was writing a memoir part of me jumped for joy, and part of me cringed.

We all knew he could talk, but too many good talkers mistake themselves for good writers. Luckily, Cohen’s voice translates well to the printed word, and his conversational strengths result in a breezy tome. In fact, Most Talkative may be the perfect summer book for anyone looking for an effervescent, easy-going romp. That’s not to say it doesn’t have depth.

Cohen has always been a rather under-the-radar gay person, not loudly proclaiming it, but proudly owning it. It’s the way of the new gay – aware, self-confident, and matter-of-fact about the non-issue of sexuality today. Reading about the ways he came to this self-realized evolution is the most powerful aspect of his book, even as his humor and self-deprecation sprinkle the proceedings with laugh-out-loud hilarity. (The camp letters to and from his mother are insanely hysterical.)

He doesn’t dwell on his more-or-less happy childhood (admitting that it is the part he likes least about most memoirs), and it is a refreshing attribute that the book does not get bogged down in a pathos-filled past. While his struggles over coming to terms with his sexuality and the coming out process lend en unexpectedly emotional depth to the early proceedings, they are balanced with Cohen’s self-deprecating wit and willingness to make himself the butt of most of the jokes.

A must-read for any gay boy (and said boy’s parents), it is often hilarious, occasionally poignant, and wittily cutting, mostly at the expense of the ‘Jewfroed’ author.

It’s also a good book for anyone just starting out on their career – especially for those doubting their passions and wondering if they’re on the right path – not by giving the blueprint to the way of success, but rather by inspiring anyone to do what they really love doing, and to do it well.

Like the subject himself, Most Talkative is compulsively engaging, riotously gregarious, and wildly entertaining, even when it’s at its most earnest. At the end of it, you’ll feel like you just had the best late-night conversation with a life-long friend, and you’ll want to do it all over again the next day.
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The Madonna Timeline: Song #70 ~ ‘Sorry’ – Winter 2006

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

I’ve heard it all before
I’ve heard it all before
I’ve heard it all before
I’ve heard it all before…
I don’t wanna hear, I don’t wanna know
Please don’t say you’re sorry
I’ve heard it all before
And I can take care of myself
I don’t wanna hear, I don’t wanna know
Please don’t say ‘Forgive me’
I’ve seen it all before
And I can’t take it anymore.

Driving, pedal to the metal, through the cruel winter of upstate New York. I’m upset at something or someone, and it’s a righteous resentment, a wrathful anger. I’m mad at the world, my rage will not be contained, and the only way out is through this song. It is not the first time a Madonna song proves a savior and a means of survival, and it likely won’t be the last.

You’re not half the man you think you are
Save your words because you’ve gone too far
I’ve listened to your lies and all your stories (Listened to your stories)
You’re not half the man you’d like to be
I don’t wanna hear, I don’t wanna know
Please don’t say you’re sorry
I’ve heard it all before
And I can take care of myself
I don’t wanna hear, I don’t wanna know
Please don’t say ‘Forgive me’
I’ve seen it all before
And I can’t take it anymore.

By the time this song was released, I’d already been with Andy for about five years, so it had been a while since a man had done me wrong, but not long enough to have me forget. Some kinds of pain cannot be forgotten. Most of us have been there at some point or another, whether we like to admit it or not. The more calm people may have a better way of dealing with it ~ weeping quietly to themselves or categorically eradicating that person from their lives ~ while others may thrash and crash and burn everything around them. I’m somewhere in the middle, having done a little of all of the above. Usually though, I’ll put my anger into a thinly-veiled post, or take a ride and play something like ‘Sorry’ at ear-throttling volume, singing (well, screaming) along with the words, until the anger exits my system, or at least dissipates a bit before returning home.

Don’t explain yourself ’cause talk is cheap
There’s more important things than hearing you speak
You stayed because I made it so convenient (made it so convenient)
Don’t explain yourself, you’ll never see.

While the song is clearly aimed at a lover-done-her-wrong (at that point in her life it would likely have been Guy Ritchie), I don’t always use it as the soundtrack for any grumpiness on Andy’s part. More often it’s for anger directed at wrong-doings by the world, or work or something equivocally unimportant. That’s why a relatively-silly song like this works. I save my serious anger and disappointment for the ballads.

