Monthly Archives:

September 2011

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Song #51: ‘Rainbow High’ – Late Fall 1996/Winter 1997
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27
September
2011
Tags: Boston, Theater
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‘Next Fall’ at the Speakeasy Stage – Theater Review

A far cry from the last feel-good production I saw put on by the SpeakEasy Stage Company (that would be the rollicking good-time of ‘The Drowsy Chaperone’), ‘Next Fall’ is a very serious play that resonates with several particularly-timely subjects – yet it is just as expertly-done, and haunts in a more provocative manner. At its heart, it is a play about the difficult reconciliation between religion and homosexuality, and it also touches on family relations, the question of faith, and the simple (or not so simple) meaning of love. If it sounds like a lot, it is – but somehow the ensemble cast reins it in with impeccably-rendered performances.

Nominated for a Tony for Best Play in 2010, ‘Next Fall’ by Geoffrey Nauffts is compellingly of-the-moment, especially given these religiously-fanatic times. A Bible makes it way around to each of the characters – sometimes instilling comfort, sometimes inciting anger, sometimes invoking sadness – and it becomes its own central character, embodying the idea of religion, and all notions of good and bad. Any sort of judgment one way or another is wisely avoided, and the lingering ambivalence over the real role of religion and faith in the characters’ lives remains powerfully unresolved.

Directed by Scott Emriston, the production keeps its pace, owing in part to several ingenious set design shifts (Scenic Designer Janie Howland) and quick costume changes (Costume Design by Carlos Aguilar). Most effective may be the lighting (courtesy of Lighting Designer Karen Perlow), which somehow manages to differentiate between a cold hospital waiting room and a warm personal apartment, seemingly at the flip of a switch.

There are a few minor quibbles. A quick drug-addiction scene comes out of nowhere and ends up in the same place, and at times it does feel like there are too many things going on when a closer, more detailed examination of the bigger issues at hand might have proved better, but the strength of the ensemble pulls it all together. Not one of the actors uses broad strokes to fill their character, and their subtle, natural nuances keep things grounded on a credible level. There’s not a weak-link in the bunch. Taken as a whole, they add up to a powerful night of theater.

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26
September
2011
Tags: Madonna, Music
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The Madonna Timeline: Song #50 ~ Celebration ~ Summer 2009

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And so I did.

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

Song #50: ‘Celebration’ ~ Summer 2009

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24
September
2011
Tags: Gratuitous Nudity
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My Own Private Spa

Following my amazing virgin spa experience at the Washington Mandarin Oriental, I set about to re-create the peace and calm in my own home, with relative success. For me, it was all about mind-set, and if you can mentally calm yourself, you’re already there. The proper atmosphere helps, and here’s how I set about it:

Dim the lights (it helps if you have dimmers – however, when I do this in Boston a few glowing candles does just the trick, and sometimes it’s even better that way – the dancing of the light is a soothing visual, the waves of flickering beams bathing the walls, catching in the falling droplets.) By dim, I mean dim – lower than you think you want to go. The point is to make your eyes have to adjust. You want the pupils to dilate, to go as big as possible, to take in all of the little light.

Set up a big fluffy towel and your favorite robe for easy access when it’s time to dry off. As much as I enjoy an outrageous ostrich-feather-&-velvet number, for spa moments I find it nicer to use a simple waffle-weave or fresh terry cloth robe. The goal is simplicity – to clear the body and the mind.

Turn the shower on hot, hotter than you’re accustomed to. It’s important to get a healthy wall of steam around you. It should blanket the mirrors and the shower door/curtain, surrounding you with a cloud, obscuring the clarity and the light. (I don’t do baths, but I imagine the same principles would apply if you prefer them.)

The result should be a little womb-like space – dark and warm and pulsating with heat and fluid. Your own little cocoon, wrapping you with filaments of soap and water. Speaking of soap, this is of paramount importance: find something you really like, with a focus on the fragrance. My taste is all over the map – depending on the mood it runs from green tea to pepper to neroli to mint to lavender – and there are so many variations and combinations that you only need to look to find something you enjoy.

