Author Archives: Alan Ilagan

Review: ‘Love! Valour! Compassion!’ – Zeitgeist Stage Company

A year before Matthew Bourne would turn all the waterfowl of ‘Swan Lake’ into men, Terrence McNally had the guys of ‘Love! Valour! Compassion!’ unabashedly doing their plies in tights and tutus. Back then it was ahead of its time, and well over two decades later it still retains much of its verve, nerve, and sentiment. I was lucky enough to have seen that landmark Broadway production and its incomparable cast, and the shadow that it produced still lingers in my mind. It was 1995, and for some reason I insisted that both of my parents attend the play with me – a none-too-veiled yet still unspoken attempt at coming out to them. I wasn’t expecting all the words that would be uttered, nor all the full-frontal male nudity that would so flagrantly parade before our eyes, but I was brazen enough not to care, and by the end I think we were all so moved by the play that the rest of the stuff was almost beside the point.

It was reportedly McNally’s ode to the gay friends he’d had in his life, and at the time I remember feeling an intense longing for this glimpse into adult gay relationships and the varying versions of them: romantic, platonic, antagonistic, unconditional, extremely-conditional, wantonly sexual, polite, provocative, ugly and pretty. Revisiting the play all these years later as produced by the Zeitgeist Stage Company, I see it not solely as a celebration of the lives of several gay men, but as a eulogy as well – not only for those of us lost to AIDS, but for a time in our lives. A time before cel-phones, before online dating, when people looked at and spoke to each other in meaningful and discomforting directness. A time when we couldn’t hide behind computer screens or shut out the world by looking down at our text threads. Some it does feel dated (I cringed at the Donald Trump reference from when he was a joke more than a threat) but the interaction among the men, and the way they change and reveal themselves, is very much timeless.

The cozy Plaza Theatre at the Boston Center for the Arts provides a non-descript background for the minimalist scenery and effective lighting, which manage to convey the shifting scenes of summer in seemingly impossible ways, at times evoking a sprawling lake-side estate affectionately dubbed ‘Manderley’, spirited scenes of tennis and dinner and skinny-dipping, and even a road-rage-fueled car-ride. Such theatrical magic comes courtesy of director David J. Miller and the talented cadre of gentlemen he’s assembled to complete a picture-perfect ensemble.

In the original production, despite the talents of every cast member, two lights shined brightest: John Glover and Nathan Lane as John/James and Buzz respectively, who managed to dwarf all else around them with scene-biting ferocity. In this version, things are more evened-out, making for a more powerful sense of ensemble work. Brooks Reeves has the difficult dual role that Glover originated, but manages to acquit himself nicely in the 11thhour soliloquy when simply by turn of chair he shifts between two vastly disparate brothers. As Buzz, Jeremy Johnson gets the funniest lines, and though the over-the-top theater-queen role practically begs for overdone turkeydom, Johnson keeps it grounded, lending a very powerful poignancy to his budding kinship with James.

As the “role-models” in a 14-year relationship, Joey C. Pelletier and Keith Foster bring nuanced complexity to their characters Perry and Arthur. The least likable character in the lot, and the catalyst for some of the night’s most fiery moments, Perry is the difficult hinge around which McNally’s ambivalent criticism of the slightly-self-loathing middle-aged gay man turns. Finding the redemptive moments is the key to putting him over, and Pelletier is up to the task, unafraid to reveal Perry’s own inner-conflict, outward manifestations of intolerance, and ultimately heartwarming commitment to Arthur. Working for and against the hot-blooded Latino stereotype, Michael J. Blunt’s Ramon kicks off the drama with his preening, penis-heavy performance (instead of drinking from a silver cup, he admires his reflection in it). Ramon’s dance career is taking off just as Gregory’s is ending. David Anderson brings brittle emotional intensity to the host of the festivities, his watery transparency on the verge of breaking down or putting someone’s hand into a garbage disposal. The disintegration of his career as a dancer is at the opposite parabolic end of Ramon’s, which adds to the tension of his relationship with Bobby. Cody Sloan, in the role originated by Justin Kirk, portrays Bobby with a wisdom belying his years.

An ensemble piece is only as strong as its weakest character, but there is no weak link here. The cast manages to lift each other to greater heights, which is the secret of solid ensemble work. A telling testament to the legacy of McNally’s words, along with an impeccable cast on top of their game, this production of ‘Love! Valour! Compassion!’ is a moving reminder of an era already almost gone. In some ways an antidote to a predecessor like ‘The Boys in the Band’ (currently being revived on Broadway), this is one of those gay plays that deserves greater recognition.

{The Zeitgeist Stage Company‘s production of ‘Love! Valour! Compassion!’ is playing at the Plaza Theatre of the Boston Center for the Arts through May 19, 2018. Tickets may be purchased here. }

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Wedding Anniversary Memory Highlights

Given our advancing age and fading memory, I’m grateful I had the sense to put it all down here (and in a wedding book) so the details and little nuances of our wedding ceremony will be forever on hand should we wish to reference happiness.

For this morning’s wedding anniversary, I’m going with the highlights that come to mind eight years after we officially tied the knot:

There was the beautiful suite at the Taj Hotel, looking right over the Boston Public Garden.

There was the order of sidecars we enjoyed before the rehearsal dinner.

There was Michelle Kwan at the table across from us at Top of the Hub!

There was laughter and silliness with Suzie and Chris during my last minutes as a bachelor.

There was the bouquet of white peonies.

There was the hug of Andy.

There was the sky-high chocolate cake at our wedding lunch.

There were peonies and cherry blossoms everywhere.

There was a bow tie in a tiny train case.

There was a pair of swans, nesting in the Public Garden.

And at the end of it was my husband, driving us home, continuing our journey.

{Recap of the year’s anniversary festivities coming later this week…}

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Jonquility

Such happy faces! Such cheerful countenances! Such confidence in the shifting alliances of weather! These brave little Narcissus have been battered and bruised this year, but some still manage to bloom in almost-perfect form. No, I will not qualify that: they are perfect, not almost, because nature intends it as it should be. Baby, they were born that way.

The photo above is one of the rarer pink-cupped varieties, something that Lee Bailey so treasured, and inspired me to treasure as well. They bring the spring, better later than never, and as I inhale their distinctive fragrance everything feels right with the world.

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Positive (Kitchen) Reinforcement: Skylands Services, Inc.

There are too few supportive posts on the internet, and on this website, so in an effort to spark some joy and support local businesses I’m going to try to do better in highlighting what’s good in this world, and in particular what’s good in the Capital Region. To that end, there’s Skylands Services, Inc., the guys who did our kitchen remodel a few years ago. We were thrilled with what they did with the space, transforming our divided dining room and kitchen area into an open-space concept, and turning a terribly outdated kitchen into a usable and enjoyable place of function and fun. The proper set-up works wonders for those of us still learning how to cook. (Our granite peninsula is also the ideal meeting place for every type of party one can throw.) A look at the before and after of the rooms can be seen fully here, and ever since then I’ve been meaning to write a post extolling the virtues of Skylands Services. When I received an e-mail alerting me to their revamped website, it seemed the perfect time for this belated post. 