I don’t wanna hear, I don’t wanna know
Please don’t say you’re sorry
I’ve heard it all before
And I can take care of myself
I don’t wanna hear, I don’t wanna know
Please don’t say ‘Forgive me’
I’ve seen it all before
And I can’t take it anymore.

This is one of my favorite Madonna songs – maybe not Top Ten, but possibly Top Twenty (the only thing missing may be a sung-through bridge) – and at the time it came out (2005/2006) it was her best since ‘Music’. Nobody throws a dance-floor tantrum better than Madonna, as exemplified by the roller-skating video follow-up to ‘Hung Up’. It prompted a slight resurgence in corsets, and even a bump in Farrah Fawcett feathers. It’s also fun as hell, cheeky as ever, and a reminder of what Madonna does best.

I’ve heard it all before
I’ve heard it all before
I’ve heard it all before
I’ve heard it all before.
Song #70: ‘Sorry’ ~ Winter 2006
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My 1st Time Out

 

My latest adventures in babysitting resulted in the first time I gave my nephew Noah a brief time-out. Now, I really don’t know how to do a time-out. I’ve heard the term thrown around and never paid it much mind. I figured it was this magical zone that only adults who didn’t have a firm hand resorted to when things got a little rough. I should have paid more attention.

Let me go back to how it came about. I can take a lot from my niece and nephew, and I’m not any sort of disciplinarian. I’m their fun ‘Unca Al’, who lets them horse around and scream and dance and do all the things that kids want to do. But there are limits, and one of them is when Noah starts throwing things. I can take a ball or two, or a plush backpack, maybe even a small plastic animal, but when a big-ass heavy toy truck gets thrown at me, that’s the limit. And even then, I let it slide twice, but on the third go, it was time for the time-out.

I looked toward the corner where I thought my Mom said they went for this scenario. ‘Shouldn’t there be some sort of holding pen, or box, or padded cell?’ I wondered. I saw nothing. What was going to contain him? Maybe this was a new sort of open-air time-out for a two-year-old, maybe they had graduated to a corner of the couch. It was the only area I could see. I picked him up and placed him on the couch telling him he had a time-out and had to sit there.

The waterworks started immediately. I thought this time-out thing was supposed to stop the crying? What was I doing wrong? I picked up his sister and we walked to the other end of the room. Noah got up and followed us, crying at the top of his lungs. I put Emi down and brought Noah back to the couch, saying he had one minute left in his time-out. He stayed put for a second or two (literally) and popped right back up, still crying. This was not going well. The time-out was a bust. I tried one last time, putting him back on the couch telling him he had to stop crying if he wanted to end the time-out, all the while wondering how many words he actually understood. “If you don’t stop crying, you can’t finish your time out,” I pleaded, and the weakness in my voice was almost laughable. I was sure Emi was smirking the whole time. Finally, Noah walked up to me and I couldn’t do it any more. I picked him up, held him close and told him it was all right. We sat down on the couch and I rubbed his back until his tears stopped.

“Are you going to say you’re sorry?” I asked quietly.

His eyes looked down, and the faintest little ‘Sorry’ escaped his lips. I hugged him closer, rubbing his back, and told him it was okay.

He said it better than I ever could.

A minute later he was rolling on the floor, laughing as I tickled him and his sister. Maybe the time out worked in some small way after all. I wonder if it would work on Andy?

 

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I Won’t Eat Swans, But I Do Enjoy Duck

Peking Duck, to be precise. Well, any duck will do, but in this instance I had the aforementioned Chinese preparation of the waterfowl on a recent dinner in Chinatown. Kira and I had just seen a show, and rather than puzzle out which restaurant would serve us at such a late hour, we walked to Chinatown, which, I’m told, is generally open deep into the after-hours for night-crawlers like ourselves.

It’s been years since I had Peking Duck, but after the giddiness of the show, and a few giddy cocktails, I had to share it with Kira and remember the night. I still recall the other two times I tried the dish – the first was at my cousin Lee Marie’s wedding rehearsal dinner. I must have only been about ten years old. My Aunt ordered for the table, and when it came around someone showed my brother and me how to properly assemble it. Part soft taco and part burrito by way of China, it was both fun for a kid, and insanely tasty for an adult. I fell in love instantly, but the extravagant price and preparation time put it far from my mind.

