Category Archives: General

13
December
2011
Tags: General, Madonna, Music
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The Madonna Timeline: Song #58 – ‘Buenos Aires’ – Holiday 1996

{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’s new Buenos Aires?
I’m new!
I wanna say I’m just a little stuck on you,
You’ll be on me too.

Not-so-secret confession: I don’t sing. Well. I don’t sing well. But I love to do it, when alone, usually in the car on a long-distance drive in some strange state where passers-by don’t stand a chance of recognizing me. (Once I was belting out a Norma Desmond aria on Western Ave. and my friend Paul was sitting in the car next to me laughing his ass off. I’ve never sung on Western Ave. since.) What does this have to do with the next iPod selection for the Madonna Timeline, ‘Buenos Aires’? Well, back in 1996, as I was preparing for the Royal Rainbow World Tour, I recorded myself singing this song, over and over, on a cassette tape, and then sending it out to a highly-select group of friends. It remains one of my most embarrassing moments, in a lifetime of embarrassing moments (mistaken for a clown at Ponderosa anyone?)

I get out here, Buenos Aires
Stand back!
You ought to know
What you’re gonna get in me
Just a little touch of star quality.

At the time I didn’t care – it was such a fun song, and I was so excited about Madonna in Evita that I would have done just about anything to express my joy. That’s the problem when I get really psyched about something – I want to share it with everyone, and I can’t contain the exuberance inside, so it ends up spilling out in all sorts of silly manners. Case in point: me singing ‘Buenos Aires’.

Fill me up with your heat, with your noise
With your dirt, overdo me!
Let me dance to your beat, make it loud
Let it hurt, run it through me!
Don’t hold back, you are certain to impress
Tell the driver this is where I’m staying.
Hello, Buenos Aires!
Get this, just look at me dressed up, somewhere to go
We’ll put on a show…

Putting on a show is all I wanted to do, so when I was visiting my friends, I made them all see Evita with me. I took troupes from Ithaca, Rochester, and Boston to take in the spectacle of Madonna as Eva Peron in a big-budget musical extravaganza, and for the most part people were politely impressed. Granted, it would never quite reach the excitement that I was experiencing, but most were good sports about it (especially Suzie, who took in a 2 AM showing of it in NYC AFTER seeing the musical Chicago – that’s a musical-soaked evening for anyone, and she was a trooper.)

Take me in at your flood, give me speed
Give me lights, set me humming
Shoot me up with your blood, wine me up
With your nights, watch me coming
All I want is a whole lot of excess
Tell the singer this is where I’m playing
Stand back, Buenos Aires
Because you oughta know what you’re gonna get in me
Just a little touch of star quality…

Fortunately, when all we need at this time of the year is a break from holiday madness, this song lends itself to silliness – and if you read the lyrics alone you may want to take Tim Rice to task for some of them. It’s one of the dancier-ditties from the Evita opus, with some Latin-inspired percussion and a driving beat. Personally, I love it, and it’s the moment when the movie truly starts to soar.

And if ever I go too far
It’s because of the things you are
Beautiful town, I love you
And if I need a moment’s rest
Give your lover the very best
Real eiderdown and silence.

At this point, Eva was just starting out on her own, making her way to a strange city, and doing whatever it took to get by. That sort of struggle was familiar to Madonna as well, and to anyone who got away from home and had to learn to be all right alone. It’s a time of desperation and desire, a drawn-out moment of being on-the-verge – of your future, of your life, of the person you were destined to become. For those who dare to try, who dare to dream, there is always the threat of extinction, but it is always worth the risk. We thrash ourselves about and put it all on display so you don’t have to.

You’re a tramp, you’re a treat
You will shine to the death, you are shoddy
But you’re flesh, you are meat
You shall have every breath in my body
Put me down for a lifetime of success
Give me credit, I’ll find ways of paying…

In the midst of holiday mayhem, sometimes you just need to get away from the insanity, escaping to a place of fantasy and make-believe, the idealized city-scape of Eva’s Buenos Aires for example, where all you need to conquer the world is a dance and a dream, and just a little touch of star quality.

Song #58 – ‘Buenos Aires’ – Holiday 1996
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12
December
2011
Tags: General, Holiday
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The Most Shocking Holiday Card of Them All

I never thought I’d see the day when I shared top-billing with a couple of babies, but everyone was right – it’s different when they’re related to you, and you look into their eyes and see a little bit of your childhood, a potent blast from the past, and a thrilling peek into the future. This was taken over the summer, on one of my first babysitting attempts. They sat in that Radio Flyer as I pulled them all around the backyard and the block, content to watch and ride in the summer sun.

The sweetness of blooming privet hedges floated in the air, and the breeze was light and cool. Ahead of us the summer sprawled onward, with its promise of carefree laziness and hazy laughter – the promise of a new pair of childhoods being borne out upon the same backyard where my brother and I used to play.

There was no other image I wanted to conjure or create that would so perfectly encapsulate the year, and what I held most dear, than this one. We’ll return to our regularly-scheduled raunchiness and debauchery in 2012. For now, let there be peace and wonder.

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08
December
2011
Tags: General
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A Suitcase of Scarves

Happiness is a suitcase filled with scarves of silk, in every imaginable color and design. When I was a little gay boy, one of the most magical places in my home was the dresser in my parents’ bedroom. In the center of it was a door fronted by an intricate grate of diamond-patterned metal mesh, backed by a tiny ruffled curtain.

The door opened to revealed three drawers – one of which housed my Mom’s collection of scarves. Never a flashy dresser, my Mom saved her daring color selections for her scarves, and in this drawer were the colorful accents that caught my young eye. It was where I first experimented with color combinations, laying the silk squares and rectangles out in varying patterns, seeing what pleased my vision, and what didn’t quite work.

Scented by lavender-hued circular tablets of some sort of pressed powder, it was a gauzy world of feminine mystique, a behind-the-scenes preparatory place of seduction and beauty. This is what women did to makes themselves pretty for men. I didn’t necessarily see that in what my Mom did for my Dad, but on some level I detected the power of beauty, the spell that we would try to cast upon others. Maybe – just maybe – that was the way to love.

