Not all weekends spent in Boston are riotous fun-filled events – some are quieter and more somber – a sobering reminder at a time when people have lost loved ones. As I get older, that happens more and more, and at such times Boston becomes more of a place of refuge and comfort than an exciting destination. So it was that I found myself in town a few days ago, while Kira and her family were honoring their sister, and I made my way in solitude through my favorite haunts, finding solace in beauty, and calm amid the quiet.
A beautiful spell of fall weather – warm and sunny with just the slightest chill on the edge of an almost-non-existent breeze – made the day stunning. It was enough simply to walk around and take it all in. Whenever I’ve been a little lost about things, and puzzling over how such sadness walks among us, I have sought out places of comfort and beauty – such as the Boston Public Garden. It brings me back to many happy moments and acts as a balm upon a troubled heart. And one is never alone there, as evidenced by this overly-friendly squirrel whom we named Claude (since he clawed his way onto my knee).
The afternoon light played especially well with the pond, which reflected some of Boston’s iconic buildings on its surface, while mirroring the fiery fall foliage.
Meanwhile, along the streets, the blue sky formed a calming backdrop to a city that felt as subdued as I wanted it to feel. Somewhere people were surely celebrating the weekend, going about their business as if the world was back seven or eight years ago when so many things seemed so much simpler. I wasn’t there yet. I don’t know if I’ll ever be, or even if I would want to be.
Such heavy thoughts seemed out of sync with the beauty of the day, so I shuffled along and wound my way back toward the condo, back toward this home-away-from-home, to a bay window that brought the sunlight into the bedroom and formed a refuge against all that was scary in this beautiful outer world.
Canadian composer and performer Zoë Keating has pushed the possibilities of the sounds a string instrument can make, and the kind of musical masterpieces that can be produced with a wondrous alchemy of classical instrumentation and cutting-edge technological techniques. Visit her marvelous website here, and make special note of some upcoming performances scheduled for November. Her magical musical prowess earns her this Dazzler of the Day honor. (Bonus points for fearless hair magnificence.)
Hurrying toward Halloween, which arrives exactly one week from today, this recap is bracketed by these baby pumpkins, which have their own tales to tell – the growth of a pumpkin, no matter how small and adorable, is not without its harrowing moments. Who knows what summer stories they have which got them to this sad denouement? On with the weekly recap…
“Remember the love” ~ a simple but powerful mantra that has informed the life of David Bagnardi ~ is a way of living that Bagnardi espouses and shares on a daily basis. Through his joyous and ebullient drag queen persona Frieda Munchon, Bagnardi is a showgirl above all else – and performing has been the lifeblood that has kept him going. He recently stepped down from over a decade of hosting trivia at Rocks, and has plans to retire the beloved Frieda in spring of next year – so catch any and all of her appearances as they come up. Frieda has been one of my favorite drag queens (along with Hazel, Whiskey Sour, Amanda Love and Chi Chi Ray Colby way back in the day) and we’ve been watching her thrill Albany for the past two decades. There’s no one braver or more courageous than a drag queen, and Bagnardi exemplifies that, while spreading a message of love and acceptance. For all of the above, Bagnardi more than deserves this Dazzler of the Day crowning.
Certain fall days show off downtown Albany in quite a favorable light. I tend to take my lunch later when I’m in the office, to avoid the occasional crowds at the popular lunch spots and the bustle that sometimes overtakes downtown at the noon hour. It’s not as hectic as it was pre-COVID – maybe it will never be like that again – and I’m ok with the quieter days.
The view looks over a bit of the neighborhood, especially in winter once the leaves have gone. From the safe vantage point of our attic, lit with candles and fragrant with their spicy traces of cardamom, cinnamon, and orange peel, the view lended to the coziness – the world from a single vantage point. A section of foliage lit in fall flames against a blue sky and framed by the branches of an old pine tree, cradled as a view within a view.