It wasn’t until a few years later that I had it again – this time in Washington, DC, with my Uncle Roberto. I was treating him to dinner at one of his favorite Chinese restaurants, and, perhaps because I was doing the treating (or, more accurately, my parents’ credit card was doing the treating) he went for the Peking Duck. It was the first time I’d thought about the dish since that wedding, and in one fell swoop he brought back one happy family memory, while making a new one. We sat at the table leisurely awaiting its preparation. Far from being annoyed or antsy about the prep time, I relished the moments alone with my Uncle. The restaurant was cool and slightly sterile, but a welcome relief from the heat of high noon. Is there anywhere hotter than Washington, DC on a summer afternoon?

When the dish arrived it took up half the table, which was suddenly and extravagantly laid out with all the culinary accoutrements, including that criminally delicious hoisin sauce. Taking our time and savoring the meal – it was as much a treat for me as it was for my Uncle – we gorged ourselves on duck and tea, the two of us finishing almost all of it, in addition to a few other side dishes. I don’t remember what, if anything, we talked about. It was one of those memories that exists in emotional and sensory recollection only – not for the topics or discussion at hand, and if my Uncle were still alive he would likely not remember it. But for me – and for the kid I once was – it was one of the best lunches I ever had.

On this particular evening, almost ten years after my Uncle has passed, I take my friend Kira to a restaurant in Chinatown and order the Peking duck for her – for us – and I share the memories I have of the dish.

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Super Moon, Super Fight

The Super Moon rose a few Saturdays ago – on our anniversary weekend no less, when we were ensconced in Boston and enjoying a dinner at Clio – and wreaked havoc with our evening in the form of a big fight. Exerting its pull and its crazy power to upend things, the moon worked to wreck a very fine dinner as Andy and I fell prey to its advances and went into warrior mode.

We’re not one of those couples who yells or screams all the time – that’s not the way we operate. Our style – the one that works (or doesn’t always work) for us is smooth sailing for a long time, then a big huge fight that brings up everything that’s bothered us over the previous few months, then a few days when it all dies down and goes back to normal.

I’m not saying this is the best way to deal with things – most of my perfectly-married friends say we need to work on communication – but I was not raised that way, and every time I did communicate, well, it ended in a fight anyway so why even bother?

Personally, I’d rather have one or two days every few months where things are brought up and discussed (or yelled about) and enjoy the majority of peaceful time in-between, rather than deal with every single squabble that comes up and potentially ruining every other hour.

Every marriage has its rainy days. Andy and I are lucky to have not had many storms. Still, one has to be wary, always aware of potential hurricanes on the horizon, (or super moons) and keep them at bay with kindness, compromise, and that magic, elusive ingredient that solves so many problems – forgiveness.
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The Madonna Timeline: Song #69~ ‘Some Girls’ – Spring 2012

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

Some girls can do anything
Whole world hanging on a string
She is flawless, a virgin saint
(Like a virgin… sweet & clean.)
Some girls got an attitude
Fake tits and a nasty mood
Hot shit when she’s in the loop…

Whoo-hoo! Our very first selection from Madonna’s latest, ‘MDNA’, has made it onto the timeline. While ‘Some Girls’ may not be the best song on the album, the record is so strong that even its weak offerings are substantial. This song illuminates what I’ve always felt was Madonna’s slightly ambivalent relationship with women – both in their role as friends and confidantes, but also as people to be watched with a wary eye.

Some girls gotta fake it through
One drink and it’s all a blur
Cash now if you wanna flirt…
Some girls goin’ off the deep end
Some girls livin’ for the weekend
Some girls like to get their freak on…

In one of the many biographies written about her, it was reported that Madonna didn’t liked to be in company of beautiful women, that she felt threatened by them and insisted she be the star attraction in any given room. Taking that with a grain of celebrity-biography salt, I do wonder if there are bits of truth to it. She is notorious for making herself the sole blonde in all of her stage shows (back-up singers and dancers who are any shade brighter than brunette need not apply), and the women who feature alongside her in videos are well-relegated to background status.