While attending Ithaca College in the late 1990s, two friends Gregg Pidgeon and John Walston, shared a passion for home improvements.  They both spent summers during high school and college working on separate construction crews and in customer’s homes performing home improvements.  Together, they had a vision that home improvements were about experiences and relationships instead of mere projects.  They were driven to offer a customer experience unique to the home improvement industry.  In 2004, they established Skylands Services, Inc.

Gregg and John believed that the industry was flooded with bad reputations and known for such things as poor communication, poor or inadequate craftsmanship and sloppy work spaces.  They created Skylands Services, Inc. to pursue their passion in a way that would buck the negative industry trends.  They believed that a home improvement project should be a pleasurable experience for customers and not a nightmare.  Over a decade later, their vision remains the same and they have a strong reputation built on delivering customer satisfaction. 

​​Our Philosophy

Skylands Services, Inc. focuses on putting the customer first.  We believe you should always feel at home in your home, even during a home improvement project.  This philosophy drives our company and allows us to provide high quality services with lasting customer relationships.  We understand that your project may be a disruption in your home and lifestyle, so we go out of our way to work efficiently without intruding on adjacent spaces. 

We employ a skilled and presentable labor force with years of experience in the construction trades.  All of our employees are trained on the principles and beliefs that have built the foundation for customer satisfaction for over fourteen years.  We would love the opportunity to provide you with your next home improvement experience.   

In our personal experience, the employees were all wonderful, and either Gregg or John was usually on-site – a refreshing change of pace when certain companies are out of contact or touch once a project begins. Estimates were accurate, time-frames were kept, and communication was always open. While renovations can be stressful, painful events, Skylands made it almost enjoyable. If you have any sort of renovation project in mind, check them out.

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Ignoring the Azaleas

Did you ever meet someone who was such an attention-sucker that they did all the screaming and shouting and carrying on every time you saw them, making it impossible for any meaningful contact or communication to be made? (Stop looking at me.) That’s kind of how I feel towards these azaleas, which have been screeching in their day-glo magenta glory and demanding to be noticed from the farthest distance. I like strong color, more than most people in fact, and I’ll never begrudge anyone their need to put on a show. But I don’t necessarily want it in my own backyard. Or front-yard for that matter. That’s why these had to be caught on the street where I work, far from where I’d see them while peacefully contemplating my own home.

That doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy them, particularly on a rather dour and gray lunch break from the office, when the extra-long stretch of bad weather we’ve had has us all a little on edge. When these popped open on the first really warm day we’ve had it was like a pop of champagne and an instant celebration of the late-to-arrive season. A colorful party until itself.

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The Night I Robbed A Wal-Mart

First, a bit of background: I had just put up our backyard canopy and helped Andy uncover the pool. I was in sweatpants and a long-sleeved shirt tattered with holes. In the midst of our endeavors, I noticed that the soaker house, on its last lack-of-legs for the past two years, was finally beyond repair or use. I jumped in the car to get the 250 feet of black rubber, dusting off the detritus of leaves and dead branches that clung to my outfit. I figured I’d run in and out of Wal-Mart without anyone being the wiser.

As I pulled into the parking lot and jumped out of the car, I immediately fell into walking behind a co-worker from my office. I hung back a bit, but I was ready to say, “I won’t tell what you’re wearing if you won’t tell what I’m wearing,” because this woman, normally not the savviest dresser anyway, was in an enormous hoodie that went down to her knees. Being in my own glass house, I kept the stones to myself and for the good fortune of both of us she never turned around.

I found the five soaker hoses (50 feet each) with relative ease. Cagey like a ninja, I piled them up and brought them to the line at the register without being seen by anyone I knew. Of course, there were no ‘10 items or less’ lines open, so I waited in what looked like the shortest line, with just two people in front of me. Then I saw her. I saw her hair first, then noticed the lethargic manner she was scanning the items and remembered her from the last time I was in Wal-Mart. I also felt the familiar impatience/rage creep up on me in what was supposed to be a quick and stealthy mission. It took a good ten minutes before she rang out the two people in front of me. And they didn’t have that much. But as a wise woman once said, you end it quicker when you’re nice.  I mustered a smile from the deepest and darkest depths of my soul. I said hello. And silently I prayed that it would go smoothly.

It didn’t.

The hoses – there were, as I mentioned, just five of them – were about eight dollars a piece. I had figured somewhere over $40 was where the bill should land, and I inserted my credit card. The total came to about $45 and I thought we were good.

“Now wait,” she said. “How many did you want?”

“Just the five,” I said, my forced smile quickly beginning to fade.

She scanned another hose for no reason and the total changed.

“How many did you have?” she asked again.

I spoke a little louder, “FIVE.”

Now, I’m going to go out on a limb and assume that this person had the educational background that would encompass counting to five. Even if she hadn’t, there were five clearly discernible objects sitting right of her for guidance. And two functional hands with all their digits intact.

She tried another time and ended up with seven items somehow scanned in. She voided it out and scanned them yet again.

“Ok,” she said, “How many do we have?”

Me: “Still five.”

She counted them again. Scanned them in again. And somehow left one off. The total came down to about $34 now. She said that’s what I owed. I knew it was wrong, but I said nothing and paid it. All stringent morality aside, if you were in my shoes (sneakers, still stained with dirty winter pool water) you would have done the same thing, if only to get the hell out of the store where the growing line was up to seven or eight people wondering what on earth was going on with this rattily-dressed guy and all these hoses. 

I stuffed the receipt in my pocket and headed to the door, where I was met by a big cheery man who asked to see my receipt. Annoyed, and already forgetting that I hadn’t been charged for all the items I held, I awkwardly balanced the hoses in one hand while fishing the receipt out with the other. He looked (or didn’t look) at the receipt and told me to have a good night, smiling the entire time.

Perhaps they should eliminate all the difficulty and just install shoplifting guides in every aisle.

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At The Warwick With Mother

When deciding on accommodations for our Mother’s Day weekend on Broadway, I always recall the stories told by my mother about when her mother (my fabulous grandmother) used to visit the city. It was old-school classic New York, long before the degradation then revitalization of Times Square, back when hotels were opulent show-pieces of grand lobbies, and women paraded down laces like the Peacock Alley of the Waldorf-Astoria in fine millinery, gussied up with gloves and veils, holding hat-boxes and shopping bags, while their male counterparts wore suits and hats and properly-shined shoes. We try to re-create that bygone era of manners and style, at least as close as modern-day society will allow without too many raised eyebrows. (It seems no one dresses for the theater anymore.)

For this year’s journey, we’ll be staying at the historic Warwick Hotel. It’s in one of our favored locales – close enough to the Park to be in proximity to beauty, yet not too far removed from the theaters where we’ll be seeing several shows. Within, Randolph’s Bar looks to provide libations for all our in-between moments, while a host of other classic New York landmarks are within easy reach. 

I’ll add it to my TripAdvisor review queue and hope that it’s as stunning a stay as we enjoyed in the Towers at Lotte New York Palace of last year.

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Broadway 2018 Triple Show

Our annual Mother’s Day weekend on Broadway has been officially finalized, and the note-card delineating our run of theatrical pieces is due back from the printer any day. I’m still scoping out possible restaurants (sometimes the meals are just as important as the shows) and daytime excursion ideas (shopping and museums) but those are less rigid (and occasionally benefit from a complete lack of planning).