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01
December
2011
Tags: General, Madonna, Music
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The Madonna Timeline: Song #57 – ‘Little Star’ ~ Spring 1998

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

Never forget who you are, Little Star
Never forget how to dream
Butterfly
God gave a present to me
Made of flesh and bones
My life, my soul
You make my spirit whole.

This is a non-traditional Madonna Timeline, going back to something I wrote ten years ago, and an event that happened twenty years ago. The song is ‘Little Star’, from 1998’s epochal ‘Ray of Light.’ The hazy fog of early Spring is trying to arrive, while the chill of Winter has not yet limped off. The musical beauty of the entire ‘Ray of Light’ album finds a highlight here, with its light, skittering beats, but soothing overall lullaby-ish feel. An ode to her newborn daughter Lourdes, it is a heartfelt gem of motherly love and a wistful blessing for her baby’s future.

Never forget who you are
Little star
Shining brighter than all the stars in the sky
Never forget how to dream
Butterfly
Never forget where you come from
From love

Yet as personal as Madonna’s songs can sometimes be, they speak on a universal level as well, and for me this will always remind me of the story I wrote for a now-defunct newspaper back in Amsterdam, NY. As I wrote it, I listened to this song on repeat, felt the thawing of a long upstate Winter, and the new breeze of Spring. My story has little to do with the song, but somehow the melody, the yearning, the wish for something good came to be a part of what I was writing. The love of a mother for her child also has resonance here, in heartbreaking ways.

You are a treasure to me
You are my star
You breathe new life
Into my broken heart…

It’s been over twenty years since the boy in the following story killed himself. There are songs that were popular then that take me instantly back to those dark days that followed – ‘Hard to Say Good-bye’, ‘Save the Best for Last’ – but it’s this one that has come to symbolize the healing powers of time, the way life continues to go on, no matter how devastating the moment. In some ways it’s like it never happened, and in others it’s like that was all that had ever happened.

The Boys of McNulty
(Written for The Sidewalks, Spring 2001)

We were never supposed to have been friends. By high school he was a popular jock and I was a dorky honors student. He played basketball while I played the oboe. We didn’t exactly travel in the same circles. In the end we both gave in a little, distancing ourselves from one another and pretending the past had never happened. But I can’t forget. It’s been almost ten years since this city lost Jeffrey Johnson, and still I can’t forget.

We were far from good friends during our waning years of high school. Though our lockers were close together, there couldn’t have been two more outwardly different guys. It didn’t start off that way. In the beginning we were equals, similar in many ways. We both went to R.J. McNulty Elementary School, we both lived in the Van Dyke area, and we were both lovingly brought up by two good parents. Jeff and I each had different best friends, but the boys in the honors class of McNulty were in many ways a brotherhood ~ bonding together against the icky, and more numerous, battalion of girls.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

In Mrs. Loomis’s second grade class we were awarded stickers for a good day of work. We amassed these treasures on a personal folder with our names printed neatly across the top, and at the end of the year the student with the most stickers would win a prize. We all had more or less the same number of stickers, though the subtle differences were discussed and debated among us.

One day my Mom innocently told me how Jeff’s Mom had once said that Jeff wished he had as many stickers as I did. Never one to let an opportunity like that go by, I confronted Jeff and he embarrassingly admitted it. I felt badly as soon as the words left my mouth, and his slightly crestfallen mood confirmed that I had unnecessarily inflicted pain to make myself feel better. But kids don’t realize this, and while outwardly I acted superior to him, inwardly I wondered at who the better person really was, and why it even mattered.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Each February his family threw him an elaborate birthday party. I begrudgingly attended these events, mostly on the stern advice from my parents, but I inevitably had a good time, always glad I had gone when all the other kids were talking about it the following day at school.

There was a lot of love in the Johnson house. Jeff’s parents and his brothers might have sometimes seemed at odds, but they had an easy way of getting past all disputes, talking and laughing through it all in a manner that differed from the quiet turbulence of my own home. His Mom organized the party games: Pin-the-Tail-on-the-Donkey, and a homemade party task that involved dropping a clothes-pin from the height of your waist into a thin-necked jar on the ground (this being the only one I had a chance of winning due to my height, or lack-there-of). These were innocent parties, where boys and girls were friendly and everyone seemed to get along with each other.

It was in gym class where Jeff was truly at his best. He was by far the tallest and most athletic out of all of us: the first to climb to the ceiling on those giant ropes, the kid who routinely hit home-runs during wiffle-ball, and the one who kicked the ball farthest during kickball. Once or twice a year Mr. Noto brought out a gigantic sphere ~ five feet across and covered in patches of ripped cloth. The class played various games with this ball, the culmination being a contest between two teams who fought to get the ball to the opposite side of the gym. We started in the middle, and groups of us tried to push and maneuver this impossibly immense thing across the lacquered floor.

One contest featured three boys against three boys or three girls against three girls, another pitted all the boys against all the girls (the girls usually won, but only because they outnumbered us two-to-one). In a novelty match-up, Mr. Noto himself challenged our greatest player, Jeff, who was almost up to the teacher’s height anyway. Still, it wasn’t quite a fair match, so he gave Jeff a little help: namely, me. (And little help I was.)
It was Jeff and I against the brawny teacher. Huffing and puffing and exerting all their energy, Jeff and the teacher battled it out while I fought not to step on my cardigan sweater. Needless to say, Jeff and I lost, but we had put forth a valiant effort, and that was what mattered.

A few months later we were taking part in the end-of-the-year physical education tests, a time when we journeyed outside to figure out how many push-ups and sit-ups we could do in a minute, how far we could throw a shot-put, and other essential tasks which would no doubt prepare us for a well-rounded life.