Fall is about such layers, in what we wear, in the way the trees shake off their summer finery in stages, in the gradations of light from the window and the candles. The attic is quiet. It’s where I go to pause and think, to prepare for the coming winter and reconcile myself to the gray days on the way. There is a certain peace here, safely ensconced slightly above the lay of the land, protected and buoyed by its lofty nature. Meanwhile the outside world burns up before a bright blue sky…
Ornamental kales and cabbages are my favorite kind of cabbages and kales. (Though I’m coming around the common cooking cabbage when employed like this.) For fantastic fall color, these ornamental varieties offer some fabulous hues, accentuated by drops of rain from the previous evening – a lovely reminder of all the wonder of fall, and a recompense for the loss of summer. Fall still burns, fall still smolders.
Fall packs its own punch, casting its own spells – sometimes with color, sometimes with scents, sometimes with the lightest wisp of smoke on a breeze. In the case of fall and cabbage, it takes a lackluster and utilitarian green, and turns it into this spectacular visage. Vibrant and vivacious – power of the ‘V’.
It was the sunlight slanting through the fiery-hued lace-leaf maple tree that caught my eye and drew me outside. The air was cool as the sun began its disappearing act. I was first focused on the copper and red leaves of this little tree, which has steadily expanded its horizontal spread over the past twenty years. For all the heated shades, and the way the colors bled from one into another, there was a bright secret suddenly illuminated by the fading sunlight.
A few pairs of maple seeds – the helicopters of our youthful springs – hung behind the curtain of leaves. I recall them mostly from the spring, and the way they fell from the two big maples trees outside the front of my childhood home. You could also split them apart, then split the base open and use the sticky white sap to stick it on the tip of your nose – hence the other name we used for them – Pinocchios.
These dried and brown versions, lit by the sun and revealed only through a closer inspection, reminded me how spring is still around, and present in the decay of fall and winter. It’s just slumbering and waiting until the sun starts to linger again.
The switch happened on a recent afternoon – that moment when summer was no longer in the rear-view window, when we had moved too far beyond its warmth and light to pretend otherwise. I don’t know why I felt it so keenly, but there it was – incontrovertibly autumn – and no going back now.
The light had shifted, it slanted differently at the end of the day, which also came on quicker. The leaves in the trees were also betraying the change, with some branches already daring to go completely nude and naked. The next bout of wind and rain, no matter how insignificant, will pull the majority down, then we’ll really see it.
For now, with the sunny days we’d been lucky enough to have of late, it’s a very pretty point in the seasonal progression. The raw and dreary days are on the way though, and the trick will be in finding the comfort in that stark new vast expanse of beauty, as it’s a beauty that often proves elusive and difficult to see on first glance. The world is no longer interested in such gradations and subtlety anymore, and it’s all the more sadder for it.
Today is Andy’s birthday, and while he has explicitly stated he does not want a big deal made of it, he deserves a little shout-out on his special day. He is always here in myriad ways, informing every day and grounding it, adding an unexpected comment of biting wit or sly humor. After two decades, he still has the power to surprise and charm just when I think I’ve seen and heard it all.
As we get older, and the world grows sadder with each passing loss, I think we have learned to be kinder, and more appreciative of what we have. We’ve also, sometimes slowly, come to be more understanding of each other. Where once we may have striven to be independent and hold stubbornly on to who we were before we met, we now bend a little, compromise a bit, and make our way in the world as a team.
On this day, he’s earned a little relaxation and fun, and if he wants a quiet uneventful birthday, so shall he have it. (Of course, if you have his number and want to reach out, he would never be mad about it.)
Racing through the backroads of upstate New York on a rainy night, I can no longer tell the difference between my tears and the rain on the windshield. With visibility low even absent my crying, the salty water further muddles the obscured view I had. It feels only right since everything else in life feels so wrong. The car careens to the side of the road, rain still beating against the windshield, while the wipers do their best to stave off blindness. I do not mind in the least. Destruction is welcome here.