In the background, I like to have some music softly playing – preferably something ambient and light, with subtle Eastern influences. Classical is always a peaceful standby, as are solo instruments – guitar or piano or harp. The point is to find something that makes you relax – something without lyrics or a driving dance beat. (It’s the one time even a Madonna ballad is out-of-place; the music should be colorless and for background purposes only. Once you bring words into it, the magic dispels.)

With the scene set and the preparations made (doing it all before you begin is part of what makes the experience so relaxing) there’s no clumsy search for a towel as you traipse a trail of water across the floor, no frantic cursing for forgetting the shampoo or washcloth. Take your time. Slow your breathing. Relax and go easy. At first, this may be the most difficult part of the whole thing, and my mind usually races with the thoughts and worries of the day, until I focus on the simple tasks at hand – the soap, the shampoo, the lather, the sound of the water, the comfort of the heat. Soon, the mind clears, the body relaxes, the tension dissipates. It’s a discipline, in a certain sense, but one that ultimately gives way to a soothing calmness, if you let it.

[For those who worry about the hot water and energy expense involved, I believe that if you keep your regular showers to five minutes, a little indulgence and a lengthier, hotter shower experience once a week or so won’t do any more damage than has already been done to the environment. A little pampering is worth more for my peace of mind than just about anything else.]

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23
September
2011
Tags: Underwear
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From Briefs to Boxers

Most guys (straight guys at least) don’t change their underwear style too often. They find something that they like and stick with it – forever. I’m not that way. I’ve been known to change up my underwear hourly if the situation arises (don’t ask). In the last few years, though, I have seen subtle patterns in my underwear-wearing emerge, mostly due to the seasonal variations of the Northeast. I hadn’t really noticed until I started getting into the boxer briefs this week and then it dawned on me. From now until the winter, there will be a gentle transition from briefs to boxer briefs to regular boxers.

The main difference between briefs and boxers is a delicate differentiation in comfort and temperature. I liken it to the distinction between gloves and mittens. Gloves, while form-fitting and tight to the skin, are actually less warm than mittens in the winter. The same principle seems to apply to briefs – which seems at odds with what most people might think. I find that boxers – like mittens – are a bit warmer. Body heat and humidity get to move around a bit, instead of being whisked away by the capillary action of fabric fibers close to the skin.

Yes, this is a shoddy bit of science, probably none of it true – but mind over matter. And, as always, style over substance. As long as my underwear matches my outfit, I’m happy. Onward to the boxers!

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21
September
2011
Tags: Gay
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Who’s Keeping Anderson Cooper Honest?

Dear Anderson Cooper – You don’t know me, and while I knew of you, I had never seen any of your work prior to your viral giggling fit, which, I’ll admit, won me over. (For that silly reason alone, I got tickets to see your talk show.) I’m more aware of you from your cat-and-mouse game of dodging the gay question – which is entirely your right to do, but after seeing your show in person yesterday, I think it might behoove you to come out – if only for your own happiness.

I read somewhere that I wasn’t supposed to give anything away about the show before it aired, but since the topic was of no interest to me, I’m not going to reveal anything about that or who might have been on it (I didn’t know them anyway). Having never attended any other talk shows, I don’t really know how they work, but I got the distinct impression that you didn’t really want to be there. Much of the time you were short, quick, and almost testy with the crew. You seemed to be going through the motions, and there was an unhappiness and complete lack of joy in what you were doing, which begs the question: Why?

I get the feeling that you’re trying to be both things at once – the serious, hard news reporter, as well as the likable, friendly, my-life-is-an-open-Oprah-book-of-the-month talk show host – and you can’t really do that successfully – at least, you’re not doing it yet, and I wonder at the reason for it. Any sort of reticence to get personal or revelatory will be seen as disingenuous. The fact that you just showed an episode of yourself crying and discussing your brother’s suicide with your Mom shows that you can get personal and still maintain a professional stance, so your reluctance to address your sexuality is a sticking point with me, played out almost comically as Britney Spears blasts over the studio speakers and the seats fill with middle-aged women and young gay men. There’s no nobility in cowering behind the reporter’s visage, not when you have a talk show on which you’re revealing the personal side of your life.