Apparently not content to humiliate us with the gigantic ball episode, Mr. Noto discreetly approached me as Jeff was preparing to throw the shot-put (that eight-pound ball of iron that people throw for… whatever reason). He said that he’d throw it past Jeff, and I was to run out as though it was my throw. Even I thought this was funny since Jeff was at least a foot taller than me and had muscles where I had bone. As he reached the length of his shot-put effort, my supposed throw flew past him by a few feet. His jaw dropped and he looked around incredulously, eyeing the shot-put, eyeing me, and eyeing how far it had out-distanced his throw. For once I had beaten Jeff Johnson outside of the classroom, if only for a moment, and when he finally figured out what we had done, his smile was grand.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

On one spring day I got a call from Jeff. School was out for the day (was it the week of Easter vacation?) and a group was playing Dungeons & Dragons at Bill’s house. It was Bill, Jeff, Chris, Joe, and Ben, I think ~ the boys from McNulty. I wasn’t really into the game, and would have much rather stayed at home watching soap operas, but they needed another player to make it even. Reluctantly, I agreed to come down.

I did not have the first clue as to what went on in a Dungeons & Dragons game, and I still don’t. I saw a bunch of weird dice, some crazy rule books, and told them to just tell me what to do and when to do it. The day was burning slowly along, my disinterest in the game somewhat mollified by the presence of friends and the suggestion that we go outside and act out a scene from the game. Someone (and I swear to God it wasn’t me) threw a bunch of stones to signal a battle or something, and one of these flying boulders hit Jeff right in the head. There was a moment of surprise on his face, just before the pain registered, followed by Jeff scrunching up his face, holding his head, and crying.

Like all tough boys our age, we avoided eye contact at first, embarrassed and ashamed in the presence of anything remotely akin to naked emotion, but to our credit we worked up the courage to see that Jeff was all right. We trudged back inside ~ perhaps our re-enactments were better left to our imaginations ~ but I wanted no more to do with Dungeons & Dragons. Jeff’s crying had spooked me. He was the strongest boy I knew. If he could crumble with the well-aimed toss of a stone, what would become of the rest of us? After allowing them to divide the rights to my character, I cited a pressing engagement and walked the few blocks to my home.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Such was the then-slow passing of our years at McNulty. There were battles and fights and disagreements, but we always managed to stick together. As we prepared for Middle School, we seemed to linger a little longer after class, and laugh a little more. When our time at McNulty came to a close, we shared a distinctive bond, but it was the elusive bond of childhood ~ a bond that would quickly disintegrate with the onslaught of adolescence.

Jeff and I shared a unique friendship ~ sometimes brotherly, sometimes adversarial, often competitive, occasionally poignant, always honest ~ and in some small but fundamental way we each had a hand in shaping and influencing the other’s life, as all childhood friends do.

I can still vividly recall our last meeting during that summer. School had just ended for the year and I hadn’t seen Jeff for a few days. He had been our paper boy for a while, and I was purposely avoiding him during the afternoon delivery hours. I can’t say why, except that I didn’t want to face him for some reason. On this day, he caught me by surprise.

He rode his bike up to our side-porch, his worn, gray newspaper bag slung heavily over his shoulder, and he sheepishly handed me an envelope. It was near the end of June ~ the end of our years at McNulty, the end of our innocent friendship, and the end of our Youth.

“My Mom wanted me to give this to you,” he said. I opened it as he sat on his bike on the other side of the gate. It was a picture of the five of us at a Gifted and Talented Competition, taken a few weeks prior. We had to get an egg through an obstacle course without breaking it. Dubbing ourselves the ‘New Yolkers’ (most decidedly NOT my idea), we were dressed alike in white T-shirts with a ‘NY’ Logo inside of an egg, drawn on with black marker. Of course, our egg broke within ten seconds of beginning the challenge, but I still had a fun time. After we lost so dismally, Jeff’s Mom rounded us up for the picture I now held in my hands. I remember his embarrassment at having his mother take the photo, and his red cheeks are still there, framing his forced smile. Such parent/child sentimental ways touched me ~ his Mom trying so valiantly to hold onto her youngest son, even as he inched and yearned to grow up.

I thanked him for the picture and felt a sudden sadness, despite the hot sun and the promise of a full summer ahead. I think I knew that we would never be the same again.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Upon entering Wilbur Lynch Middle School, our little group was splintered into five different factions. I was placed in the Honors program and I think Jeff was in Regents. Our lockers were close by, but we rarely spoke. We had one class together that year ~ our last one ever. It was Health 101 with Miss Siebe. Jeff sat behind me ~ Johnson following Ilagan in the abysmally tiresome alphabetically-ordered classroom configuration. We passed answers back and forth during tests and cracked jokes at our not-so-well-liked teacher. The next year we didn’t share any classes at all.

I don’t remember much about Jeff during our early high school years. Did he attend Bishop Scully for a while? I don’t recall. We registered each other’s presence peripherally, if at all. It wasn’t until our junior year, and a few days before his death, that we made any sort of meaningful contact, and to this day I’m not sure what it meant.

His locker was near mine again. The bell had rung for the next class to begin, and Jeff and I were straggling behind everyone else; the halls were quickly emptying of noise and students. Looking up at him as I picked out books from the bottom of my locker, I first noticed his cross ~ a silver one hanging on a black cord around his neck. I made note of it because it struck me as vaguely uncharacteristic for Jeff Johnson to wear anything remotely like jewelry. When I rose to my full height (and still looked up at him) I saw that he was staring at me strangely. It was the most we had looked at one another in years.

There was a slightly disturbed expression on his face, an unsettling look in his eyes and I wish so badly that I had asked if he was all right, instead of giving him a disgusted glance and demanding in a sarcastic, annoyed tone, “What?!” He simply shook his head slowly and awoke from his weird trance. It would be the last time I saw him, at least the last time that I remember.

A few days later my parents would knock on my door, sit down on the bed, and scare the hell out of me with their grave faces before saying that Jeff Johnson had shot himself. I managed a quiet “Oh…” and didn’t say anything more about it. The rain started shortly after that, and wouldn’t let up for days afterward. Amsterdam’s perfect All-American boy was gone forever, and we were all left wondering why.