Some girls make a scene
Shoot their mouth and talk obscene
Cryin’ in a limousine
(Cryin’ in a limousine)
Some girls make you feel like a rocket, hard as steel
Some girls only ever like to tease
(Some girls only like to tease)
Some girls are not like me
I’m everything you ever dreamed of
I’ve got you beggin’ baby please…
I’ve got you beggin’ baby please.

Yet one of her main messages through the years has been the original rallying cry of Girl Power. The tongue-in-cheek aspects of’Material Girl’ and her Boy-Toy belt-buckle phase, the stripper-in-command power of ‘Open Your Heart’, the seductive crotch-grabbing power-suit of ‘Express Yourself’, the sexual libertine of ‘Erotica’, and the take-no-prisoners rebel of ‘American Life’ have each posited questions of female domination in a world largely run by men, and the question has mostly been answered by Madonna ending up on top (of fame, fortune, influence, and power).

I am not like all the rest
Some girls are second best
Put your lovin’ to the test you’ll see…

‘Some Girls’™ is a contradictory collective of praise and criticism of other ladies. This is much more pointed and jaded, highlighting the notion of competition. At this point (30 years from her first single ‘Everybody’), she has left virtually all wanna-bes in the dust at one point or another, and it looks unlikely that anyone will take her mantle as best selling female artist of all-time, yet she still seems to feel their heat. Maybe it’s more personal – prior to marrying Guy Ritchie she had seen a number of former romances find long-term love and children shortly after moving on to other women (Sean Penn, Warren Beatty). It seems to have happened again with Mr. Ritchie, who recently had another baby of his own with another woman.

Maybe Some Girls aren’t career competition, maybe Some Girls are a little bit more, and maybe Madonna is still a little scared of Some Girls.

Some girls are not like me,
I never wanna be like some girls.
Some girls are just for free,
I never wanna be like some girls.

Song #69: ‘Some Girls’ – Spring 2012

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You Can’t Do This On Television

Given that at this moment I’m watching a total of two TV shows (two more than usual, and they are, quite psychotically, Mad Men and the Real Housewives of New Jersey), a play about the invention of television would seem to be the last thing to captivate me. Yet that is exactly what the current production of ‘The Farnsworth Invention’ manages to do at the Albany Civic Theater.

Masterfully directed by Aaron Holbritter and written with the deft, quick-worded brilliance of The Social Network’s Aaron Sorkin, it ostensibly sets out to document the creation of television, but manages to display layers of human drive, greed, hope, and innocence along the way. This is a mannered, thoughtfully-paced, and intricately-nuanced production, but its complexities play out in charmingly entertaining fashion, as much a testament to the talents of the director as to the strength of the cast.

At its center is the fictional interaction between media mogul David Sarnoff (Isaac Newberry) and Philo Farnsworth (Tom Templeton) as they compete to be the first to bring television to the world. Their relationship propels the show forward, and Newberry and Templeton ground the evening with an ever-evolving emotional arc between two very different men who came from similarly-barren pasts. As moving as they are, it is the ensemble as a whole that works together to flesh out the unexpectedly gripping drama as it unfolds. The supporting cast works wonders, creating around 60 characters between them, and somehow making every one distinct. Stand-outs include Ken Goldfarb and Joey Hunziker, who each get a few luminescent moments to shine.

There are a number of passages that soar, such as the exuberant explosion of the cast’s joy upon seeing the first glimpse of a moving picture on the small screen, or the comical juxtaposition of both witness teams in the lawsuit, and all of it serves to underscore the riveting dynamics between Newberry and Templeton.

In the hands of a less-skilled director or a less-restrained cast, the Farnsworth familial portion of the play might have verged on cloying – here, under the guidance of Holbritter, and the desperate yet contained grief conveyed by Templeton and Kyrie Ellison, it is an effective moment that sets up the final act. (One of the only minor complaints that can be made is the fault of Sorkin, who has yet to prove he can write a compelling, three-dimensional woman – whether that’s really his own flaw, or a product of the time period in which this subject took place is a debate that can rage elsewhere). That said, this production is one of the most subtle yet powerful stagings I’ve had the privilege of seeing in quite some time, and credit goes mainly to the cast and the director.