Through the windows of the set, I can see flocks of birds flying over the backdrop of Central Park, and their freedom seems a tragic juxtaposition against yours. You suddenly seem to me a man who’s trapped – caged in that metal-and-glass backed set overlooking Columbus Circle, frantically running up into the audience for one last question that was actually just a gift: a ragged-looking woman in gold pleather gives you a rosary and a plastic vial of holy water – the significance of which no one seems quite able, or willing, to grasp. I don’t know what you made of the present – was it her effort to save you from a certain unnamed lifestyle? A simple, genuine gift of faith? A public push to accept Jesus Christ as your one and only savior? You received it graciously before literally running off the set with a wave, on to save the world in more important arenas perhaps.

When I return home that night, I turn on your AC360 show on CNN, where you are more formal in jacket and tie. You open by reporting on another suicide due to bullying – a 14-year-old child has killed himself after being bullied for his sexuality. It is not the first time you have drawn worthy attention to the issue, even if means being ridiculously perceived as pushing a “gay agenda” – and that’s admirable of you – but it’s not enough.

You talk of the loneliness and desperation and how heartbreaking it is. You showed the video that the boy – Jamey Rodemeyer – made for the ‘It Gets Better’ project – and I wait for some flicker of whether this is personal to you. There are some things that only another gay person who has been through that fear can understand and access. Is that you? Are you one of us?

How sad that this dead child – this 14-year-old boy who was brave enough to be himself at such young age, to put his life in danger and ultimately take it himself – has done more for gay youth than you have done. Make no mistake, you have done a lot in your own way – just not that one final admittance of truth, that one simple act that might make all the difference.

You continue to publicly crusade against bullying, yet your very act of playing it coy and private with your own sexuality doesn’t seem to be saying that it’s okay for young people to be gay or for their mothers (who adore you) to embrace them. I’ve seen those mothers gush over you on FaceBook and Twitter and now in your own studio, and I know the power you have.

Maybe you’re afraid to offend and lose viewers. Maybe you honestly feel it is none of anyone’s business and it shouldn’t make a difference. And maybe you’re right on all points – but if there’s the slightest chance that it might help someone, why wouldn’t you do it?

When I was a kid growing up in the 80’s, my only gay idols were Liberace and Rock Hudson. While the former enticed with his glittery extravagance and the latter had lots of luminous lady co-stars, in the end they were two sad, scared souls who had to hide from the world and die more or less alone. That’s all I had to look up to. In aPeople magazine story on Liberace, I searched for a sign of recognition, desperate to discover whether that would one day be me. Was the only way through a life like theirs an early death of secrecy and disease? It would be another decade before I could even face the fact that I was gay.

Far more resonant than “Stop the bullying” or “It Gets Better” would have been the intrinsic message of solidarity and acknowledgement in a hero’s proclamation of “I am like you”. That would have done more to drive away the loneliness I felt than any sort of pat on the back or other protection would have engendered. By leaving us without that, you fail in all your other efforts.

If I’d only seen someone like you – someone successful, someone I admired – living openly as a gay man – how much heartache and loneliness would that have prevented? How many other kids might be saved, if not from death then possibly from pain? Why wouldn’t you come out to help just one person, or save just one life? Knowing the hurt and anguish that a single extinguished soul can leave, why wouldn’t you take that chance?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The road to hell is paved with good intentions,
But if I die tonight, at least I can say
I did what I wanted to do.
Tell me how about you?
Song #49: ‘4 Minutes’ ~ Spring 2008
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18
September
2011
Tags: Theater
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Get A Load of These Cats – Theater Review

Have we been wrong about Cats all this time? That’s the question and challenge posed by the brilliant production currently prowling the Cohoes Music Hall. The reviews are glowing, the cast is perfection, and this incarnation defies all the jokes that have ever been made about the show. This is the Cats of the original hype, but without the inflated disappointment. It has caused more than a few of the jaded to rethink their thoughts on the material, and it stands up remarkably well 30 years after its premiere.