I am on a self-appointed date with death, driving on one last journey before I’d return home to end my life, while the remnants of some hurricane wreak their weakened havoc on inland New York. In a couple of days Madonna will release her ‘Erotica’ album – the album that formed the culmination and central-crisis of a career that has always defied the odds. So it was that as my heroine was bringing me along on a sexual journey, I was on a path toward self-annihilation. Sex and death were instantly and irrevocably intertwined at that moment, as if entering adolescence under the specter of AIDS hadn’t fucked enough of us burgeoning gay boys up. Determined to be in sole control over how it all ended, and despondent for any number of closeted reasons, I’d made the determination to end my life… immediately after I heard the new Madonna album.
The whole world knew it was coming. More than ‘Like A Virgin‘, more than its follow-up ‘True Blue‘ – even more than the ‘Like A Prayer‘ brouhaha – ‘Erotica’ was probably the most-hyped album of her career, coming as it did with the never-before-or-since-duplicated ‘Sex’ book. Madonna fans especially watched and waited with keen anticipation, and back then radio stations had early copies to play as they wished. The local station was playing it as I drove along on that rainy night – if I got to hear it all, there might not be anything left to wait for.
Maple leaves fluttered messily down as the wind and rain ripped them from their perches. The air was filled with debris and it felt like the whole world was bearing down on the car as I slowed and pulled off the road. Sitting there, I listened as the song ‘Rain’ came on, its calming harmonies and steady ticking momentarily quelling my tears.
Somehow, I survive the next week.
{Here I have to pause. That sentence contains more than you will ever know – more than I will truly remember – and leaving it there like that, or even less, is all I can muster.}
Somehow… I survive.
I don’t remember getting back on the road, or sneaking back into the house. I don’t even remember which Madonna song they ended on (they didn’t end up playing the whole album after all). I only know I made it back home, back into bed, back into the impossibly forlorn state that a teenage boy just barely 17 years old could uncomfortably inhabit. I couldn’t feel more out of place and alone – and somehow I understood that it was only the beginning. Maybe that’s why I wanted so badly to give up then and there. The totality of such a difficult journey presented itself in full. I didn’t know enough to take it one minute at a time, to focus on that present moment, to feel the joy, however hidden or obscure or absent. The only time I came close was when a Madonna song was playing.
But something kept me from going through with the planned execution process I’d marked in the book ‘Final Exit’ that week, and it was enough to see me through the night. And the next day. And the next. And when at last Tuesday, October 20th arrived, my friend Ann and her Mom drove me to Rotterdam Square Mall to pick up the ‘Erotica’ album and the ‘Sex’ book.
At that scary time in my life, my friends, and often their parents, indulged me in such nonsense. It was as if they could tell, sometimes more than I could tell at times, that I needed something to hang onto, to keep going, to not give it all up. If that came in the form of a new Madonna album, maybe it was enough to get me past the danger zone. The expanse of an entire life looming before a teenager is more daunting, taunting, and debilitating than most of us as adults ever seem to remember. But some do, and they held out a hand for me at key moments. By the time Ann and her Mom dropped me off at my house, half of the album had been played, and all of our laughter had helped.
Back home, in the safety of our unfurnished basement, beneath two brightly clinical bulbs of fluorescent light, I open up the ‘Sex’ book while the ‘Erotica’ single played in the background. This was Madonna’s grand project – the ultimate union of music and visuals – and as I unzipped the book from its mythical mylar encasement like some enormous condom, feeling the cold metallic covers in my hand, I was grateful for being alive in that month of October in the year 1992. I knew I almost wasn’t.
Linking sex with death isn’t the healthiest way of discovering your sexuality, but we don’t usually get to choose the way sex enters our lives, we just have to make the best of when it does. In this case, the detached artistic take on the subject was the safest way to get down and dirty in the age of AIDS, and exploring the topic with the vastly varying songs of the ‘Erotica’ album was a roller coaster that included life and death moments, such as on ‘In This Life’, a ballad dedicated to two friends Madonna had lost to AIDS.