  • The first entry in our Broadway weekend is, pardon the terrible pun, the only straight play we are attending this season (our two other selections being proper musicals). ‘The Boys in the Band’ is actually more of a gay play, one of the first of its kind to be produced, and it’s celebrating its 50thanniversary with this landmark production. Until recently, I’ve avoided the infamously-acerbic source material, but a few weeks ago a local theater group was putting it on, so Andy and I whet our appetites and were introduced to its acerbic heart. A play very much of its time, I’m interested to see what the Broadway production and its electrifying cast of gay Hollywood starlets does with the work. Jim Parsons, Zachary Quinto, Matt Bomer, Andrew Rannells, Robin DeJesus, Brian Hutchison, Charlie Carver, Michael Benjamin Washington and Tuc Watkins contribute to the ensemble magic.

  • Our second selection is a magical musical revival: ‘Once On This Island’. That goes back to one of my first cognizant memories of Broadway, and it wasn’t in Times Square proper, but on my television screen in our Amsterdam family room. It was the first time I ever watched the Tony Awards, and I was blown away by this musical that was running away with all the awards. It was ‘Once On This Island’, and all these years later it’s back on Broadway with a critically-lauded production.

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Boston Trunks Show

I saw these BoSox shorts on the internet the other day and thought they might be perfect for our BroSox Adventure in August. (Yes, that’s the official name I’ve given to the annual Boston Red Sox trip that Skip and I have been making for the last few years.) I like them because they are absolutely ridiculous, but the integration of the red socks is subtle enough to escape outright obvious notice for those unfamiliar with the logo. A few questions:

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Albany Pastiche

In my current hometown, there is beauty to be found if one knows where to look, and if one looks hard enough. It’s not always apparent or obvious, which makes it mean a little more. Privately, and perhaps publicly, I’m prone to dismiss this area when it comes to culture and artistic options and simple architectural glamour. And until those harsh 1970’™s lines of the Plaza come into miraculous vogue, I may have truth on my side. However, there are winks and nods to whimsy and beauty here, if only in the egg that watches over this bit of street art.

Our stalwart Jack’s Oyster House has a section of State Street named for it, and it is an institution unto itself. Dinners have been hit-or-miss there for a few years, but when they’re on they’re unbeatable. On the bottom corner of State is this dome-shaped beauty, proof that there are gorgeous buildings here, even if they’re not overly plentiful.

A little further up the street is Wellington’s, which I’ve tried for likely the last time. Their portions are simply too small for a $12 martini such as the one pictured. Perspective clue: those aren’t even queen olives taking up all that space, and the pour is meager at best. They saw me tweet as much, and came right over to me at the bar, but when I explained that the size was dismal compared to just about every other place in downtown Albany, the woman didn’t bother challenging it. What’s to challenge when there’s a photo like that?

So yes, Albany has its drawbacks and limitations, along with its naysayers and critics (guilty and guilty), but it has beauty and charm and champions as well. More than that, it’s become home – and I always take pride in my home. The skies here want to be blue and the sun wants to shine. We just have to help make it happen whenever we can.

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A Jam-Packed Recap, The Last of April

We have come too quickly to the end of April, a month that felt more winter-like than usual, which made for a bit of a downer for anyone looking forward to warmth and sun. To combat such dreariness, I did my best to distract with the return of the Madonna Timeline and a quick journey to New York City for the magic of the new Harry Potter plays.

It began with the official review of ‘Harry Potter and the Cursed Child, Parts 1 & 2’, which you can read for yourself to get my final verdict. 

Back home, I insisted on beginning the yard clean-up, spring weather delay be damned. 

The build-up to a new Madonna Timeline began slowly and quietly. (It had been seven months since our last entry!) Not only did that play a part in the hype, but the fact that the next song was such an iconic one added to the excitement. Even the Hunk of the Day got into the Madonna fever, with Salim ‘Slam’ Gauwloos adding his bit to the festivities. 

The Preamble to striking a pose.

And the arrival of the lady herself: the new Madonna Timeline for ‘Vogue’

The rest of our Harry Potter weekend got recapped beginning with out arrival at the Muse Hotel. It continued with the cherry-popping antics of Central Park. The conclusion was fun and beauty and elegance wound into one, not unlike this last week of posts. Or so I hope. 

Hunks of the Day included just Justin Baldwin and Josh Cuthbert, but they were more than enough to see us through the wilderness of April. May, we forge ahead.

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Magic & The Muse: Part 3

“There are things that death cannot touch. Paint… and memory… and love.” – Harry Potter and the Cursed Child

The cherry blossom motif of Central park continued in the lobby of the Roosevelt Hotel, where these Kwanzan beauties rose from an enormous bouquet. There were a few lilies as well, but this season is all about the cherries. As Andy and I finished our cocktails I realized that this was one of those happy highlights that I would remember as a hallmark of this trip. It’s not always in the fancy dinners or the big theatrical events – sometimes the best memories are of the quiet in-between times, such as sitting beside your husband in the middle of a bustling day that you’re lucky enough to have off from work, lazily taking in a visage of cherry blossoms and the visitors passing through a hotel lobby.

We walked a few more blocks back to our own accommodations at the glorious Muse, where we promptly put our feet up and slumbered until it was time for dinner at Lattanzi’s. Another Restaurant Row offering (conveniently on the same street as our hotel), it produced one of the best cuts of steak that Andy has had in recent and long-past memory. My veal was delicious as well, falling off the bone into a pool of deliciousness.

For Part 2 of ‘Harry Potter and the Cursed Child’ we knew enough not to rush to make the 6:30 requested arrival time, and by the time we strolled in at 7, there was no line and no waiting, and so sparse was the crowd that I wondered if everyone bothered to make it back for the second night.

We found the second night better than the first, and though I still contend that it would be better as one show, the second part flew by (at times quite literally), and I’m glad we got to see it with the original cast.

Afterward, we got in touch with Andy’s cousin Tyler, who met us at the Lamb’s Club, an old-school theater district hang-out for old-school folks like ourselves. We shut the place down (since it closed so early) and hopefully we’ll get to hang out with him again before he heads West.

Our Harry Potter trip had come to its late-night conclusion. Manhattan glowed all around us, but we were tired out from the day. Bed beckoned again. Who were we to refuse? We shall return in June to see Betty Buckley… 

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Magic & The Muse: Part 2

The next day dawned in sunny fashion. Oh sweet sun, that which we have not seen in far too long! We had a quick breakfast/brunch near Lincoln Center, did some shopping at Century 21, then meandered through the edge of Central Park, where daffodils and cherries and spring bulbs were in glorious bloom. There was the slightest chill to the air, and a decent breeze, but with all the sun and flowers no one complained. Even some magnolias were getting in on the show, their hints of pink a happy sight to eyes accustomed to the greys of winter.

Birds flitted and fluttered around us, lending a chorus of chirps and calls to the bright day. A squirrel ran along the path, saucily looking up as if to demand a treat. All the way, swaths of narcissus nodded their heads, and the world suddenly seemed to turn green all at once. How strange that we had to travel to the city to see it.