The first time I actually saw the show was when it was touring in the mid 80’s – we caught a performance in Toronto I believe – the most memorable part of the whole thing being the set, and my Dad’s uproarious imitation of the cats after it was all over, raising his hand like a paw and cracking me and my brother up. He was, to say the least, not impressed, but I didn’t hate it with the gleeful animosity that most people did. In fact, I felt none of the disdain that so many theater snobs seemed to take such joy in expelling. It wasn’t the second-longest running show on Broadway for no reason – there are some decent songs (courtesy of Andrew Lloyd Webber) and some incredible choreography. However, with all the hype of its premiere I think most people went into it expecting some sort of miracle transcendental moment – and this isn’t that kind of show. The power of Cats lies in its performance – in the energetic trooping of its hoofers and a power ballad or two. There is a weak storyline of journeying to the Heaviside Layer, and as much anthropomorphic meaning as you wish can be read into the evening’s festivities, but above all this is about song and dance.

Under the expert direction and choreography of Jacob Brent (who performed in both the Broadway and London productions of the original show), that song and dance is given a gorgeous whirl that majestically captures the graceful movements of the dancers while perfectly melding them into feline form. Along with the always-excellent musical direction of Joshua Zecher-Ross, whose musicians, though few in number, completely fill the space with the necessary bombast for the rigorous dance routines, while subtly pulling out the most delicate harmonies in the quieter moments, the structure and bones of this animal are stalwartly intact. From there it growls, prances, and claws its way into the pantheon of fine performances that the Cohoes Music Hall has seen over as many years as a cat has lives. (This is the start of their ninth season.)

There are several stand-outs in a show rich with remarkable performers, most notably Tony Rivera strutting his stuff and chewing the home-turf scenery as Rum Tum Tugger (he is the very definition of charisma), Chaz Wolcott as the magical Mr. Mistoffeles (he is the embodiment of elegant electricity), John Farchione as Gus/Growltiger and Lucy Horton as Jellylorum/Griddlebone (together the essence of comedic genius). Ruthie Stephens gets the big number, ‘Memory’, and acquits herself admirably as Grizabella.

The rest of the cast is across-the-board superb, with nary a weak paw in the place. Sean Hingel as Munkustrap anchors the show with a convincingly-cat-like regal bearing, while Kelly Briggs as Old Deuteronomy adds the proper imperial note (even holding the stage focus for a cat-nap during intermission). In the end, though, it’s the company as a whole that makes the magic that carries the night – the thrilling Jellicle Ball episode unfolds with one amazing dance sequence after another, unfurling like some indefatigable wind-up toy brought to thrilling human form.

The folks at Cohoes Music Hall have a way of revitalizing new and old shows with integrity and exuberance, both of which elevate this production of Cats into a theatrical experience rich and worthy of exaltation. Go see it now, because this one won’t be around forever.

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15
September
2011
Tags: Family, Travel
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A Wedding in Washington

Some of my favorite childhood memories are of visiting our cousins in Virginia and coming into Washington, DC to see the Smithsonian museums and other landmarks. It was only on those big summer vacations that we got to see other relatives. We didn’t grow up with a lot of family around us, certainly no other Filipinos, so seeing people who looked like us and were raised like us was both a curiosity and a relief. If all you’ve ever known throughout your life is what it’s like to be different, finding a kindred person who’s been through what you’ve been through just feels good – it’s a reassurance of sorts.

The oldest of our cousins, and just a year younger than me, was Martina. She was the responsible one, the one who studied, the one who behaved and did what she was supposed to do. Not unlike the oldest in our family (ahem). But my brother and I sensed a bit of rebellion in her, so whenever we got together I think she let her good behavior slide for a bit and let loose with the rambunctious ones. We were, after all, just kids.

We met them at other family events too, usually the weddings of our older cousins – the generation slightly ahead of us. At one of those weddings the group of us kids snuck out of the reception, running across a highway to the Friendly’s across the way. It struck terror into the hearts of Aunts and Uncles who suddenly missed us for some reason, and when we returned it was to great relief and the quick call-off of a search party. Such is the stuff of kids, and Martina was always along for the ride, albeit sometimes reluctantly.