For reasons of my own, I couldn’t stop myself from thinking, ‘That should have been me.’ Jeff had everything. He was attractive, smart, friendly, and well-loved by everyone. I often doubted that I possessed any of those traits. I wanted suddenly to go back and give him all of my stickers in second grade.

I did not attend his funeral. Almost everyone else in the high school did, but I simply couldn’t. That wasn’t the Jeff I knew, at least it wasn’t the Jeff I wanted to know. Or maybe it was, and I couldn’t bring myself to go because of that. I didn’t need to say good-bye ~ I had done that in the summer after sixth grade, when we both said farewell to the shared past and began walking different ways.

The sad truth is that if Jeff were alive today we probably would not be friends. I have trouble enough keeping in touch with people from last year, much less someone from high school. I mourn for the many other people who would have been lucky enough to have known him ~ but mostly I mourn for the boy who handed me the picture of our childhood, and somehow quietly understood.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

May the angels protect you
And sadness forget you
Little star
There’s no reason to weep
Lay your head down to sleep
Little star
May goodness surround you
My love I have found you
Little star
Shining bright…
Song #57: ‘Little Star’ – Spring 1998
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25
November
2011
Tags: General, Madonna, Music
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The Madonna Timeline: Song #56 ~ ‘Words’ – Winter 1993

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

The iPod has gone back to the early 90’s, when Madonna released the darkly-shaded ‘Erotica’ album. It was the perfect fit for an icy winter, and the somewhat icy heart I had at the time. I wasn’t always the best boyfriend. Oh, I tried, but in my younger years I was much more selfish (if you can imagine), much less concerned with any sort of altruistic love, and extremely exacting that I would be the one in charge. It is with a bit of embarrassment and shame that I admit one of my ex-girlfriends claimed that ‘Words’ was the perfect embodiment of the man I was when I was with her.

You think you’re so smart
You try to manipulate me
You try to humiliate with your words
You think you’re so chic
You write me beautiful letters
You think you’re so much better than me.

Now, I’ve honestly never thought of myself as better than anyone else (better-dressed perhaps, never wholly better), but that was the only line that didn’t ring true. There was manipulation, humiliation, and I could write a killer letter. Balk if you will, but I also don’t consider myself the most attractive guy, so I developed other talents, starting with my way with words. If my face and body didn’t entice (and more often than not they didn’t), or my fancy outfits failed to impress (as if!), I could still capture a heart with a clever turn of phrase. A little bit of laughter went a long way, and women were somehow better than men at seeing through to the heart of who I was, to the kindness and goodness of a soul even when the rest of the package paled in comparison. That didn’t bode well for the life of a gay man, but back then I was still forging my way with the ladies.

But your actions speak louder than words
And they’re only words, unless they’re true
Your actions speak louder than promises
You’re inclined to make, and inclined to break.
Words, they cut like a knife,
Cut into my life, I don’t want to hear your words
They always attack, please take them all back
If they’re yours, I don’t want anymore.

It carried over to the men I dated as well, and when you’re the one who finally gets hurt, you sometimes make up your mind to be the one who’s on the inflicting end from that point on. To be in control of your emotions, to act as if you could not care less – these were the desired states of existence.

You think you’re so shrewd
You try to bring me low
You try to gain control with your words.
But your actions speak louder than words
And they’re only words, unless they’re true
Your actions speak louder than promises
You’re inclined to make, and inclined to break.
Words, they cut like a knife,
Cut into my life, I don’t want to hear your words
They always attack, please take them all back
If they’re yours, I don’t want anymore.

While it’s a standard slice of 90’s dance-pop, ‘Words’ is a pretty strong song, unfortunately under-rated like much of the ‘Erotica’ album. Dark and gritty, with the residual heat of love-gone-awry, Madonna’s delivery reeks of disdain and regret, both with the object of her derision and herself. There is anger here, backed by strength and simultaneously under-laid by vulnerability – a rather nifty accomplishment for a piece of pop filler. Not to mention the fact that the bridge is just pure heaven:

Friends they tried to warn me about you
He has good manners, he’s so romantic
But he’ll only make you blue
How can I explain to them?
How will they know?
I’m in love with your words, your words…

Looking back on that time, on the almost-man I was becoming, I see my folly, and my cruelty. I hear the words and cries of those few women I’ve ever dated, and I know the ways I’ve hurt them. I would inflict similar pain and heartache upon some of the men in my life. Hurt is hurt, regardless of sex and gender, and I did deserve a come-uppance.

You think you’re so sly
I caught you at your game
You will not bring me shame with your words

There aren’t many blog posts where I openly admit to my failings. I have thousands of ‘friends’ on FaceBook and Twitter to regularly take the piss out of me; this is the sole space of the Internet where I can craft and create the image of the man I would most like to be. Yet there is room for honesty, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. Besides, we have to own up to our mistakes if we are to learn from them. If they never happened, we wouldn’t improve or evolve, and I am hell-bent on both. Even so, it’s tough thinking back to the jerk I could be, and even tougher when it was Madonna’s words being used against me.

But your actions speak louder than words
And they’re only words, unless they’re true
Your actions speak louder than promises
You’re inclined to make, and inclined to break.
Words, they cut like a knife,
Cut into my life, I don’t want to hear your words
They always attack, please take them all back
If they’re yours, I don’t want anymore.

The bottom line: guys can be dicks. And, technically speaking, I’m still just another guy. To hear Madonna aiming such accurate accusations at the man who has done her wrong had its own influence on me, even if it wasn’t until years later. God knows I’ve certainly had my dick moments. Some days, I still do.

Too much blinding light
Your touch, I’ve grown tired of your words…
A linguistic form that can meaningfully be spoken in isolation
Conversation, expression, a promise, a sigh, in short, a lie
A message from heaven, a signal from hell
I give you my word, I’ll never tell.
Language that is used in anger
Personal feelings signaling danger
A brief remark, an utterance, information
Don’t mince words, don’t be evasive
Speak your mind, be persuasive
A courage, a commitment, communication
Words.