Andy took his time walking through the park, with good reason. I’ve never brought him into it any distance because we tend to be here in the wilds of winter or the heat of summer, neither very conducive to a relaxing mosey through the park, but on this day it was perfect.

The bonus to it all was a grouping of cherry trees which lowered their branches within arm’s reach. The sun poured through them, illuminating the soft petals and lending further brilliance to the scene at hand.

Cherry trees are the ultimate symbol of spring, and even if we had to travel by train to find it, it was certainly worth it.

We traversed the southern edge of the park, then headed down 5thAvenue. It was well after noon by the time we neared the Roosevelt Hotel, more than time for a cocktail stop before a quick siesta.

There is no happier place than a comfy perch near a bar and a fancy old-school New York hotel lobby, and we paused here to take in the scene, and a libation. We pause in this mini-narrative as well. Upon our return, we’ll conclude this trip to New York…

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Magic & The Muse: Part 1

“Thank you for being my light in the darkness.” ~ Harry Potter and the Cursed Child

The sky was darkening and just starting to spit some rain as Andy and I walked from the train station to the edge of Times Square, where the Muse Hotel had rolled out a proverbial red carpet for our arrival. Andy had made the reservations, being a longtime fan of Kimpton properties, and they did not disappoint, either in customer service or elegant accommodations.

A bottle of wine and cozy cheese platter made for a delicious snack later in the evening, but after a quick siesta it was off to an early dinner at Joe Allen.

Our tickets for ‘Harry Potter and the Cursed Child‘ and the subsequent barrage of e-mails indicated to arrive at the theater no later than 6:30 PM, which seemed excessively early for a 7:30 start time, but they were so insistent and adamant that all attendees be there we scheduled an obscenely-early dinner. I had a Caesar salad and a hamburger, keeping things as casual as possible for Andy, who preferred such a scene to a big fancy extravaganza. Given the touchy weather, I was fine with comfort food and casual wear as well.

We shared a very-high slice of banana cream pie, as one does with a sweet husband, and then it was time to get in line.

We are still annoyingly-unaware as to why we had to be there so early, only to be told to wait before they even opened the doors, but once they started moving the line dissipated quickly. Then we waited in the circular lobby for the theatre doors to open.

I’ve already given my review here, so I won’t waste time reiterating it – but the end of Part 1 left us feeling magical (and me only slightly frightened by visions of dementors dancing in my head)…

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The Madonna Timeline: Song #142 ~ ‘Vogue’ – Spring 1990 & forever after

{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.}

WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING AT?

“I love beautiful things that one can touch and handle. Old brocades, green bronzes, lacquer-work, carved ivories, exquisite surroundings, luxury, pomp, there is so much to be got from all these. But the artistic temperament that they create, or at any rate reveal, is still more to me. To become the spectator of one’s own life… is to escape the suffering of life. I know you are surprised at my talking to you like this. You have not realized how I have developed. I was a schoolboy when you knew me. I am a man now. I have new passions, new thoughts, new ideas. I am different, but you must not like me less. I am changed, but you must always be my friend.”~ Oscar Wilde, ‘The Picture of Dorian Gray’

Amsterdam, NY ~ May 1990: The maple trees in front of my childhood home are resplendent in their first flush of chartreuse color. Their tiny insignificant blooms, in the same gorgeous shade of light lime, litter the sidewalk and lawn.  It is the lusty month of May, at the dawn of the last decade of the millennium, and the great thorny hawthorne by my bedroom window is just beginning to let go of its white flower petals. Fluttering to the ground like snowflakes, they collect in the grass when their brief floating dance is done. As soon as they are finished, the gnarled old plum tree on the island in the middle of the street takes up the parade, opening its sweet blossoms, perfuming the air and attracting an abundance of bees. Everywhere around me spring is ripening into summer, with all of its requisite perfume and intoxicating freshness and life.

Bounding out of the house, I slide into the front seat of the family station wagon where my mother is waiting. She starts the car and suddenly the opening salvo of ‘Vogue’ comes over the speakers as I roll down the window.

STRIKE A POSE…

It’s the new Madonna song and I’m not quite sure I love it yet. It’s the way I always feel the first time I hear something new by Madonna. It’s how I know that eventually I will come to love it. The same thing happened with ‘Like A Prayer‘, and it will happen with ‘Frozen‘ and ‘Music‘ decades into the future. For now, we were listening to ‘Vogue’ on this balmy, sunny day in May. Whether it was the atmosphere, the music, or the proximity of summer, the moment held promise. I turned it up a notch and my mother looked annoyed, dismissively suggesting that it was just another song about sex. (She seemed to think that every single pop song was about sex.) The bass continued its pumping and pounding, and parental disapproval made me like it a little bit more.

“Why does she keep saying ‘go’?” she sniffed. I sighed.

“She’s saying ‘Vogue,’ Mom. Like the magazine,” I explained. “And it’s actually a dance that has nothing to do with sex.”

We drove off into the beautiful day, as flower petals fell from the trees above us, and the world opened up with all sorts of dizzying possibility. My fourteen-year-old self was just beginning to feel out of place, and if there was a pop-star misfit whose audacity I needed more than anything else it was Madonna.

Later that month, at the tail end of my freshman year of high school, I was getting a ride home from the guy who once took me on a date before I knew what a date was. He was actually the older cousin of a friend, but was becoming a friend in his own right, and I sensed something kindred about him without knowing exactly what it was. I got into his car as he shifted some items off the seat. It was hot from sitting out in the sun all day, and cluttered with movie posters and a tennis racquet in the back. I watched the other boys on the tennis court in front of us, hitting that neon yellow ball back and forth, their leg muscles straining and stretching, while lines of sweat ran down their backs and underarms, wetting their shirts and the top of their shorts. They heaved and grunted, while the track team whizzed by in their short-shorts waving like tiny flags about their thighs. The lusty month of May indeed.

As he started the car, there it was again: ‘Vogue’. He asked me if I liked it and I tried to play it cool and calm, but I couldn’t stop the excitement I felt. Whether it was the heat of the sun, the freedom from another day of school, or the suddenly-compelling thrill of being in an older guy’s car, I soaked it all in and let my fingers feel the fast-moving breeze outside the window. We sped away and I decided it was my new favorite song.

“An artist should create beautiful things, but should put nothing of his own life into them. We live in an age when men treat art as if it were meant to be a form of autobiography. We have lost the abstract sense of beauty.” ~ Oscar Wilde, ‘The Picture of Dorian Gray’

Despite how much I loved Madonna, it was still the relatively-early days of my obsession and I was somehow under the impression, mostly self-imposed and without reason, that I only liked certain songs and wouldn’t want to hear anything new from her. I was not yet the super-fan I was to quickly become. I’d loved ‘Material Girl‘ and ‘Dress You Up‘ and ‘Crazy For You’, but the first time I heard ‘Papa Don’t Preach‘ I wasn’t so sure. Then I grew to love it. The same thing happened with ‘Open Your Heart‘. When all my Catholic upbringing worked to scare me off the ‘Like A Prayer’ album, that glorious choir brought me back. When I was frightened by the whispered prayers at the onset of ‘Act of Contrition‘, the funkified groove of ‘Express Yourself‘ returned her to my good graces. So many times I’d been ready to walk away from Madonna ~ not out of any malice or ill-will, but simply because I doubted that someone could speak to me so often and in so many ways. I don’t know why I fought my fandom for so long.  