Ironically, or intentionally tellingly, what they manage to do – and what can only be done in live theater – is something that you can’t capture on television – that moment between actor and audience, when you inhabit the exact same time and space, breathe the same air, live in the same world – and feel as if you are actually there, sharing their heartbreak and happiness, striving and yearning along with them, aching in their grief.

It’s easy to root for the good guys, to be given a clear sense of who’s right and wrong and follow that simple path – but so much more rewarding and challenging, so deliciously tense, to be presented with complicated, fully-human characters complete with flaws, ambitions, hopes, and failings. We are given such a glorious dilemma here, and Newberry, as the first and final narrator, exemplifies this gorgeous ambivalence, shining light upon this human connection that brings us all together – not unlike television once did.

‘The Farnsworth Invention’ is playing at the Albany Civic Theater until May 20, 2012. To reserve seats, call 518-462-1297.
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Go Down

There is not a ‘first-thing-in-the-morning’ post today as I’d like you to read last night’s post (scroll down) and really think about it. This is the first time a sitting President has come out in support of gay marriage. Ever. That is historical, in a way that most of us don’t register anymore. Barack Obama is the first President in history to do this. No really, stop… please.

Think about it.

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Thank You Mr. President

There is something incredibly affirming and powerful about hearing your President speak directly in support of you as a full-fledged citizen for the first time. It’s something straight people have had always, and that they have sometimes taken for granted, but when you’ve never had a President in office say that – on your behalf – it means more than I thought it would.

In the wake of the news in North Carolina, to hear our President proclaim unequivocally – at last, and once and for all – that he supports gay marriage, is a galvanizing and monumental moment. It is an act of forward-thinking progress, political courage, and history-making fortitude.

It may be damaging politically, and it may tilt a tight election the wrong way, but it was the right thing to do, and as such President Obama will rightfully, and proudly, be written into the history books, whether the prejudiced people like it or not, as a champion of all citizens, regardless of race, religion, natural origin, gender, or sexual orientation.

This is history. This is real. This is now. And this is major.

Pay attention – because what just happened in North Carolina will be seen as an act as backwards as sending Rosa Parks to the back of the bus, as mindless as denying women the right to vote, and as shameful as beating Matthew Shepard to death. To argue with this is to argue against love, and I defy anyone to take such a stance and stand behind it with any semblance of reason.

It’s time to pay this President the same respect that you would pay any President in office. There is no excuse for ever having done otherwise. President Obama, I stand behind you, and I thank you for representing the finest values of freedom for which this country has always stood.

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On This Night of All Nights

On the same night that North Carolina voted to write hatred and discrimination into their state constitution by banning gay marriage (a constitutional move that was last done in the 1800’s by a vote that banned interracial marriage – a ban that was only lifted as recently as 1971), I finally found the fortitude to watch the video above. I’m asking you to do the same – and then to ask anyone you know who is against gay marriage why they would be against love.

That’s all it is. That’s all we ever wanted.

How could anyone be so against love?

I do not understand that.

I hope I never will.

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Fresh & Fruity

Sangria has never been one of my favorite drinks – too messy, too much mixing of solids and liquids, too sweet – but when done this way, it was something palatable for everyone. This version was a ‘Tropical White Sangria’ – using white wine, peach schnapps, a bit of citrus vodka, and a ton of fresh fruit. Made the night before, the fruit exudes its own juice, and take a bit of the liquor in as well for a beautiful, and delicious, drink.
Don’t let its fruity appearance deceive you – this is one potent lady, drawing her power from the addition of citrus vodka and peach schnapps, and of course the white wine. The original recipe also called for a bit of seltzer water to be added just before serving, but it’s been forgotten the both times I’ve made it, and never missed.
Tropical White Wine Sangria

 ½ cup peach schnapps
 ½ cup citrus vodka
 1 (15 oz.) can pineapple rings, in own juice, not sweetened
 ½ cup juice, from pineapple can
 1 bottle dry white wine , like sauvignon blanc
 1/4 cup seltzer water
 1 kiwi peeled and sliced
 4 strawberries, quartered
 4 slices lemons
 4 slices oranges
 4 slices limes
 ½ cup raspberries (about a handful) ¬
 1 tablespoon granulated sugar

Do not open bottle of seltzer until ready to serve. Place slices of lemon, orange and lime in a large sangria pitcher and dust with the granulated sugar. Lightly mash with a wooden spoon until fruit begins to break down and sugar begins to dissolve. Cover fruit with pineapple juice. Quarter 3 of the pineapple slices and add to pitcher. Add remaining fruit, peach schnapps, and wine. Stir lightly, then refrigerate for at least 4 hours. Right before serving, add seltzer to pitcher. Garnish with orange or kiwi slices & serve with ice.