Song #56: ‘Words’ – Winter 1992-1993

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24
November
2011
Tags: General
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On This Day of Thanks

Ten years ago today, Andy’s Mom passed away. I had only been with Andy for a little over a year, and had only met his Mom a few times (the most memorable being an infamous Christmas highball fiasco), but I knew how much he loved her. To this day, he bears the hurt and sorrow of that loss, as palpable and plain as the scar down his back, and I bear the helpless role of bystander and small consolation.

My Mom lost her mother a few years ago as well, and the loss seems more keen around this time of the year, which is when she would traditionally visit us when we were kids. Suzie’s Dad departed over twenty years ago, if we can even get our heads around that, and still the pain feels fresh and new whenever the holidays arrive. I still look for Gram in her little bedroom, or where she sat on the stairs when we opened Christmas gifts. I still find myself pulled to Suzie’s Victorian, where we raced up and down the staircase, peeking into the living room to see Dr. Ko actually roasting chestnuts on the fire – trying every American holiday tradition, seeking out every possible avenue.

On this day, I give thanks for my parents, and I realize how lucky I am to have them with us. I look back on those we have lost, remembering and honoring, and I attempt to accept. Because of them, I try to hold those still here a little bit closer.

I don’t always succeed.

Wishing you and your loved ones a very Happy Thanksgiving. ~ A.

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18
November
2011
Tags: General, Music
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My Holiday Theme Song

People say I’m the life of the party
Because I tell a joke or two
Although I might be laughing loud and hearty
Deep inside I’m blue
So take a good look at my face
You’ll see my smile looks out of place
If you look closer, it’s easy to trace
The tracks of my tears..

Since you left me if you see me with another girl
Seeming like I’m having fun
Although she may be cute
She’s just a substitute
Because you’re the permanent one..
So take a good look at my face
You’ll see my smile looks out of place
If you look closer, it’s easy to trace
The tracks of my tears..

Outside I’m masquerading
Inside my hope is fading
Just a clown oh yeah
Since you put me down
My smile is my make-up
I wear since my break-up with you.
So take a good look at my face
You’ll see my smile looks out of place
If you look closer, it’s easy to trace
The tracks of my tears…

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18
November
2011
Tags: General, Underwear
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When I Go Commando

 

It is entirely possible to inadvertently go commando. Let me explain by going over a bit of my daily routine. Every night, before I go to bed, I lay out whatever outfit I’m going to wear the next day. This saves time in the morning, and makes for better decisions. (Here’s a helpful hint going out to several of my co-workers: if you pick out your outfit in the light of the previous day, it saves so much heartache. For all of us. Especially those that have to look at you. I can’t tell you how many people apparently get dressed in the dark. Navy will never go with black. Ever. Personal opinion only.) But I digress…

When the morning comes, and I head into the bathroom for a shower, I bring in the outfit for the day and set it down, closing the door behind me and jumping into the shower. If I have forgotten to put a pair of underwear in the pile, I am always – always – too lazy to go across the hall and find a pair, so I simply go without. That’s how I end up going unintentionally commando now and then. Sometimes, it’s a nice change-up.

It’s the little thrills that matter.

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17
November
2011
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The Last Day of a Vacation

My friend Chris, who enjoys traveling as much as I do, likes to milk every last minute of a trip. If the plan is to return on Sunday, he’d rather spend the whole of the day in whatever place he happens to find himself, returning at the last possible moment to make it in for work the next day. I am the exact opposite – I prefer to leave early on the last morning of a vacation or trip away – the last day is always too sad and depressing for me to enjoy anything. I also like to have at least half a day of decompression time – when I can get back into the normal swing of everyday life, as dull and mundane as that may be. It’s part of the reason I returned from NYC last weekend on Saturday instead of Sunday. I wanted to keep that excellent trip – short and sweet as it was – in some small window of wonderment – a jewel-box of fleeting splendor, captured perfectly forever in a single night. And I knew I’d need a come-down period to process and face the drudgery of the nitty-gritty November of upstate New York.

Yet I’m starting to wonder if Chris may have a good idea. It makes sense – why not prolong the vacation for as long as possible? Why rush the inevitable? Why not make the return Monday the decompression period and let the co-workers deal with the beast?

I don’t know. I still think it would make me too sad to dwell on what I’d be leaving that day. I’ve never been good at good-byes, especially one drawn out through an entire day. But I did it in Las Vegas, and that was one of the best parts of the trip, so perhaps it may be time for a change in the way I do things. It’s never too late to improve.

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17
November
2011
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Luck of the Irish

 

Not sure how Fussy Little Blog will judge my choice of whiskey – this is actually one of my first forays into the amber-hued spirit (aside from a few questionably disastrous run-ins with far too many Manhattans in various Schenectady bars, not all of which I can remember – thank you Matt Y. & Maker’s Mark…)

 

It’s a simple bit of Jameson Irish Whiskey on the rocks (I have got to get one of those Japanese mechanisms that makes perfect spheres from rough blocks of ice. Spherical ice “globes” melt more slowly than traditional ice cubes given their smaller surface area in relation to their mass.) That’s unnecessary for my novice status, as I prefer a bit of dilution for the first go-round.

 

On some days, when the dusk has fallen too quickly, and the memory of summer is still raw, you need a tumbler of golden forgetfulness, something to warm the heart and calm the nerves.

It looks like it’s going to be a Whiskey Winter.

 

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16
November
2011
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Putting on the Sparkle

Some days it’s harder to go through the motions than others. The energy just to get out of bed has gone, the effort to trudge through another work day has dissipated, and the thought of putting on a fancy outfit for a night out is all but unthinkable. But you do it – we all do it – because what are the alternatives? Tom Ford once claimed that when he’s having a bad day he puts on a decent suit and tie and it perks him up. I like the idea of that.

Tomorrow is the annual Beaujolais Nouveau Wine Celebration Benefit for the AIDS Council of Northeastern New York, and it’s the day I traditionally get all gussied up in some outlandish outfit worthy of Mr. Blackwell’s List. This year, though my heart isn’t quite as into it, I have a fun combo planned, inspired by the simple design of a disco ball, and that’s all I’m going to say about it for now. I’ll put it on and hope it lifts the spirits a la Mr. Ford.

