Music has always been a huge part of my life. As a gay boy growing up in a small town in the '80s, I turned to music as an escape, racing to the record store with my allowance money to whenever a new Culture Club album came out, counting down with Casey Kasem every Sunday morning or poring through the latest issue of
Rolling Stone,
16 or
Star Hits, reading the articles two and three times before carefully pulling out the posters to hang on my bedroom wall. Madonna, Boy George and Duran Duran transported me to exotic worlds where the rain was purple, everyone dated supermodels, had pet lions and got chased on yachts and in jungles by dangerous women in body paint, exposing me to a world much bigger than the boredom and isolation of the town I grew up in. Twenty (ahem!) years later, that music still resonates with me, sitting in my memory bank almost frozen in time.
Among the greatest was goddess, icon, advocate and all around genius Annie Lennox, whose pure and powerful voice is one of the most beautiful instruments I've ever heard. Defiant one moment and vulnerable the next, this otherworldly creature still helps me navigate the jagged terrain of my heart. And I'll be sure to thank her tomorrow, when I'll be one of ten people attending
Annie Lennox: Iconography at SiriusXM studios. That's right bitches! While you're stuck in meetings or answering more mind numbing phone calls from idiot coworkers, I'll be spending my lunch hour with one of the greatest female singers of my generation. I'll tell her you said hi, and maybe even get this photo signed.
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