This past weekend she was the one getting married – the last of our generation to do so, as the rest of have already been down that aisle. In a way, it’s the end of an era – the bittersweet final sentence in our Childhood Volumes. We’re all adults now – there’s no turning back – and I embrace it with the hesitancy of Peter Pan and the wariness of Puff the Magic Dragon.

This time around the ceremony was beautiful – as was the bride – and I’ve never seen a happier woman walking down the aisle. She positively beamed, with an unceasing smile and continual laugh as she made her way to her husband to be. The reception was another classy affair, held in one of the Ballrooms at the Mandarin Oriental, and backed by one of the most fun bands in my recent memory. In all, it was a magical evening – sealed by the traditionally-grand toast by her Dad (who has always delivered at the weddings of his children).

As the night closed on the wedding, and our weekend in Washington, I looked out over the Potomac, at the glowing pillars of the Jefferson Memorial – ghostly and pale in the midst of all the darkness. It would be difficult to go back. It always was.

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14
September
2011
Tags: Gratuitous Nudity, Travel
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My Virgin Spa Experience

Before this past weekend at the Mandarin Oriental, I had always thought of spas as silly things – unnecessary luxuries masquerading as helpful holistic health aids – and I’ve avoided them like the plague. It all seemed like so much namby-pamby frivolity that served no discernible purpose other than pampered relaxation. As high-maintenance and self-gratifying as everyone thinks I am, I’m really not – and the whole spa thing seemed like a long-ass drawn-out shower that went on for hours beyond what was necessary – a supreme time-waster for someone who showers in fifteen minutes flat, including dry-off and squeegee down. For those same reasons, I never understood the appeal of a long hot bath – I can’t think of a bigger waste of time and hot water. Now that I’m a bit older, however, pampered relaxation is a goal in and of itself, and a worthy and admirable one at that.

When presented with an opulent hotel like the Mandarin, and a much-heralded spa experience, I figured I might as well try it at least once. Having made a cursory tour of the facilities the day before, and finding them relatively quiet and uncrowded (in fact, no one would disturb me at all with the polite exception of a staffer or two) I felt comfortable returning to the pool and spa space the next day.

I began, quite simply enough, with the grand pool as seen below. At first I just wanted to sit in one of those circular lounges and read the day away, but I decided to do a few laps in the pool since no one else was there. As you can see, I had it entirely to myself, and there’s something special about having all that expanse alone. The scope and size can’t be accurately rendered from this photo, but it’s enough to say that the pool was immense, and one lap here was equal to about five laps in our backyard pool – a drop in this ocean.

After doing a couple of lazy laps and floating peacefully in the quiet calm, I toweled off and wandered to the private area that housed the gentlemen’s sauna, steam-room, and plunge bath. I was familiar with the Finnish method of sitting in a sauna for a few minutes, then plunging into the cold water of a lake, and repeating for a half-hour or so. (I actually did it once in Finland, before the heat gave me a bloody nose and ended the escapade early.) Since I haven’t had a bloody nose in years, I decided to try it again.

The wooden sauna was, naturally, hot, but it felt good sitting there and sweating out any vodka from the night before. After a few minutes, I went out and plunged myself into the cool water of the circulating tub, a startling contrast, and incredibly refreshing. I floated there for a bit, letting my body adjust, and tried the steam-room next.

A large amethyst geode stood in a recessed space above a tiled bench, barely visible through the heavy steam. I sat down on my towel, and suddenly the wet bathing suit I was wearing felt foolish. Yes, traditionally one only wears a towel when in the steam-room or sauna, but I’m much more modest in public. (No matter how much nudity I show on this website, being publicly naked is a totally different animal to which I’m not quite accustomed or comfortable. You deal with the dichotomy – I’ve reconciled myself to it.) But at the sauna, being naked felt more natural, so I doffed the trunks and undid the towel. It felt liberating and free and not a big deal at all, though I’m sure that was partly because no one else was there.