With this event, my holiday season is officially in full effect – whether I’m ready for it or not. Deck the Halls, Ring them Bells, and Fa-La-La-La-La—La-La-Dee-Da.

As Dame Maggie Smith uttered so drolly in Gosford Park, “Why must one do these things?”

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14
November
2011
Tags: General, Madonna, Music
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The Madonna Timeline: Song #55 ~ ‘Drowned World/Substitute for Love’ ~ March 1998

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

PART 1

A late-winter evening – sometime after midnight. I am scheduled to work at Structure the next morning, but now I sit, wide awake, thrilled and enthralled. A new Madonna album – the Madonna album of all albums, Ray of Light, has been released. The date is March 3, 1998. The opening track ~ ‘Drowned World/Substitute for Love’ ~ fills the room, downstairs neighbors be damned. I lie on the hardwood floor – solitary, isolated, alone – and, for perhaps the first time ever, all right with that. At least, as all right as I’ll ever be ~ and it may never be entirely all right.

It begins with an ambient sonic atmosphere ~ chilly and yet pulsing with life. It ushers in a new era for Madonna, and a new chapter for me. Then, clear as the purest crystal, the plaintive coo of the woman I have followed for all of my cognizant life.

I traded fame for love,
Without a second thought
It all became a silly game
Some things cannot be bought…

On the night at hand I stare up at the ceiling, wondering at the whole, well, wonder of it all. Having graduated from college, having traveled the world, and having ended up right where I began (working retail at a ridiculous salesperson job that I couldn’t help but love), I have no idea where to go or what to do, but at twenty-three years of age that’s exactly where I’m supposed to be. That doesn’t ease the restlessness, or the melancholy.

My heart has been broken ~ not in a very real sense, and not in a sense that anyone who’s been through any serious heart-break will honor or understand ~ but in my own way it’s been a painful few years. My best friend Suzie, when asked by her brother if I have a boyfriend, responded, “He’s had a lot of… bad boyfriends.” Which wasn’t entirely true, but not entirely untrue either. Count on Suzie for a telling sound-bite. As magnificently melodramatic as it is, it’s still not quite accurate.

I’d had a lot of men in my life who didn’t treat me well ~ not just lovers, but family and friends ~ but it was mostly because they didn’t want anything to do with me ~ not due to some personal antipathy they felt. If only I could inspire such a depth of feeling.

My heartache stemmed from an absolute apathy that many of the men I fancied ~ romantic and otherwise ~ felt, or profoundly didn’t feel, for me. There’s a very different sort of emotion that evolves from being ignored as opposed to being actively disliked. If there’s a heat to hatred, at least there’s that heat. The cruel chill of indifference is somehow more insidious, more ruinous, in the long run. It slowly decimates the soul, instead of instantly destroying and offering the bitter salvation of strength in re-building. It simply defeats, without a chance of redemption. That apathy would be the ultimate downfall of my life ~ as well as the unlikely savior. But I’m getting ahead of myself again. I did not know that then.

Got exactly what I asked for
Wanted it so badly
Running, rushing back for more
I suffered fools so gladly
And now
I find
I’ve changed my mind…

Back then I thought the key to happiness did not lie in my own hand. (I wasn’t quite ready, privately at least, to believe Madonna’s words of wisdom from 1994’s ‘Secret’). Publicly I pretended I was strong, that I could make it on my own, but deep down, in the secret inviolable insecurity of my heart, I had always believed that I needed someone else to validate my existence ~ a partner to make my life whole. Chalk it up to one too many Victorian novels, or Disney’s deluge of brainwashing happily-ever-afters. Whatever the reason, and whatever the politically-incorrect inclinations, I thought I needed a man, and wouldn’t be all right without one.

With no one to guide me, I made my own way, carving out my own set of rules designed to distance and safeguard against heartbreak, but they never worked. I could get the guy for a night or two, but that was it. Maybe they were all just looking for a quick one-off, or maybe there was something wrong with me. I never had the courage to ask. You can tell when you’re not loved ~ especially when you love the person. No matter how much you may desperately wish to see that love returned, in their eyes you can see when it isn’t.

The face of you
My substitute for love,
My substitute for love…

To hear Madonna questioning her own worth, to listen to her search for love, was emboldening. That the woman I had long admired for steely strength and ultimate control had her own doubts gave me a certain hope, and made me feel less alone, less unsure. She saw me through that bitter end of winter – and the brutal awakening of spring. There would be lonely nights, tear-stained pillows, and solitary walks with nary a concern for safety. I would throw and thrash myself across one-night-stands and men who only wanted their way with me. I hid the pain with drink, smoking clove cigarettes with throat-bleeding abandon. I tried to fill the void with distractions of every sort, vices that were their own slowly-suicidal path to the end, to oblivion. And through it all, the voice of the woman I adored carried me along.

Should I wait for you?
My substitute for love,
My substitute for love…

PART 2

In the messy sheets of sterile hotel rooms, I find myself looking out at cities strange and fantastical. Bodies of water ~ some rivers, some oceans, some lakes ~ stretch out from day to day. A different place, a different room, a different way of escape. Time passes, as do the men in my life. They shape me, they make me into someone else, then they too move on. The dense solitude of searching for companionship takes its toll, yet I do not feel lonely. Not yet.

I traveled round the world
Looking for a home
I found myself in crowded rooms
Feeling so alone…

There is occasionally kindness here, in the crook of an arm, even after the spurt of quick passion. Sometimes – most times – I don’t want to cuddle, and I don’t mind if they leave without a word. Once in a while I’d like them to stay, and whenever that is they never do. Somehow, I am still so young, still not quite removed from boyhood, even if my heart is worn.

I had so many lovers
Who settled for the thrill
Of basking in my spotlight
I never felt so happy…

In the darkness of these gatherings, the hurried push and pull of trying to find my way into another human being, the desperate clawing at skin, at hope, at connection ~ I search to find salvation. At the hands of cold, hard men, whose sweat and heat are only deception, whose smiles and twinkling eyes are but a mask, I cry out in rage or passion, and they never know the difference. What do they see when it slows, when face-to-face we look into each others’ eyes through the hazy salty film? I do sometimes cry, and never at an opportune moment, but most do not see. It’s better that way.