The song was an instant smash, and remains one of Madonna’s best-selling singles. It introduced the world to the gay underground dance craze of voguing, and despite any misgivings one may have about the cultural appropriation of such art, it had an incredible impact as far as bringing those Harlem balls into living rooms around the world. The lead-single and unlikely cornerstone of the ‘I’m Breathless’ album, it was powerful enough to stand on its own (and really had little to nothing to do with that concept album). I didn’t realize all the social signifiers, underlying messages and ideas that the song and video were prompting in me; I only knew that I was powerless to escape its call.

While I couldn’t pinpoint their origin, and had likely never even seen the Horst prints on which some of the video is indubitably based, I could sense beauty – even the faded echoes of recreated beauty – and it stirred something deep within me. The men in the video, all dancers from her Blond Ambition tour, intrigued me in a different manner. The male form and face, all brooding brows and intense eyes, the gaze that would haunt and hold me rapt forever after, was also on display here, and something told me their desire was not for Madonna, or any woman for that matter. A gaggle of gay men who embraced their femininity, while power-housing their way through the rigorous work-out that voguing could encompass ~ they were fierceness and fabulousness and inscrutably everything to me. ‘Vogue’ voiced its message on a thrilling primal level I had yet to understand, beckoning to join in the dance even if I wasn’t ready. Politely, I deferred.

STRIKE A POSE…

 

Soviet Union ~ July 1990: Summer had arrived. School was done. I was joining a People-to-People Student Exchange program that was on its way to the then-Soviet Union, doing our part in melting whatever lingered of the Cold War. We were forging a new world without understanding how the old one got us into such a mess, and were blithely unaware of the political shifts happening beneath our feet and setting the stage for what was to come. At the ripe age of fourteen, I didn’t much care about politics. It was my first time out of the country and away from home for so long, and after a day or two of trepidation, I embraced my freedom and my friends. The days passed too quickly, but we made our memories. Our American band of innocent teenagers roamed the country, learning as much from each other as we were from our Soviet counterparts. A young man by the name of Rat had shown us around earlier in the trip, but on this night we were nearing the end of our trip and left to our own devices. Seeking a diversion or another glimpse of Soviet life, our chaperones brought us to a discoteque. (Yes, it was really called a discoteque.)

In the Soviet Union everybody smoked, and they weren’t the smooth cool menthols that my Uncle Roberto favored. These were heavy, strong, incense-like cigarettes. The club in which we found ourselves was filled with their strange pungent smoke, while videos were projected onto a large wall at the far side of the room. Though it was July, music moved a little slower around the world in those days, which meant that the American hits of May were now parading before us. M.C. Hammer’s ‘Can’t Touch This’ and Sinead O’Connor’s ‘Nothing Compares to You’ played over the sound system. I sat with a few friends in a lit booth, feeling older and more confident than I’d ever felt before, but that wasn’t saying much.

The opening notes of ‘Vogue’ came on, and secretly I rejoiced. It still wasn’t cool for a guy to like Madonna, much less to like her to the extent that I did, and at the time I kept it mostly a secret. The bass kicked in and I did nothing but sit there while others took to the dance floor. I wanted so badly to join them, I wanted so much to let loose and show off my dance moves. I could do every single element of choreography with exact precision, but no one would ever see. Not then. Maybe not ever. I was simply too shy. Too many things held me back.

Instead, I sat still and stoic. Cool and aloof. If I could master such restraint when one of the greatest dance songs ever written was blaring in a country half a world away where nobody even knew me, I could master anything. And I did.

The memory fades like that acerbic cigarette smoke, wisps and tendrils and dissipating particles disappearing into thin air. All that remains is the music. The boy who once sat there listening is long gone.

LOOK AROUND!
EVERYWHERE YOU TURN THERE’S HEARTACHE
IT’S EVERYWHERE THAT YOU GO
{LOOK AROUND!}
YOU TRY EVERYTHING YOU CAN TO ESCAPE
THE PAIN OF LIFE THAT YOU KNOW…

“I can sympathize with everything, except suffering… I cannot sympathize with that. It is too ugly, too horrible, too distressing. There is something terribly morbid in the modern sympathy with pain. One should sympathize with the colour, the beauty, the joy of life. The less said about life’s sores the better.” ~ Oscar Wilde, ‘The Picture of Dorian Gray’

When we returned from Russia in the middle of that summer, I felt adrift without an anchor or a shore in sight. The friendships I had made felt miles away. I held onto the days and watched the hollyhocks rise into the sky, picking off Japanese beetles and dropping them into a jar of oil, then watching as mildew took the lower leaves in spite of it all. When fall arrived, I dreaded the start of school and the social situations that it would entail. Nervous about the whole thing, I focused on Madonna’s upcoming appearance at the MTV Video Awards, which at the time was the big newsmaker for musical acts. It was worthy of the hype and build-up.

She opened the show in a legendary ensemble, straight out of ‘Dangerous Liaisons’ in a Marie Antoinette get-up: a sky-high powdered wig, over-exaggerated hoop and bustle, and dangerously-draped decolletage. A hand-held fan was thrown about with practiced flair, and a few peeks at her lacy undercarriage brought hoots and hollers from the crowd. It was one of the greatest performances of her illustrious career~ pure lip-synced artifice for a song that placed value on momentary poses and aloof arrogance. I watched it with awe and reverence, wondering how to capture that magic, how to conjure that beautiful enchantment. The best I could do was find a frilly white feather and stick it into a hat for the upcoming Halloween parade. But my magic was growing within, and on those school mornings when I was on the verge of being sick about all that might come at me during the day, I listened to ‘Vogue’ and believed that I was better than all of them. Even if it wasn’t true.

WHEN ALL ELSE FAILS AND YOU LONG TO BE
SOMETHING BETTER THAN YOU ARE TODAY
I KNOW A PLACE WHERE YOU CAN GET AWAY
IT’S CALLED THE DANCE FLOOR, AND HERE’S WHAT IT’S FOR SO…

‘Vogue’ and the ensuing year or two of Madonna music (the ‘Immaculate Collection‘ and ‘Erotica‘ albums) somehow got me through the rest of high school, literally saving my life on several occasions and solidifying a love for Madonna that has since never waned. It was there at a pivotal time in my adolescence, and it arrived at the perfect moment, at a point where I may have needed it most. If you’re a young gay teenager in a sea of vicious, mundane, cruel and apathetic surroundings, you have to hold onto some fantasy in order to survive. I didn’t believe in myself then. Believing in oneself was a mantra that Madonna herself had espoused and preached to her fans for years. We pretended, we wanna-be’d, we dressed in rosaries and rubber bracelets all in the hope of finding that belief. I wasn’t there yet. I still did it all stealthily and secretly, perfecting those regal dance moves in my bedroom at night, for no one to see. I listened to the song and hoped it would buoy me as much as possible, but internally nothing was really changed. It was all on the outside, all superficial glamour and shallow, if sparkling, trappings.

