Gift Horse

Madonna isn't speaking to me again after I caused her horse to startle and she fell to the ground, breaking several bones. sigh. I'm beginning to worry that Madonna and I simply cannot be friends.

Not that I certainly have not tried, mind you. But when it comes to she-of-the-red-string-and-freaky-man-arms it's so up and down, up and down. One week I'm her Tzadik, the next week I'm a Shedim. I swear to Tetragrammaton her Shemitott is totes out of Nukva! Sometimes, I feel like Shekinah exiled in Malkuth by Melek. I try to follow the Path of Zadak and let her juggle her own Qliphah, but I get so Tohu and wonder if my Tikkun is begging for her Tzuddakah. Those are all Kaballah words for those not into spirituality and stuff, for your information.

I introduced Madonna to Kaballah, agin, for your deserved information. I had given up on paganism and needed a new religion of fulfill my empty life. My revelation happened suddenly. I was driving home from a two week retreat with the Radical Faeries in an upstate New York grotto. Still hallucinating on wild mushrooms, my Volkswagen Beetle began speaking to me (in German nonetheless!) via the glove compartment. The glove box door opened and shut and my dear little car berated me ruthlessly regarding my choices in life and why I chose to spend my spiritual youth in the woods, naked and stinking with grown men named Dandelion and Butternut. I openly wept and shrieked at the glove box, but still it barked Hitler's-tongue at me. I nearly drove into the ditch as I fumbled at the radio dial. Static was my only savior from the car's harsh words until Madonna's "Like a Virgin" blasted from my back speakers. Her words were prophetic to my pathetic, body-painted ears. All I remember is "I made it through the wilderness" and "Shiny and new".

I was a fool for forgetting that just a month prior she had dialed me on my unlisted number. She was indulging in yet another midnight cheesecake binge and begged me to come over and play crazy eights. I said, "absolutely not!". At the time I was a strict vegan.

Lacto and ovo were a dire no-no.

I meditated at my totem shrine while Madonna sobbed to me over the speaker phone while she shoveled down gooey clumps of Sara Lee. I remembered in my psychedelic car that Madonna planned to renounce Catholicism and desired a new religion. So upon my return from the pagan retreat, I immediately dialed her up and suggested we attend a seminar at the New York Gay and Lesbian Center called "Kaballaholics!". It was great fun, but Madonna soon began to obsess over it (like everything else) and suddenly Kaballah was a national trend.

I hadn't felt so shut out of an endeavor since 1985 when I taught Madonna how to vogue.
Yes, indeed! As you can surmise dear reader, I've known Madonna for close to ... several years. Only her dearest friends (those she bothers to acknowledge) mention that when she and I met in the gay clubs of Harlem, it was I who first showed little Madgey how to Vogue. Rent "Paris is Burning" for an abbreviated history (and some tragic trannies), but way back then "Vogue" was an underground happening, not the cherished fodder of masturbatory 80's fare on VH1. I had been quite a name in the Vouge circuit in the early 80's. My nickname at the time was the "Windmill Honkey" because I could furiously spin my arms while delivering a fierce stare down at any fool who dared try to out Vogue me.

When Madonna showed up on the scene, I was, of course, given the task of meeting with her. We were the only two dancers of Caucasian persuasion. She and I became fast friends. Ultimately, she promised me a spot as a featured, accompanying, back-up dancer in her Truth of Dare tour. Suffice it to say, her's was an empty promise. I didn't realize she was on tour until I took a midnight call from her on the road. She had eaten an entire cheesecake, again, and began sobbing about Warren. I tried to be a good friend and help her with her relationship problems, but I felt rebuffed regarding the tour and things were tense for several months. As a gesture of good will, she offered me a spot at the MTV Music Video Awards and, happily, I accepted. That's me two dancers from the right. That was one of the happiest nights of my life.

But now I'm on a plane returning to New York. Who knew a novelty, spring loaded snake-in-a-can could spook a horse so easily? It was a gift for her children. You'd think Madonna would be more appreciative. It was I, after all, who pulled her from beneath the beast's stomping hooves. Her injuries could have been much, much worse. Of course my name is not mentioned in any of her publicity. Madonna's gargoyle, Liz, refuses to take my calls. Miss Rosenberg is convinced I scared the horse just to get my name in the tabloids. How absurd!

Alas, sometimes the outside world calls us away from friendships. Perhaps I need to accept that regardless of the history, the road ahead is one with less of my material girlfriend, try as I might to please her. Such is the way with friendships, be it Madonna or ... some of your friends who are not Madonna.

Perhaps friendships are simply nothing more than a ride on a giant ferris wheel. Imagine a sunny day at the beach. Some of us are happily spinning up and around and down, tickled and laughing as gravity steals our stomachs. Some of us are patiently waiting in line while the amusement ride is paused in one place, unloading and reloading smiling, nervous passengers. Perhaps some of you even break in line, tsk tsk. We recognize other riders, our friends, as they roll pass, laughing. Sometimes we'll wave.

Sometimes we'll offer quiet acknowledgement. Sometimes we'll avert our eyes. Those friends who become closest, we'll invite into our carriage and share the fun of a day at the beach. High or low or quietly in between, we continue to get in line for more amusement until the sun sets and the world away from the beach beckons and the carnies grow darker, more menacing. Then with quiet reluctance, we'll place our paper tickets in our trousers and stroll away, a long shadow infront of us.