I did don my suit again when dipping into the plunge pool, but stayed in just a towel for the remainder of the sauna experience. Followed by a shower and all those lovely bath gels and shampoo and conditioning creams, surrounded by peacefully soft lighting and gently soothing ambient music, this spa experience was a turning point. I understood what all the fuss was about – the art of ritual, the act of breathing, the appreciation of the elements – and the resulting peace and transformation. To take oneself out of the mundane present of the hustle and bustle of life 

and into a more pure presence of ease and tranquility – this was the beauty of the spa, and I will never again consider it a waste of time. In fact, I’d do my best to recreate the feeling of peace and calm in our own bathroom (not unlike its own spa, thanks to all the gorgeous marble and fluffy towels).

If there is one gift that I will take back from this weekend in Washington and our time at the Mandarin Oriental, it’s the gift of time and relaxation. By padding our wedding attendance with a few days to allow for sightseeing and visits, and the luxury of not being rushed, there was an enjoyment often missing from those vacations when we try to pack too much into too little time. My moments at the spa, in quiet contemplative solitude, and physical rest and ease, will prove invaluable – I’m certain of it. And though I’ll never be able to fully recapture the extravagant sauna and steam room experience of the Mandarin, I’ll bring back a little bit of the peace to my morning and nightly showers from this point onward.

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14
September
2011
Tags: Travel
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Detained at the White House With No Pot to Piss In

Given my absolute apathy toward all things political, it shouldn’t come as a surprise that I’ve never been to, nor had the desire to see, the White House. However, I knew it was something Andy would enjoy, and it looked close enough to our hotel, so I asked my Mom to work some familial magic with a cousin who has some connections to a Senator, and suddenly tickets for a White House Tour were ours. (My original request to Senator Kirsten Gillibrand was answered by a form letter thanking me for my comments, so I wasn’t getting them that way. Sometimes the world really does work based upon who you know, as opposed to following proper protocol that only results in an impersonal auto-response.)

The page of instructions regarding the visit was heavy with rules and regulations. No cameras permitted on the grounds, and no place to store them, so if you had one you couldn’t enter at all. All information on one’s photo identification had to match up exactly as given to the people doing the background screening beforehand. Obviously, no bombs, weapons, sharp objects, etc. allowed on the grounds. A small bit of fine print indicated one more thing, but I’ll save that for later, as I apparently didn’t really pay much attention to it.

The morning begins in a rainy way. We hop in a cab and arrive at the Visitor’s Entrance, where a small line is forming for the tour. We are, fortunately, half an hour early, which bodes well as someone (Me? My Mom? My cousin?) provided the incorrect birth-date for Andy, and it doesn’t match up with his ID. He is detained at the first security checkpoint, while I am hustled ahead to wait further along. Of course he doesn’t have his cel phone, so I have no way of knowing what exactly is going on, other than they screwed up his birthday.

Now, part of me can’t help but find this somewhat comically ironic, as some people would assume that if anyone were to be detained at the White House, it would be me, not my live-by-the-law-and-obey-all-the-rules-retired-police-officer husband, but such is the way the world works. After twenty minutes, his background check clears, and they must have realized he wasn’t a threat.

I kind of had to pee when we arrived, but I figured I’d wait until we got in. Security people were everywhere and none too keen about entertaining an antsy guy who had to pee. After the delay with Andy, I really had to go. So when we entered the East Wing and I asked the first Secret Service guy where the nearest restroom was, my bladder recoiled in horror when he said there were none here. I read the instruction page again and there at the very end was the little sentence that there are no public restrooms at the White House. What? Are you telling me that the President doesn’t go to the bathroom? What about the First Lady and all those teas? Tea makes you pee… Alas, it was not to be. For such a nice home, the absence of a proper piss pot is inconceivable. I mean, if this truly is the people’s house, let the people pee.