The face of you
My substitute for love
My substitute for love

Was there tenderness in those days before Andy? There was. It was just fleeting, abstract, and infuriatingly obtuse ~ impossible to rely upon, cagey to the very end. It lent everything such an air of defeat, of pointlessness. The struggle of it all seemed too much, too elusive, and the promise of happiness of, dare I even say it, love ~ proved futile.

When I did find it, for a few months, even a few years, the rapture felt fleeting, and always a bit false. I was never quite myself, lost in a gauzy world of the person I thought they wanted me to be, this soft-focus bundle of nerves and unsteadiness. It would never feel real to me. Even Andy ~ stalwart, safe, steady man he would prove to be, never quite felt real for years. Maybe I wanted too much. Maybe what I wanted did not even exist. Maybe my own whole existence was a fool’s mission. And so I wondered.

Should I wait for you?
My substitute for love
My substitute for love…

PART 3

It is not all sadness or solitary rumination, and there are glamorous moments of decadence and distraction to ease the emptiness. Parties to fill the nights, cocktails that overflow into the morning, and a wardrobe bustling with only the most fashionable accessories. To some it seemed a life of enchantment, a charmed existence where I could be made giddy at the purchase of a Prada bag or the tilt of a couture hat. Trendy sunglasses hid dark eyes, and streamlined suits compensated for slouchy hangovers. Traveling to distant cities and following friends around the world became a mainstay ~ it was easier to call a suitcase a home, to consider my friends a family, and to distract myself with everything that didn’t matter.

There were so many substitutes for love. And, yes, even love ~ if it makes any sense, became a substitute for love. For that pure self-love ~ that ‘greatest love of all’ that I would forever be lacking, and forever making up for in any other way. That sense of self-worth and self-respect was never instilled in me ~ and I would never be good enough. If I could get someone else to love me, maybe that would be the way to self-acceptance. It had to be. There was no choice. All other possibilities had been exhausted.

I recognized then in Madonna, as I do now, an incredible insecurity ~ I share with her that need to be loved and adored unconditionally, with all the conditions we place upon it and none other. It will always be unfair, and we will always be just a little bit unhappy because of it. But we try harder too.

So we search to fill that void in manners both bizarre and inappropriate, over the top and attention-getting. It’s not attention we’re after though – it never was and it never will be. If that were the end to our means we would have been there right after we started, lo those many years of crazy costume antics ages ago. The attention is the aftermath of our destruction, the result of our romantic quests, because in the end that’s what it’s always been about, hasn’t it?

The best part of the song is at hand. It is the key to so much ~ the litany of shared experiences, echoing loneliness ~ the glory of musical abandon and emotional release all at once. Everything hinges on this. It is the summation of a lifetime searching for Love, and the dim, terrifying realization that it may never be enough.

No famous faces, far-off places,
Trinkets I can buy,
No handsome stranger, heady danger
Drug that I can try
No ferris wheel, no heart to steal
No laughter in the dark
No one-night stand, no far-off land
No fire that I can spark…

We speed to the bitter climax, music building all the while, and the guitars crash into oblivion as our desires collide at that tricky triangle of want and hope and need. The nights blur into one night, filled with grays and shadows and whispered kisses of abandoned dreams. An empty pair of underwear lies crumpled by the door. A trail of two socks leads to the bed. A young man bereft of his usual armor of garments thrashes restlessly among the sheets.

The pillow is damp.

The memory is torrid.

The man is alone.

PART 4

It is the song I play whenever I feel lost or upset, and while that may make it a strange choice for my favorite, that’s the way it’s always been. My heart and my head find a necessary solace in the acknowledgement of sadness ~ there is something more meaningful to that than the giddy dance-break of joy. As the woman at hand once proclaimed and questioned, “What’s the point of sitting down and notating your happiness?”

It changes through the years and seasons too, lending itself to multiple meanings, endless readings, shifting into a symbol of universal significance ~ because in the end it’s always about love, no matter how highly singular or specific.

It is there for the first chill of fall, when I meet the first man I will ever live with, and there when I realize it’s over, on a cruel winter’s night, as crystalline snowflakes flutter silently upon the Windy City. It is there in that healing spring of Boston, and every healing spring since then, when the cherry blossoms dangle like little ballerinas, floating overhead in the night wind. And it is there in the subsequent summers, the time of the year in which I met Andy.

Sitting in the parking lot of a supermarket, in the high, dull heat of one of those summers, on an all-too-quick lunch break and wanting nothing more than to drown my boredom, I listen to Madonna’s voice, and the song opens up again ~ as one of deliberate rumination on the distractions of life, and the crutches and self-medicating ways we choose to relieve our pain. For me, there was no greater discomfort than boredom or stagnation.

I wondered if I could live in upstate New York and not get restless, provided there were outlets ~ of Boston, of New York, of London ~ even as they were growing further and further away, if not falling apart altogether. I wondered if I could live with someone who didn’t want to do the things that I wanted to do, whether we could compromise and make it work because he was a good man and I might never find that again ~ but was that really the way to live? I thought of the things we give up for love, for recognition, for the simple act of doing something that mattered ~ and the trade-off suddenly seemed blurry and undefined. The darkening swirl of a world drowning.

I was both touched and repulsed by the inability of him to read my mind, all the while knowing how unfair it was of me. There was a greater tenderness and resonance to the love that I had for him, and at the same time I wondered if I was willing to give it all up for one moment of heartfelt understanding. And what exactly did I lack that he needed? Those doubts were getting more numerous, more challenging. I knew I was at fault too.

Then the love of a life together, of partnership and marriage, and the subtle maneuverings required for both, impresses itself upon my mind – such glad and grateful relief – growing more resonant as the years pass, forging a deeper bond than any flight or fancy could ever create, and I am made happy again, as happy as I may ever be. Does anyone ever really know happiness until it has passed?