COME ON, VOGUE!
LET YOUR BODY MOVE TO THE MUSIC
HEY HEY HEY, COME ON, VOGUE
LET YOUR BODY GO WITH THE FLOW
YOU KNOW YOU CAN DO IT.

“Soul and body, body and soul ~ how mysterious they were! There was animalism in the soul, and the body had its moments of spirituality. The senses could refine, and the intellect could degrade. Who could say where the fleshy impulse ceased, or the physical impulse began?” ~ Oscar Wilde, ‘The Picture of Dorian Gray’

New York City ~ Late 1990’s: We stood in a bamboo-backed club at the edge of Chelsea in some garage-like set-up that was the hottest spot of the moment. It was the late 90’s and people still talked to each other without a glowing phone in our hand or pocket. We had conversations then. We connected. And on this night, with a friend of a friend who was still quite a stranger to me, we shared a drink at a gay dance club. Madonna came on, and though ‘Vogue’ already sounded like a quaint oldie, it still had the power to sway, and we all moved to the music. We were in a quieter corner where we could almost see out to the river, and the stand of bamboo that served as a divider lent a tropical aspect to the otherwise cool night. I asked him what his first memory of ‘Vogue’ was and he smiled, dreamily closing his eyes. I knew he wasn’t a big Madonna fan, but some songs transcend musical taste and preferences, and the best Madonna music always makes the people come together.

“I was in a car in California,” he said, gradually opening his eyes and looking off into the distance, “driving down the highway with this insanely hot Latin guy in the passenger seat. This song came on and he started moving to it, doing incredible things with his hands and body…” here he paused, savoring the moment, “and it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.” He got lost in his memory again.

I smiled and said simply, “That’s awesome.”

The memory fades into the New York night. The lights of the city move out of focus. The abstract passing of time ticks off the years. ‘Vogue’ is there, whenever I need it, but other things come into my life, much of them in the form of Madonna’s own new music. ‘Bedtime Stories‘ and its essence of survival. ‘Evita‘ and its domineering elegance. ‘Ray of Light‘ and its elemental rebirth. I moved around a bit and had my heart broken. Life had its way with me, and it was harsh and lovely and sad and wonderful. I did my best to take part whenever I could. There was a certain confidence I was able to slowly build, a real and genuine confidence that up to that point had only been veneer and sparkling surface. If you play at something long enough, it becomes real. Somewhere in the time since ‘Vogue’ first came out, I had become an adult. Still, I leaned on that song.

ALL YOU NEED IS YOUR OWN IMAGINATION
SO USE IT THAT’S WHAT IT’S FOR
GO INSIDE FOR YOUR FINEST INSPIRATION
YOUR DREAMS WILL OPEN THE DOOR…

Sometimes, on certain occasions, it’s difficult for me to simply walk into a room where people are. Nerves and worries and the desire to be perfect are potent elements just waiting to conspire in a vicious circle of social anxiety. It’s always been that way for me. I wasn’t able to name it or see it for years, which made it all the more insidious and devastating. Yet it was so. I suppose no one knew because I confronted it in terror-stricken fashion by seeming to go in the opposite direction. I took my stage directions from Madonna, the consummate and supreme show girl. I made vanity an art form, because I hoped that if I could pretend that I believed in myself some of it might one day come true. If I looked and dressed and acted the part, I could be the guy that everyone watched and loved. Even so, crippling doubt and insecurity occasionally plagued me, particularly when large groups of people were about, such as at parties, where my public name was, for better and more often worse, made.

There are several ways to prepare for a party entrance when you’re an introverted extrovert, and I’ve tried all of them to varying degrees of success and effectiveness. For many years, particularly before throwing a big bash at our home, I’d go the meditation route: deliberately carving out fifteen or twenty minutes before the party started to reflect and calm the nerves. I’d close the bedroom door, put on some soothing music, lower the lights, and sit on the floor or the bed with my legs crossed in lotus fashion, vainly hoping to quiet my racing heart, to quell the nervous jitters that always came with seeing people, even in my own house. Then there was the opposite sort of preparation, when I’d try to pump myself up like Judy Garland before she walked onto the stage of the Palace. For that I usually watched ‘Auntie Mame’ and, yes, listened to Madonna. No song was more perfect for that sort of prep work than ‘Vogue’, and no entrance, up to this point, was more exciting than Madonna’s appearance at the start of her ‘Reinvention Tour’, which found ‘Vogue’ opening the proceedings in an amalgamation of all that it had become over the years.

“Even now I cannot help feeling that it is a mistake to think that the passion one feels in creation is ever really shown in the work one creates. Art is always more abstract than we fancy. Form and colour tells us of form and colour ~ that is all. It often seems to me that art conceals the artist far more completely than it ever reveals him.” ~ Oscar Wilde, ‘The Picture of Dorian Gray’

IT MAKES NO DIFFERENCE IF YOU’RE BLACK OR WHITE
IF YOU’RE A BOY OR A GIRL
IF THE MUSIC’S PUMPING IT WILL GIVE YOU NEW LIFE
YOU’RE A SUPERSTAR, YES THAT’S WHAT YOU ARE
YOU KNOW IT

‘Vogue’ had become an anthem for everyone who felt that they didn’t always belong. It was a belief that we all had some bit of fabulousness within us. It reminded me, at my most dire moments of self-doubt and self-destruction, to keep going. To put on a brave mask and forge ahead. To cock my head back, put my hands on my hips and announce to the world, “This is who I am.” I never really had that before this song. Most days I still don’t, and whenever I need an extra jolt I put this on. No matter where I am or what I’m doing, I’m reminded that I am fierce, I am fabulous, and fuck you if you don’t like it.

When you’re as blunt and honest as I’ve made the mistake of being at many of the wrong times, you get used to being a figure of notoriety in whatever social circles you frequent. Known as much for my saucy and cutting tongue as for my outlandish outfits, I carved an image for myself that was as off-putting and repellent as it was desperate and needy. In a remarkable way, my attitude of supreme aloofness and untouchable airs may have worked too well. It was an image designed to give the appearance of confidence ~ the ultimate act in a life of make-believe and pretend. If I carried myself with the haughty imperiousness of a celebrity it was from years of fantasy, but no one knew the difference. Pretentious and presentational, sassy and superficial ~ this is what ‘Vogue’ was all about. Gritty survival through glamorous elegance. Untouchable, unknowable, unforgettable. If you were concerned only with yourself, how could anyone else possibly hurt you? Vanity ~ cool, spiked, deadly and dismissive ~ played a necessary part in navigating a cruel world. When they beat you down, when they call you ‘faggot’ and ‘sissy’, when they disavow and disown you, the only thing left to do is strike a pose, ascend the throne and assume your rightful crown.

COME ON, VOGUE!
LET YOUR BODY MOVE TO THE MUSIC
HEY HEY HEY, COME ON, VOGUE
LET YOUR BODY GO WITH THE FLOW
YOU KNOW YOU CAN DO IT.