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The Unsniffed Scent ~ My New Cologne

No, it’s not some mash-up of the Spicegirls and Tom Jones – ‘Spicebomb’ is the new cologne by Viktor & Rolf – a sort of male counterpart to their successful ‘Flowerbomb’ perfume. When the reviews first started trickling in, it sounded like something I would love – bergamot, a bit of grapefruit, and pink pepper to begin with – then a base of tobacco with a touch of leather. However, I’ve read of fragrances that included all my favorite scents, only to be disappointed, if not outright horrified by the end result (hello Prada).

On my last trip to Boston (and, I will admit, procuring Spicebomb was part of the impetus for that visit) I hit up Saks Fifth Avenue, which I had read was offering it for sale. The salesperson there crushed my dreams with one fell swoop when she said it would not in stock in Boston until August. I didn’t think it would be at Neiman Marcus, but I tried, and I even made a feeble, half-hearted stop at Barney’s on the off-chance they had something… all to no avail. The city of Boston did not have Spicebomb, and it didn’t look they were getting it anytime soon.

Now, here comes the ‘Do as I say, not as I do’ part of the blog. Normally, I strongly advise against buying cologne scent unsniffed. First off, because you will never really know what it smells like no matter how many fanciful terms of description they can conjure. Second, even if you have smelled it in a magazine or a sample, it will smell slightly different on your own skin, and everyone’s body chemistry produces varying olfactory reactions. Third, it is far too easy to fall prey to advertising (and yes, I’m talking about the debacle of the naked guy for Zino by Davidoff, the worst fragrance I ever bought and never used).

Still, when all the reviews sound like the perfect concoction of what I most want in a cologne, and the fact that I was not averse to Flowerbomb, I took a chance and ordered a bottle online. I know, I know… but it’s only good advice if I don’t take it. When it arrived from Nordstrom, I pulled the pin of the grenade bottle and prepared for the worst. Happily, luckily, and giddily, I loved what I smelled.

But don’t ever do what I just did. Because I said so.
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The Madonna Timeline: Song #68 ~ ‘Fever’ – Late Winter/Early Spring 1993

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

Never know how much I love you…
Never know how much I care…

Ahh, Fever. Like so many pop references, I only know Peggy Lee’s ‘Fever’ thanks to Madonna, and after hearing the original (and countless other covers), I really have no preference. Madonna’s version came out as the B-side to ‘Bad Girl’ in the first half of 1993, and at a time when the ‘Sex/Erotica’ backlash was at its worst. As such, an ‘Us’ magazine story recounted the tale of a gym whose patrons only got into the groove when they played the instrumental version of Madonna’s ‘Fever’ – a joke in and of itself.

While I remember the song when ‘Erotica’ first came out in the fall of 1992, and then a brief resurgence when she performed it on ‘Saturday Night Live’ and the Arsenio Hall Show in early 1993, my main memories came in the early spring of that year, when the CD Maxi-Single of ‘Bad Girl’ was on perpetual play, and much of it occupied by the ‘Fever’ remixes.

Catchy as hell, with vocals as dry as my favorite martini, this was not a landmark moment in Madonna’s career, but I do view it favorably, and as covers go she could have done a lot worse (bye bye Miss American Pie indeed). Still, it was mostly filler for the otherwise-brilliant ‘Erotica’ album – and totally unnecessary at that.

Of more import was the video, which went uncharacteristically ignored ~ a pitiful shame, as it stands as a stylist’s dream-stash of images. Jittery, hot, and soaked in flaming color, it set the stage for the brilliant cool-down of ‘Rain’.

What a lovely way to burn.

Song #68 ~ ‘Fever’ – Late Winter/Early Spring 1993

 

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