Starf*cker: a Meme-oir (45 page)

I spent my youth and beyond thinking about Madonna. I bought every album and went to every tour after
The Virgin Tour
, which I missed because I’d never been to a concert and only the girls from my class were going to this one. By the time the
Who’s That Girl World Tour
rolled around, I was such a diehard I went to each vendor at the concert to be sure I had bought one of everything she had—sweatshirt, T-shirt, program, poster. When I ran out of things to buy, I haggled with one of the salesmen to sell me the unique gold sign, emblazoned with Madonna’s cat eyes, that said
Official Tour Merchandise
.

“Everybody wants that, but they re-use them at every venue,” he told me. “Why should I sell it to you?”

I held up the dozen or more objects I’d bought with cash earned wheeling hundreds of pounds of bras and panties and slacks and cardigans around the inner-city Fair Store. “Because I need
everything
.” He studied me for a second, then pocketed fifty dollars from me for the poster as if he were doing me a favor. He was, but the kind of favor a heroin dealer does you when he gives you free samples at first.

I worshiped her through high school and college, proud to be a person of intelligence who admired a so-called slut. Fighting with friends over Madonna schooled me on feminism, tolerance, gay-rights issues, AIDS, politics, and religion. Her mantra was unmissable to me even before she put out a song explicitly urging self-expression, accompanied by a video in which she licks milk out of a bowl…
her
milk,
her
bowl.

I bought up everything I could find that had anything to do with Madonna, a hobby that at times made me desperately wish I’d chosen someone easier, less omnipresent. Would it really have been so hard to worship Baltimora instead?

Then I intellectualized my fetish by memorializing it in a book, a book that actually caught her attention.

It’s a silly kind of goal in life, to meet Madonna—or would be, if it were my only one.

Exactly twenty-seven years to the month after I first heard Madonna’s voice, my dream to meet her finally materialized at, of all places, Macy’s in New York City. Admittedly, the desire to meet an idol is fraught with risk. A former recording star and current recording exec had cautioned me, during a visit to my teen-mag offices where he was escorting a boy band, about doing such a thing. A Warner Bros. artist himself back in the day, he hadn’t had positive experiences with Madonna. But I had actually been a member of his fan club in the early ‘90s because I thought he was cute and believed his debut album to be homosexuality set to music, and meeting
him
was lovely—so why not push it and meet Madonna, too?

I got myself invited to cover the red carpet—turns out it was pink—for Madonna and her daughter Lola’s Material Girl clothing-line celebration at Macy’s. I was a legit correspondent for a legit teen mag that had legit written about the line, so this was an organic occurrence.

I owe it all to Liz Rosenberg. Madonna’s publicist and public sense of humor, her protector and her friend; never simply her flack or her mouthpiece. Liz had Macy’s make room for me on its rather crowded carpet.

I was confirmed by Liz, then had to inquire with Macy’s to actually receive my tip sheet on the day of the event. Arriving at 35th St. and Broadway just after 4:00 p.m., I ran into a wall of still photographers being cautioned to line up further down the block or risk police action. I’d never covered a carpet that didn’t have spots mapped out for each attendee and this one—outdoors—looked to be going the Wild West route.

As we waited, the spots were filling up so we finally asked our handler if we shouldn’t be lining up, too. Turns out we should have lined up minutes earlier, so we were checked in again and told, “Okay, you guys, just squeeze in there.” The line was already completely packed, shoulder-to-shoulder, but we muscled our way in.

A stringer for
Star
who’d left her bag at the partition to “hold her spot” returned, barking at us that we had to get out of her way, end of story. When the guy next to her said, “No, this is my spot,” she turned on me: “Is it
this
guy then?” I just told her, “Look, we were told to squeeze in here. It’s not our fault. I’m not moving. Deal with it.” While I approve of being assertive in these situations, I disapprove of leaving your purse as a marker and then trying to bitch your way back into place.

This hatchet-faced harpy also spent lots of time trash-talking Madonna, a great example of the strange divides between people who care about celebrities, people who cover celebrities, and celebrities. It’s a three-lane street of NEED-HATE-NEED.

With television and tabloids to my right and the last few digital outlets and still photos to my left, my main concern was that the ‘bloids might actually do what they were threatening amongst themselves to do: ask her off-topic stuff about her stalker or about an alleged affair with Ashton Kutcher and scare her away from me.

Liz arrived and walked the entire line, seeing who was there and in what order. She politely told the ‘bloids they’d get three questions and to keep them to clothing-related topics. When she saw me, she kissed me and pinched my cheek. This made me relax and assume I’d get something from Madonna, even if that something wouldn’t be a five-minute, one-on-one
Access Hollywood
-style interview.

Big commotion when Madonna and Lola arrived, both from the assembled press (everything got tighter) and from the hundreds of fans across the street. “Madonna! Ma-DO-nna!” one young girl continually wailed.

As Madonna neared, her hair loose and carefully unkempt, all in black with silver jewelry so young it could have been taken off a Betsy Wetsy doll, I decided I liked her look. “She looks great” is the highest compliment for a famous woman in this world, as fucked as that is.

I was filming everything. A fan’s camera is an endlessly hungry butterfly net.

The final question from the ‘bloids was about her stalker, so Madonna almost zipped past me. But then I just asked her and Lola what inspires them the most about each other’s style and Madonna looked at me slyly from an angle. Lola urged her to go first and Madonna said everything looks good on her daughter so she’s jealous. Before Lola could reply, some complete idiot in our group asked Madonna, “Do you like my Madonna shirt?” I then asked if Lola would want to do a line for men/guys/boys. She said, “I think so...” and Madonna joked, “Material Boy?” Lola shut her down: “No, Mom, that’s not cool.”