Super Bowl 2012:They carried her into the football stadium as if she were Cleopatra. Hidden behind enormous palm fronds, she sat like a Queen awaiting the big reveal. The icy opening of ‘Vogue’ sent a hush over the crowd; everyone wanted to see what she would do, even the fans at a Super Bowl half-time show. The pressure was on. She had admitted she was nervous. It was a big deal. Once those fronds parted, she stood up and commanded the entire stadium ~ hell, the entire world. Her golden headdress sat regally atop a nest of amber curls. A sparkling cape-let twirled behind her as she spun around on a still-moving platform carried by rows of muscular men. It was a spectacular entrance, and a lot was riding on this 12-minute production. Madonna was introducing the world to her new single ‘Give Me All Your Luvin‘ and setting up a new album, ‘MDNA’ – the best way to christen the whole thing was by a ‘Vogue’ intro. Reimagined with Egyptian hieroglyphics and a gladiatorial theme, the song indicated that Madonna came to slay, and she did. It was a set-piece more aligned with Broadway than anything that had ever been done at a Super Bowl before, and the theatrical backdrop of the whole thing entertained the most jaded watcher.

This new version of ‘Vogue’ gave a preview of the stunner she would offer during the ‘MDNA Tour’ in just a few months. Decades after it was written, the song still had the ability to inspire and astound, and a whole new crowd of people was joyously enthralled. There is a YouTube video of a father who had taken his son and friends to the Super Bowl, and in it you can hear him extol the greatness that is Madonna in a genuinely enthusiastic run-down of her performance. It’s a treat worth hearing, and a reminder that this woman retains the infectious exuberance and desire to thrill every time she steps into the spotlight. How does one reach that level of confidence and power? I don’t think most of us will ever know.

“What a blessing it is that there is one art left to us that is not imitative! Don’t stop. I want music tonight…” ~ Oscar Wilde, ‘The Picture of Dorian Gray’

Her Super Bowl appearance reminded me that the best of Madonna’s songs have always brought people together. I asked my friends what ‘Vogue’ brought to their minds ~ whether it was a memory or a feeling or a simple connotation that was personal to them. The responses were as varied as they were heart-warming. Ginny said it reminded her of fashion magazines and being unique. Maria said, “I remember the video and how it was just mesmerizing. Still is. Definitely remember mimicking the face framing with friends. Classic.” Spending time with friends was a common theme for this one. It brought back memories of riding to school in Catholic girl uniforms for JoAnn and Ali, with a few black rubber bracelets for good measure.

Sue claimed, “This isn’t anything you will want to use,” but she was wrong: “We were at the Syracuse fair and my daughters were in one of those video trucks singing and dancing to ‘Vogue’, thinking they were really as talented as Madonna. It was televised; I still have the video. All ages love Madonna.”

Straight men were equally-enamored of the video, for slightly differing reasons. “The only thing I really remember is watching it over and over again on MTV,” Joe recalls. “It was a little crazy.” By far one of my favorite reactions came from Skip, which should surprise no one. His memory was, “At one of my Dad’s firemen’s games. A bunch of kids were talking about it after a Friday night game. They said you could see naked boobies.” My brother’s only recollection was of the song playing in my room on school nights, with the door closed. (He knows every Madonna song written prior to 1994 from osmosis; favorites include ‘Cherish‘, ‘Dear Jessie‘ and ‘Where’s the Party?’ ~ no lie.)

After all these years, it was ‘Vogue’ that still brought people together. More memories, all cloaked in warmth and love. Kent remembered, “When it first came out I called the local radio station to request it so many times that I got yelled at by the DJ!!” Carla recalls watching it with her older sister: “I was 11 and thinking she was so glamorous and wanting to be like her. As kids we would act out the video and her dance aspect of it. Well, not Missy but me. It was very different than other videos and artists of that era.”

For fellow gay men, the song and video struck different nerves and memories. Brian thought back to the early 90’s: “I remember the young queens at the bottom of Christopher St. They’d line up their radios and wait for ‘Vogue’ to come on. The minute it did everyone fell into formation and worked the pier. It would go on all night! Also the idea of ball culture becoming so public and commercial was transgressive, disturbing and exciting all at once.”

Another Brian was similarly enthralled: “Studying the video, learning the basics, voguing in the car with my best friend in high school. Madonna was life! Love! Exuberance! To this day, someone will request ‘Vogue’ at a wedding and I will have no choice but to get up on the dance floor and strike a pose.”

Nick, of Kilted Bros fame, expounded with his usual eloquence: “I remember the day it premiered on MTV. They made a big deal about it. I went to a co-worker’s house and we were slowly getting stoned and drinking wine when they announced the video. I thought that the intoxicants had been working overtime because the video was unlike anything I had seen at that time. When it ended, you had just enough time to blink because they played it again moments later. I was enraptured.”

For some, ‘Vogue’ delved even deeper. “I was 13 and really interested in checking out guys for the first time,” LeeMichael recalled. “The video for ‘Vogue’ drove me wild because the guys I wanted to check out kept flashing by so fast I had to watch over and over again to see them!”

“It reminds me of the summer of 1990 when I first started fooling around with other guys,” Chad said. “I was 19. I had a radio show on a college station playing alternative music, but one day I slipped in ‘Vogue’… Reminds me of dancing at the club when it was just about the music and nothing else. No alcohol or drugs.”

The sexuality on covert and overt display, along with the gay overtones of the video, whether I realized them or not, became a big part of why this song resonated with so many.

BEAUTY’S WHERE YOU FIND IT
NOT JUST WHERE YOU BUMP AND GRIND IT
SOUL IS IN THE MUSICAL
THAT’S WHERE I FEEL SO BEAUTIFUL
MAGICAL
LIFE’S A BALL
SO GET UP ON THE DANCE FLOOR! 

“And, certainly, to him Life itself was the first, the greatest, of the arts, and for it all the other arts seemed to be but a preparation. Fashion, by which what is really fantastic becomes for a moment universal, and Dandyism, which, in its own way, is an attempt to assert the absolute modernity of beauty, had, of course, their fascination for him. His mode of dressing, and the particular styles that from time to time he affected, had their marked influence on the young exquisites of the Mayfair balls and Pall Mall club windows, who copied him in everything that he did, and tried to reproduce the accidental charm of his graceful, though to him only half-serious, fopperies.” ~ Oscar Wilde, ‘The Picture of Dorian Gray’

What part of ‘Vogue’ was it that called out to me so strongly when I was a gay boy? At the time I didn’t know most of the Hollywood stars that she referenced and I hadn’t seen ‘Paris is Burning’ to be aware of the origins of the dance. Even the predominantly-gay cadre of back-up dancers played only a minor part in piquing my interest in the song. There was something else at work, something that pulled me on a primal level, that spoke to my chemical make-up as a gay man.

What exactly constitutes gay culture? How does one characterize it? Is it socially taught and instilled, or is there something more basic and fundamental at work, something more acutely scientific? More specifically, what was it about Madonna and this song that drew me and so many others toward it? I didn’t know about Horst, I didn’t study classical art, I didn’t even know about the Harlem gay balls that birthed the Vogue dance. Yet something dragged me into it. Something attracted me so strongly and intensely that I had to do everything I could to become closer to beauty, to be one with the music, to make this song an anthem and personal rallying cry. Is a single pose enough to change one’s life?

BEAUTY’S WHERE YOU FIND IT.