Those two gay men, long gone by the time Madonna released ‘Erotica’, had taught her the power and importance of art and beauty, and their memories had stayed with her. The majesty and might of making a piece of art was suddenly understood as a way of survival, even in the face of death. The rest of the ‘Erotica album was soaked in further brilliance ~ the whirling escapism of its greatest single ‘Deeper and Deeper‘ or the cinematic masterpiece of ‘Bad Girl’ or the psychedelic melodrama of ‘Secret Garden‘ – it was all waiting there for further exploration. That kept me going for the next few weeks and months. With each new video and performance, I sat mesmerized and enthralled by what this pop icon goddess would do next, watching and waiting and finally finding something on which to grasp to make it through the rest of the wilderness.
Thirty years later, the scratch of a vinyl record still evokes that iconic opening of the ‘Erotica’ album, and then that insinuating bass-line brings it all crashing back – a baptism and rebirth and the very point ‘Where Life Begins’ – and the first furtive, fumbling motions to finding my own sexuality as I writhed through equal parts desire and destruction. Madonna led me down the rabbit’s hole, and I willingly followed, needing sexual fantasies to distract me from suicidal fantasies, and even if it was a profoundly fucked-up way of beating one set of demons, it worked and got me through that rough patch. To this day, I am grateful to Madonna for that, as silly as it sounds. You never know what little thing might serve such a pivotal role – in this case it was a woman breathily singing the word ‘erotic’.
There would be other attempts at self-destruction to ensue, even as I understood the stupidity of what I was doing, even as Madonna survived her own reckoning in the fall-out of the ‘Sex’ book and ‘Erotica’ album. She would help save me then too.
At that time, however, the only way to make it through some nights was by putting on a song like ‘Rain’, imagining what a future might look like, and letting Madonna lead me away from the sadness and loneliness I felt. Thirty years later, she still casts that spell.
While my favorite books remain ‘The God in Flight’ by Laura Argiri and ‘The Great Gatsby‘ by F. Scott Fitzgerald, the inspirational work that has most informed my creative output in projects and how I present my artistic work to the world is easily Madonna’s infamous ‘Sex’ tome. Flashy and trashy, cheeky and freaky, low-brow and big-wow – ‘Sex’ was salacious, sultry, seductive, silly, and scintillating in all the best ways.
The promotional roll-out was christened by a topless runway walk at a Jean Paul Gautier fashion show by the Mistress of Ceremonies herself, and as Madonna as Dita smiled a golden-tooth-accented smile she sent the entire world into salivating anticipation for a book. That the woman who had made the art of the music video into a vaunted exercise in cinematic glory would put forth a book of sexual fantasies was a novel idea in many ways, starting with its metallic covers and spiral binding, and ending with its ridiculous comic book coda. In-between the aluminum was Madonna in all states of undress and erotic scenarios. As she had done for all her career, she was playing a part, or a series of roles, in an artistic expression on a theme – that the theme was sex heightened the allure and controversy, and the way she executed this mass-seduction of the world’s attention was a master-class in provocation to get one’s point across. As we moved into the digital age, it would become increasingly difficult to make such an imprint and impression on such a grand scale, but the lesson had already been learned.
Accompanying the ‘Sex’ book was the ‘Erotica’ album – and while ‘Sex’ may have brought about all the bombast, it was ‘Erotica’ that made the sounds that mattered. A work of edgy brilliance that remains a provocative slice of 90’s vibes, the album was strangely maligned by some, and recognized by others as the genius stroke of art-pop that it was. In anticipation of tomorrow’s 30th anniversary of this extraordinary period in Madonna’s legendary career, and a blog post that is slightly more somber and serious than the topic at hand might otherwise demand, here’s the track-listing of the ‘Erotica’ album and the Madonna Timeline entries that have been written thus far.
A staunch and valiant advocate for the LGBTQ+ community, Mufseen Miah also knows how to make a scintillating podcast come to life, as evidenced by his ‘Queer Talk’ series which is currently in its third season. More importantly, he has been giving a face and voice to the Muslim LGBTQ+ community, navigating what can often be a difficult intersectional crux of identity with hopeful and engaging idealism. To be brave and to celebrate one’s authentic self is the primary component of the Dazzler of the Day, and Miah easily earns his first crowning. Visit his website here for a more comprehensive collection of his many accomplishments and projects.