Thankfully, the glory of a self-guided tour is that it can be as long, or as quick, as one wants it to be. I was just as enraptured by the place as Andy though, and that kind of excitement and interest can douse a burning bladder for a few moments. We strolled through each room, taking in every press conference position or state dinner photo op we could recall. It really is something impressive to see, on a physical and emotional level. Aside from the beauty of each room is the history to go along with it our country’s history. One can’t avoid feeling at least a twinge of national pride when you see these places.

We went back out into the rain, where I snapped this shot with my cel phone, afraid to take any more for fear of being arrested. Then we found a bathroom and continued on our way. Wild relief.

A few more stops before lunch at the Old Ebbitt Grill – one of Washington’s oldest saloons (dating back to 1856) – where I had what may be the most delicious ramekin of crab artichoke dip I’ve ever experienced in my life. I ate the whole thing myself (after offering some to Andy, who declined). The scene was very old Washington – lots of rich wood, tufted velvet banquettes, and classically tiled bathrooms. Perfect for a rainy day. It was now time to head back for an afternoon siesta, and my first spa experience…

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13
September
2011
Tags: Travel
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From Hell to Paradise

Ahh… heaven in a cocktail glass. Here we have the Pear Mandarin Martini, consisting of Absolut Pear, Pear nectar, Elderflower cordial, and lemon juice. It is, admittedly, a carry-over cocktail from Las Vegas, as is my modus operandi when it comes to cocktails – I’ll generally stick with a winning concoction for a certain stretch of time. Often it’s a seasonal thing, which is somewhat the case with the pears of late. This will do for now, and it will be peppered by the traditional gin or vodka martini until Negroni season begins again, usually by the end of the month.

Tonight, this is the pre-game moment for when we later dine with the man who performed our wedding ceremony. Outside the Empress Lounge (has there ever been a more apt name?) a tricky deluge of stormy weather. Wild lightning strikes out over the Potomac, as heavy rain pours down. Intermittent bursts of thunder bracket the live guitar player, his meandering jazz solos a perfect counterpoint to the rainy night. A good time to reflect on our current stay at the Mandarin Oriental, Washington, DC.

After our hellish flight experience, our arrival at the Mandarin completely turned the day around. We arrived far earlier than check-in, but our room, which had been graciously upgraded, was ready within minutes. The staff of the Mandarin Oriental were an impressive team, welcoming us and erasing all memories of a rough morning. Here, there was calm and peace, an oasis from the rest of the world, and a much-appreciated respite from all of it.

My eyes were drawn, of course, to the flower display in the center of the lobby. As per usual, the true worth of any hotel is to be found in the floral arrangements, and these were exceptional in every way. Grand, yet simple ~ varied, yet harmonious ~ regal, yet grounded. I gush because they are that worthy.

Our check-in attendant Annie offered us a comfortable seat in the lobby area while the room was readied, and within moments she was back to tell us we were all set. Upon entering the room (and all but getting lost in the immense marble bathroom – more on that luxury later), all the worries of the day – nay, the month – melted away with the stunning vista of the river and the pillars of the Jefferson Memorial.

While the day remained overcast, given to bouts of rain, the sky was still bright, and it looked almost as if we were floating on a cloud. It felt as light too.

Far more than the surroundings was the services and courtesy provided by the staff. From our check-in attendant Annie to the housekeeping staff, to the guys who procured the taxis and town cars, to the host in the lounge who always asked if I wanted a newspaper or magazine as I sipped my cocktail, this was a highly-efficient, well-trained group of professionals who always had a kind greeting and a smile, even in the slightest passing.

That evening there was a bowl of fresh fruit, and a hand-written note of greeting from Linda, the expert Director of Communications at the Mandarin Oriental in Washington, welcoming us to the hotel.

That is the sort of personal touch that makes a first-time guest a loyal customer. (Example: when I left a book on the bedside table, I returned to find a bookmark resting on it. Being able to so expertly anticipate what the guest needs, even when the guest doesn’t even know, is the mark of an exceptional establishment.) And so is a box of artisanal chocolates, even if they had me at the fruit…

Our arrival at the Capitol had gone from dismal to delightful, thanks to the Mandarin, but the day had just begun, and we wanted to see the pandas…

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12
September
2011
Tags: Brandeis, Madonna
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The Madonna Timeline: Song #48 ~ You’ll See ~ Late Fall 1995

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’ll see.