Through every crippling moment of self-doubt, through every minute of heartache and despair, through the best of times and the worst of them, ‘Vogue’ would be my secret weapon against all that ailed me, the one song in my arsenal that could be counted on, more than most friends or family, to prop me up and make me believe in myself. It would keep my head up whenever I hesitated or worried, instilling some magical power that allowed me to move beyond my anxious social concerns and walk into a room with an unbreakable veneer of nonchalance, confidence and defiance.

In ‘Vogue’, Madonna listed the names of Hollywood legends, and in another century or so she will have just as lasting a legacy. The song and video were instantly timeless, a black-and-white Valentine to celebrity and stardom. It took an obscure gay dance trend and galvanized it. Equal parts past, present and future, it immediately became an iconic moment in Madonna’s enduring canon.  With a few well-chosen and deftly-executed poses one could channel eternal bravura.

GRETA GARBO, AND MONROE, DIETRICH AND DIMAGGIO
MARLON BRANDO, JIMMY DEAN, ON THE COVER OF A MAGAZINE
GRACE KELLY, HARLOW, JEAN, PICTURE OF A BEAUTY QUEEN
GENE KELLY, FRED ASTAIRE, GINGER ROGERS, DANCE ON AIR
THEY HAD STYLE, THEY HAD GRACE, RITA HAYWORTH GAVE GOOD FACE
LAUREN, KATHERINE, LANA TOO, BETTE DAVIS WE LOVE YOU
LADIES WITH AN ATTITUDE, FELLOWS THAT WERE IN THE MOOD
DON’T JUST STAND THERE, LET’S GET TO IT
STRIKE A POSE, THERE’S NOTHING TO IT
VOGUE.

In the ‘Truth or Dare’ documentary, ‘Vogue’ is given a rather serious intro with various members of the Blond Ambition Tour spouting psychoanalysis on Madonna and her place in the pop-culture world. Scenes of her alone in a hotel room highlight her isolation. She sips daintily at a steaming cup of tea, then rummages through a pile of documents on the desk. Making a business call, she holds her head in studied exasperation.

She wanders to the balcony, cracks open the door for a peep at the screaming fans down below, and blows them a quick kiss, but she remains shockingly alone. The eternal juxtaposition of popularity and solitude hints at a likelihood of self-destruction, yet Madonna has never gone that route ~ not in 1991, and not as of 2018. Maybe that’s what has appealed to me all these years. Throughout a career of ups and downs, where fame has fluctuated and success has ebbed and flowed, Madonna has never, at least publicly, toyed with the self-destruction that toppled so many pop stars. Such elegant resilience and steely strength, sheathed in sequins and show-biz pizzazz, is an anomaly these days, where stars burn impossibly bright yet fade within a few months. The monolithic grip that Madonna, Michael Jackson and Prince exerted in the 80’s and 90’s has been muted with the advent of the internet. There are still stars that look to command similar sustenance ~ Beyonce, Justin Timberlake, Rihanna, Lady Gaga ~ but we have yet to see how they will stack up thirty years into their respective careers. And Madonna is still going.

Perhaps, at this stage of the game, such endurance is its own appeal. Perhaps merely surviving all this time is an art form unto itself. Perhaps a pose struck enough times becomes more than a pose. In the middle of the ‘Truth or Dare’ performance, Madonna gives a toast at what appears to be some fancy dinner or cocktail hour. She is giving thanks, in a very Madonna way, to her dancers and tour support crew, dolled up in impossibly-glam form with a net sweater revealing signature black bra, and perfectly-coiffed curls reminiscent of Marilyn. Raising a glass, she concludes, “To love! L’amour!” Eyes to heaven and nose in the air, she toasts to her own fabulousness.

“And Beauty is a form of Genius ~ is higher, indeed, than Genius, as it needs no explanation. It is one of the great facts of the world, like sunlight, or spring-time, or the reflection in dark waters of that silver shell we call the moon. It cannot be questioned. It has its divine right of sovereignty. It makes princes of those who have it. You smile? Ah! When you have lost it you won’t smile… People say sometimes that beauty is only superficial. That may be so. But at least it is not so superficial as Thought its. To me, Beauty is the wonder of wonders. It is only shallow people who do not judge by appearances. The true mystery of the world is the visible, not the invisible…” ~ Oscar Wilde, ‘The Picture of Dorian Gray’

Loudonville, NY ~ Late winter/early spring 2018: Icy winds rush past the small window of the master bathroom. At the early hour, it is still dark. It’s harder to face the minutes before dawn when it’s winter. Looking into the mirror, at the lines around my eyes ~ earned from years of laughter and tears ~ and at the gray hair that is on the march to overtake the black, I pull the weathered bathrobe a little closer against my skin before throwing the whole thing off. I reach up to the stereo and press play. Today, I think, I need a little help. Back in the mirror, a forty-two-year-old man looks back at me through sleepy eyes.

What are you looking at?’ the commanding voice of Madonna in her youthful prime asks in fierce, menacing and imperious fashion. A record of her instrument at the height of its power, her voice is frozen in time, yet as present and pressing as it was in 1990.

I pull off my t-shirt, my hair a riot of wiry salts and winsome peppers.

Strike a pose!’ she demands.

I turn around and look with slight dismay at the middle-aged man in front of the mirror, sucking in my burgeoning stomach, squinting to make it better, or worse.

Strike a pose!’ she declares again, and I fix my posture before marching naked into the shower. The shower stream is hot. In the palm of my hand I pour the last few drops of a Mandarin Oriental Spa body wash, a splurge of their Quintessence fragrance as a reminder of a massage a few years ago.

When all else fails and you long to be something better than you are today,’ she sings, and slowly my body responds. The brain makes connections. The plans for the day coalesce. By the time I start drying off, I’m awake and alert.

Opening the cabinet of cologne, I toy between the options of Tom Ford and Frederic Malle, deciding on the latter this morning. The art of dressing oneself is lost in the rest of the rush to get ready for work, and soon I am slinging a Prada messenger bag over my shoulder and heading out the door.

OOH, YOU’VE GOT TO LET YOUR BODY MOVE TO THE MUSIC
OOH, YOU’VE GOT TO JUST LET YOUR BODY GO WITH THE FLOW
YOU’VE GOT TO JUST…
VOGUE.

Outside, the day has grown brighter. Hints of spring surge on the wind. Soon the chartreuse shades of another season shall greet us. The maple trees will drop their insignificant but bright little blooms upon the earth, the cherry trees will weep tears of the lightest pink, and the tilt of the world will lend a warmer sun to our days. All the splendor, all the beauty, all the precious charm…

“What an exquisite life you have had! You have drunk deeply of everything. You have crushed the grapes against your palate. Nothing has been hidden from you. And it has all been to you no more than the sound of music. It has not marred you. You are still the same… You are the type of what the age is searching for, and what it is afraid it has found. I am so glad that you have never done anything, never carved a statue, or painted a picture, or produced anything outside of yourself! Life has been your art. You have set yourself to music. Your days are your sonnets.” ~ Oscar Wilde, ‘The Picture of Dorian Gray’

SONG #142: ‘Vogue’ ~ Spring/Summer 1990 & forever after

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