The song swells with the heart, and she sings the sadness complete. It is an exquisite sadness. A fiery and quick slash of rage, a burning tear ~ the salty, searing droplet of love, of life ~ and an ache so lasting and raw it throbs under the burden of the ages.

…And now I find I’ve changed my mind…

PART 5

Tonight, I write this as I sit alone in the condo in Boston, where I sat the first time I heard this song over thirteen years ago. I cannot tell you how far I’ve come since 1998 ~ or if I’ve come very far at all ~ the same uneasiness with myself, the same insecurity and doubt, pervades my existence, and I have to wonder if this has all been a substitute for love, every last bit of it. It kills me to question that, but it would kill me more not to say it. That’s where we are, that’s where I am. But in the song, as in most of Madonna’s best music, there is some brief bit of solace, of aural understanding and empathy. She’s been there – she knows, and she continues to go on.

The journey of finding love, especially that ever-elusive self-love (so much more than ego and self-confidence, and so often mistaken as such) is proving a life-long one, and even when the heart is full, I want for more. There are distractions enough in this world, but all the trinkets and fancy bags and new shoes will never fill the void ~ there is no substitute for it.

Some people are born with what I would call a ‘happy gene’. They are, for the most part, kind and good people who do what they’re supposed to do with their lives, and are made happy and content from it. This is not to say they don’t suffer ~ and often suffer much more tragic hardships than the rest of us, but their ‘happy gene’ remains intact ~ they carry on, they don’t let it destroy them. The one thing I was born without, and the one thing I have almost killed myself to create, was this happy gene. But you can’t make it. You can’t will it into being, or learn how to access it. You’re either born with it or you’re not ~ and I, like Madonna I suspect, was not. It doesn’t mean we don’t feel happiness ~ we just feel other things a lot more, even if we never let on.

The early darkness of Daylight Savings Time has descended upon Boston. In the distance, the John Hancock building sparkles high in the sky, while the neighboring hotels blink with the lights and drawn shades of strangers going about their transitory time in the city. The world goes on as it always has. It feels as if the last thirteen years have sped by outside the window while inside I remained unchanged ~ yet in those thirteen years how much has happened, how much life has been spent and mourned and celebrated.

This moment of solitude does not have a neat or happy ending, and the resolution of the song is one of indeterminate proclamation, not unlike this last post on my favorite Madonna song.

The face of you, the faith of love, the way of the heart.

This is what I have learned.

This is where I have been.

This is where I must go.

This is my religion.

Song #55: ‘Drowned World/Substitute for Love’ ~ March 1998

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02
November
2011
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Musings on the Mall

Random thoughts on a recent visit to Crossgates Mall (which is quickly becoming the most depressing place in the world):

Abercrombie & Fitch and Victoria’s Secret are apparently in the midst of a fragrance war, and everybody is losing.

October 30 is way too soon to have Christmas decorations going up, much less to have Christmas music playing.

A sneaky skin cream salesperson trapped me with her “Do you have a special lady in your life?” line. I thought I was smugly safe when I answered, “I’m married to a man” but she didn’t miss a beat, asking “Don’t you have a mother or sister who you would consider a special lady?” Damn.

After dismissing skin cream woman a second time, her co-hort examined my hand and asked what I used for my dry skin. Not the best way to gain my favor, and if I’m holding two heavy shopping bags in each hand I really don’t see how I’m going to sample that cream you’re carrying over to me in a spoon.

If I make eye contact with you as you’re about to approach me with a survey, and you see me cross over to the other side to avoid you, that’s my polite way of declining your request. If you cross over to talk to me, I will be rude.

Shopping is not a social event for me. I enjoy doing it by myself. I will say hello and give a quick wave, but please don’t engage. If you insist, I will be rude.

If you’re the fifth person to come up to me asking if I need help in a store, and I see a line at the register, I will be fucking rude.

The bottom line is that now that the holiday shopping season is upon us, I’m just going to be rude. Don’t talk to me until the January sales begin.

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21
October
2011
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Smelly Nelly

Dear Gym –

We need to talk. I know we’ve never been on the best terms. Hell, I fucking hated you and found you completely irrelevant for years. But now that I’ve softened (in the stomach), and come around to your usefulness, I was hoping we could start over and foster a kinder, mutually-respectful relationship – one based on honesty and truthfulness, no matter how ugly in your unforgivably-bright fluorescent light. To that end, I need to tell you something, and I don’t want you to get mad or fly off the elliptical handle.

You stink. You really do. Even at the stinkiest I’ve ever been in my life (following four days of not-showering and sweating out a severe case of mono in the infirmary circa 1994) I did not smell as bad as you sometimes do. Maybe you need more ventilation, or air freshener, or a regular dose of Febreze pumping through your iron-pumping denizens – whatever is happening now is not working. Please do something about it, or our new relationship just isn’t going to last.

Sincerely,
My Agitated Olfactory Senses

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24
August
2011
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My Best Birthday Friend

Most of the kids with whom I grew up had big birthday parties, with all their friends and neighbors – at least that’s what it seemed like to me. I dreaded those things. I wanted to keep my Saturdays to myself, explore the backyard on my own, and not be saddled with small social talk and watching other people open presents that weren’t for (or even from) me.

 

So for my birthdays, I always kept it small. Aside from not wanting to be the center of attention (you can disbelieve it all you want, it doesn’t make it untrue) I also didn’t want a bunch of people who weren’t particularly close friends of mine to be with me on my special day. Most of my birthdays were destination events anyway (try getting 50 kids to behave at Beaversprite- not gonna happen) so a smaller number was best for everyone. About the only one I really wanted to be there was Suzie anyway – and had it just been us I would have been more than happy (and I think there may have been a year or two when it really was just us and our Moms).

The above photo was taken at my Burger King party… not quite one of the destination b-days I was talking about (that would be Chuck E. Cheese or Great Escape, thank you) but fine enough fun for a kid who only wanted a crown. (Yes, that’s Suzie to the right of me, in the fancy striped ensemble.)

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