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

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09
September
2011
Tags: Gratuitous Nudity
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Banned on FaceBook

For the first time, in a long time of “racy” images, FaceBook removed one of my photos, citing ‘Objectionable Content’. That’s the photo above. I only thank God I had the good judgment to not even attempt to post the photo below. Of course, this website will always be a safe space where you can view all sorts of male nudity without fear of censure or strike. (Assuming this site isn’t banned from where you are – it often is.) But if this is the worst that I put up here, is it really all that bad? I heard from a FaceBook friend who said that while my site was banned on one of the public computers he was using, Grindr was still up and running. Make of it what you will. I have, at any rate, arrived.

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05
September
2011
Tags: Gay, Travel
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Las Vegas: The Last Monday Before Leaving

On my last day here in Las Vegas (waiting out the hours before a dreaded red-eye back to NY), I sit in the opulently appointed Ball Room section of the Encore Hotel. This and its sister hotel, the Wynn, are easily my favorite part of Las Vegas. There’s less cheesiness, less of a theme-park feel. It’s decadently over-the-top, but in a classier way. It’s not trying to be something it’s not, or bend a theme into a caricature. The Venetian is, at this point, dated, and while suites are nice, I’m not sure they’re all that much better.

The trip is almost over, assuming that Hurricane Irene has had the courtesy to move aside and allow me to return to NY this evening. The verdict on Vegas? I came, I saw, and there’s no need for me to ever do it again. I won some, I lost some, and in the end just about broke even (not counting a bit of shopping, but I have some amazing Hugo Boss shoes and a Tallia jacket to show for it, as well as a bottle of cologne from Barney’s). I tried my hand at the Roulette wheel and did surprisingly well, lost a bit at the slot machines, but had fun doing both. The truth is that I’m not a gambling man, which makes a Vegas trip largely an exercise in futility.

That said, it is something that everyone should do at least once, and this was my turn. On a deeper level, the fact that Las Vegas failed to impress me is indicative of the kind of guy I am – and it’s decidedly not Vegas. I just don’t have it in me. Even my everyday style is wrong for this city – with the possible exception of a few sequins or a feather boa or two, but the vibe I got was that had I been wearing them I would have gotten my ass kicked. For the Strip, my style did not fit in, and neither did gay men as a whole.

Unless they’re on stage, they don’t quite seem to belong in this city (I might have heard more “faggot” and derogatory “gay” comments – not directed at me – than I have anywhere else in recent memory). In spite of that, I don’t think I saw a single gay person in all my time here. Granted, I didn’t seek out the gay clubs or wander the Fruit Loop, but surely there are a couple of homos slumming it with their straight friends – how could I be the only one?

The drinking thing was fun to see at first, much like New Orleans, but on a city-wide scale, and the novelty wears off quickly enough. This was not how I preferred to enjoy a cocktail. Yes, it was a kick to get free screwdrivers intermittently delivered by inattentive wait-staff (despite decent tips), but the whole drinking-on-the-strip thing is not necessary for me. A proper cocktail is an art form – to be savored in slow, deliberate enjoyment, not out of a 3-foot-tall plastic sippy bong while stumbling along a crowded street.

Maybe a few years ago Vegas would have been a better fit. Right now, it was a fun diversion, but I’m glad I don’t have to go back any time soon. I think part of it was that a lot of friends had extolled its virtues, and I was eager to join them, to be part of the crowd, to fit in where and when I never could. I have to accept that I’m not a Vegas boy – or Showgirl for that matter – and I never will be. So much of my life, admitted or not, has been about trying to fit in – I’m still waiting to be okay with the fact that it may never happen.

Here, alone in the vast, beautiful hallway of this hotel, I sit and ponder how it is that the more I try to be like everyone else, the less I am. Who would have guessed that Las Vegas could force such an existential crisis, albeit it a resignedly happy one?

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