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Whtiney Houston "How Will I Know" (BALLERRRR) |
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Well, here's another notch on my lipstick case (quoth the poet Benatar) of my teenybopper ambitions. The editorial assistant at The Advocate asked me to contribute a piece on "what Madonna means to me" for an online essay collection. Uhhh, to reiterate: I wrote a piece on my Madonna obsession for The Advocate. That hysterical pansy squealing you hear is the sound of my dreams coming true.
I also outed myself as clinically bizarre. Hope you like.
"Madonna-blessed" by Louis Virtel
In 1999, my eighth-grade classmates in suburban Illinois waged a war: the Total Request Live one between the Backstreet Boys and Limp Bizkit. Carson Daly served as a sullen, surrogate Walter Cronkite. I, however, burned my draft card, bought The Immaculate Collection video anthology and retreated to a life in my basement of religious devotion – to a deity, a doyenne, a Midwest-born sorceress named Madonna.
I didn’t know I was gay; I just knew I was a born Ciccone disciple. During that summer, I watched and re-watched her famous black-and-white "Vogue" video like a hypnotized seminarian. The ultra-camp vid featured stark, cold imagery reminiscent of Marlene Dietrich photo shoots and meticulous, geometric body movements. I rehearsed each of Madonna’s poses in secret defiance, valuing each hand-fold and neck toss as stylized struts towards invincibility – or, at the very least, ownership of my sinewy, 13-year-old body and the empowerment to discover my place at the top of the world.
Madonna never felt like just a pop star. She was my deserving empress who called for her followers to dance, fight, and proclaim identity. Her superhuman appendages – cone bras, platinum tresses, monocles, cross necklaces, an unashamed navel – elevated her image to the stuff of mythology. Somehow she also represented something unmistakably human, a misfit Midwesterner who embodied the urgency and work ethic of a scrappy showman. Madonna represented a turning point in my life – the time when I decided my ambitions, observations, and passions could qualify me as a force, not just a person. I clench that electricity within me, always, and I dream of sharing it "en masse" in my writing.
Madonna’s my icon. She remains my millionaire Aphrodite, my blue-collar street fighter, and the most holy redeemer of a 13-year-old who learned that asserting your self-worth provides that elusive, beautiful gateway to immortality.
So, yep, Madonna is my meth. You didn't realize I was so full of bewildering secrets.
Xoxo,
Louis
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