It was a moment I’d waited for forever, one that was deliciously prolonged when we were all swept inside the store to watch Madonna speak about the line and then lord over a dance contest that ended with her son, Rocco, breakdancing.

My first visitation was one of those times when you wonder if you’ll be outgrowing this whole fandom thing by virtue of the fact that you now have proof that the object of your affection actually exists and is mortal.

As satisfying as it had been, the next encounter was exponentially more…
everything
.

I

met

Madonna.

The first week of December 2011, I received an e-mailed invitation to join a round-table interview of Madonna related to the release of her first directorial feature,
W.E.
, at the Waldorf-Astoria. As exciting as this was for me, it was also devastating...I was scheduled to be in Paris with José (we were still together) celebrating his fiftieth birthday, and would be landing in NYC several hours
after
the Madonna meet-up.

As I examined the invite, time went by so slowly. I e-mailed José, who had spent a month planning our sprint through Paris (our first trip there and a major splurge), and his first reaction was, “That’s annoying. Hope it’s not too devastating for you. Will they have another one?” (How did I almost end up with someone who thought for one second I was going to miss a chance to meet and speak with Madonna?)

When I got home, I told him there was no way I could sit back and miss this if there were any way to make it happen, including rearranging our trip. This didn’t sit well. “It’s just Madonna in a room,” he argued.

To which I replied, “Yes, José—it’s
Madonna in a room
.”

I reassured him that if I had to choose between José and Madonna, I would choose him...but that I would rather not have to make that choice.

When I contacted her for advice, Liz Rosenberg told me
she
would not skip Paris, but that she
would
if she were
me
.

With some frantic shuffling, it turned out that we could move our entire trip ahead by one full day with no fee from the hotel and a total charge of $300 to move the tickets. So for $300, we wound up with a much better trip (three full days in Paris instead of two full days and two half days) and I wound up able to experience
Madonna in a room
.

The day of the interview, I decided I’d wear a black jacket and shirt. Fashion-oblivious or not, I could hardly wear a T-shirt to meet Madonna. I worked part of the day then walked from Times Square over to the Waldorf. Surveying it felt like scoping out the scene of a crime I intended to commit...wasn’t someone going to stop me?

Not wanting surprises, I’d already sussed out that there would be two or three tables of six to eight people in separate rooms. Madonna and her film’s star Andrea Riseborough would do 15-minute visits. This meant it could be challenging to get a question in edgewise—film writers can be absolutely piggish at round tables.

Inside and up to the 18th-floor Sutton Room, I was the first to arrive by a heartbeat. Speaking of heartbeats, mine were a mile a minute when I entered the room and saw how tiny the table was. I’ve done countless round-table interviews, but never have I done one with such a huge star, nor at such a small table. I of course sat right next to where I imagined Madonna would have to sit, a big, comfy leather seat.

The next guy to arrive was a sexy Argentinean correspondent who wondered if I’d interviewed Madonna in the past. Assuming he meant while awake, I had to say no. More guys arrived and we began chatting. I’d never laid eyes on most of them, but we immediately began to chat quite openly about our good fortune. I had the impression that everyone there was a Madonna fan to some degree, ranging from, “Of course I like her—who doesn’t?” up to, “I should try to kill and eat her in order to become closer to her.” It also became apparent that this was “the gay male room”—out of the eleven people (not six to eight) who showed up, one was a straight man, one was a woman, and nine were more than passingly interested in what underwear Matt Bomer might be wearing at any given time.

Talking to keep from obsessing over the impending momentous encounter, we shared our thoughts on her then-fresh single “Gimme All Your Luvin’” (most didn’t L-U-V it), on
W.E.
(most said it was far better than they’d expected, if imperfect) and on...well, what other topics are there?

Stealthily, someone came in and removed the ostentatious comfy chair, replacing it with two regular chairs, one tilted down to the table right next to me. Turns out the extra was for a writer who’d been added, but we were able to get the extra person to sit in the middle instead of next to Madonna, who, as an institution, we agreed should be first-come, first-served.

At one point, we were told Madonna—who was quite late—wouldn’t be arriving for another thirty minutes, but that Andrea would be in soon.

Out of nowhere, we heard, “Here’s Madonna!” and she entered the room with Liz and some security, one of whom popped a water bottle for her and placed it at her seat. (She never touched it or, yes, I would now own it and would be sprinkling it on any wounds I acquired in order to hasten healing.) The Weinstein people cautioned us that there would be NO photos afterward, as if reading our minds

She wore a ‘40s-style deep navy-blue dress, black Chanel glovelets, and gobs of wrist and finger jewelry including a ring that would bring a tear to the eye of the most jaded one-percenter. Her hairstyle resembled “Sarah Jennings” (a character from the unconscionably overlooked 1993 Madonna starrer
Snake Eyes
a.k.a.
Dangerous Game
) meets Farrah Fawcett. She does not appear as tiny in person as so many say; her stilt-like heels might have something to do with that.

I stood—this is what one does for a lady, no? Everyone else joined me, which was just as well because it made the introduction phrase much more memorable, placing us all within her reach.

“Hi. Sorry I’m late,” Madonna told us. She wasn’t a black artist, as I’d thought in 1983, she just functions on black time.

Liz said, “Hi, everyone. This is Madonna! Matthew, you’ve met—everyone, if you could all introduce yourself, that would be great.”

Liz was referring to the Macy’s encounter (unless she’d forgotten that I truly had never met Madonna), but her comment threw me for a loop. Madonna shook my hand nonetheless and asked, “What’s your name?” like one might ask a well-groomed eleven-year-old or one’s biggest, gayest fan. Her voice is eternally youthful which is fine, because for me, Madonna will always be twenty-five and I will always be fifteen.

“I’m Matthew,” I said, which I know I said only because she repeated it.