Moderation, For A Never-Satisfied Soul
Lessons I learned from my Mama, maybe I'm just like...
In 1984, My Mama drove a hot red Camaro. Our favorite song, I remember so, so, fondly was “When Doves Cry”.
There is one particular part of the song that we would crank up and sing at the top of our lungs.
Prince would sing;
…Maybe I’m just like my mother …
and In Unison Mom and I would respond loudly …
She’s never satisfied!
Linda lived in that rare space between do-the-right-thing and just-don’t-get-caught-not. She embodied grace, elegance, and quiet rebellion—never showy, but always sure of herself.
“Moderation is the key,” she told me once, and in that moment—eye to eye, soul to soul—she handed me a lifeline. A secret handshake from one grown-up to another. No judgment. No lecture. Just presence. It was a blessing disguised as advice, and I’ve warn it like a tattoo ever since.
The year was 1999. Linda had come to visit, to see the Rockefeller tree, see some theater, but mostly to be with me. We were tight. New York was our playground.
At that time, I was deep in the heartbeat of New York’s nightclub scene, living my own Studio 54 fantasy—reincarnated in the glow of Twilo’s dancefloor. DJ Junior Vasquez spun the most perfect House Music from his “God is a DJ” elevated booth, occasionally flanked by the stars he was remixing; Madonna, Cher, even Dolly Parton herself one time. Dolly’s remix of Peace Train was practically Sunday morning sunrise gospel at one time. Us devotee’s measured our success with our bodies, our sweat, our glitter and our endurance on the dance floor.
I had become close with a very special Puerto Rican drag queen who went by the apt moniker, Noche—sharp, radiant, with the kindness of an evening saint. With her club soda with bitters in hand (a nod to her 10 years sober) She floated through the scene like a guardian angel with lashes. Her day persona, Jorge, worked at a top salon on the Upper East Side. One of his regulars happened to own Twilo. That made Noche VIP royalty—and she let me keep a list at the door, trusting my taste in people and the energy I curated on those weekend nights. I had a sense for who brought soul to the scene, not just style.
Things were good.
That Christmas, Twilo threw a private party for its loyal “VIP” regulars. My phone rang all day—“What time are you going?” “What are you wearing?” “Where’s the afterhours?”
I told them, “I’m sitting this one out.”
“Why?”
“My mom is visiting. I want to be with her.” I was clear.
There was a beat of silence—and then, an “Understood.” Everyone knew what she meant to me.
But then Mama surprised us both.
“Let’s go together,”
I froze.
Would this cross the line? Would she see a version of me she wasn’t ready for?
I’ve always walked two paths—a Gemini Rising gift (and curse!) Making my parents proud while carving out my own reflection in the mirror of Manhattan nights. But this felt… different. This was full integration. This was letting her in.
I said “Lets!” and that was it.
To my surprise, she was thrilled I agreed. Told me stories of dancing till dawn in her twenties. Of friends, music, and how “all that dancing will keep your waistline an attractive number.” No substances. No judgment. Just pure rhythm.
She treated the invitation like the Oscars. While I was at work, she took herself to Saks Fifth Avenue. When I called to check in, she was giddy. “I picked up some treasures for my big night out!”
When I got home, bags surrounded her like a halo. But the crown jewel was a pair of Gucci mules, with a dainty kitten heel —black with a gold dragon motif. Not made for dancing, no—but perfect for perching like a diva in the corner.
Which is exactly what she did.
That night, we walked into Twilo like this was NOT her first time. Noche treated her like visiting royalty, sat her at a VIP table, brought her a gentle Cape Cod cocktail, and doted on her like a debutante.
I floated around the club, introducing her to my tribe:
“Marcia, Marcia, Marcia” - my hometown sister- Marc - a superstar Dramatologist.
“Blakey, Blakey” - “La Venezia”, a bestie Mimi introduced me to while back in Orlando.
“Gucci Scott” - Scotty worked at Gucci by day in the IT department, he came with great Christmas presents and excellent beats year round.
“Fabulous Faraz” - truly a whirling dervish of magnitude on the Dance Floor. Head spinning in fact.
“Roaring Ryan” - a perfectly wide smiled handsome Leo
“Patti, the frisky Beaver” - A name we called her, she called herself and which Mama approved whole heartedly with!
“Thom the tamer” - Patti’s adoring partner who was always the one going around making sure everyone was “Good”
Mama remembered them all. Their names, their essence. For the rest of her life, she would ask about them by those very titles.
After a couple of hours, she summoned me over to her throne, off the dance floor with her Chanel Vamp Red Nails.
“Mama is tired,” she said gently.
I offered to leave with her. She waved me off with a grin:
“You stay. I’ll take a cab.”
Even she was impressed. A New Yorker, now. Noche escorted her out.
When I got home later that night, she was asleep—curled into the covers, peaceful and radiant.
Make no mistake, the next morning though, she was ready to play again. She wasn’t one to lounge around a cramped Hell’s Kitchen walk-up (bathtub in the kitchen, ceiling gently caving). She was not groomed on the ways of the hungover, as alcohol barely touched her lips and why would she waste a moment in Manhattan tending to the effects of my vices!
We put on our sneakers and crossed the street to The Galaxy Diner.
Over a California omelette, she looked at me and said:
“I feel good knowing your people love you. Even in the wildness, you’ve built a family. You’re going to be okay here”
She didn’t need to say more. Her eyes did the rest.
Today, while going through her closet, I found the shoes. The Gucci mules. And the bag she carried that night.
I held them like relics. Not because they were designer, but because they were a symbol—of the night she met me fully. And stayed.
She offered no sermon. Only a sentence:
Moderation is the key.
A whispered blessing. A shared truth. A mother’s way of saying—I see you. I trust you to find your way
.
She did not need to approve of every chapter to be proud of the whole story.
And that, I’ve come to realize, is love in its highest form.
