Life Lesson #26: Come on, vogue! Let your body move to the music!
Sidenote: I honestly did not not write out of laziness. I’ve had no electricity since Tuesday when Armageddon hit Westchester. The power keeps coming in and going out. At this exact moment in time, it looks like we’re about to get slammed yet again. So I apologize on behalf of Mother Nature, who seems to have one hell of a stick jammed up her ass this week.
If I was 48 years old and could rock a onesie, you bet your ass I would. And I’d wear it all over town. Just like Madonna (as in the real Material Girl).
I spoke to my godmother on Tuesday morning, just to say hello and see how she was doing. With my early-but-temporary retirement still in full swing, I have time to make such phone calls. After a bit, she asked me what I was doing Wednesday evening. Of course, A Whole Lot of Nothing filled my agenda, although I didn’t exactly want to blurt that out.
“If I can get you tickets to see Madonna, would you be able to go?” she asked (My godmother is the right-hand woman for the dude who runs Time Warner or something like that. Clearly, perks are part of her every day business).
“Um, hell yea! Could you really do that?” I replied.
“I should be able to get two for you without a problem. They’ll be good ones. I’ll give you a call back in a few hours with any news.”
By the end of her workday, I had two tickets in one of the best sections of Madison Square Garden, along with laminated hospitality passes and a set of directions for a secret entrance used only by those people deemed important enough to gain access to. I totally am not one of those people, but I believe that The Gods of Pity look down upon us little people and throw a bone every once in awhile.
I asked my mom if she wanted to go since she’s usually up for such adventures. And because we had a particularly good time at our last concert outing at the Garden: Cher, with a surprise appearance by my personal favorite, Cindy Lauper (I was her for Halloween four years in a row as a child. Mild obsession only touches the surface.). We went with my best friend from college, drank way too much champagne and laughed at the only gay men we’ve ever seen who had absolutely no clue how to dance.
I decided this Golden Ticket would be bestowed upon the soon-to-be-twenty-five birthday girl: Westchester.
I gave her a buzz while she was at the Yankees game.
“Hey, you doing anything tomorrow night?” I yelled into the receiver.
“No. Why?” she responded.
“Because I got Madonna tickets. And you’re coming with,” I said.
“ARE YOU SERIOUS!?” she screamed.
I sure was.
Before the concert we went to a midtown bar where Hansel was managing for the evening. Of course, it was imperative we get in a few vodka-based drinks and/or shots before heading over to see Mrs. Richie. A couple of these with some salad, and Westchester and I were ready to go in just over an hour.
When our cab driver’s license read Ahn Happyman, I knew our night was only going to get better. I mean really, how great is that name?
I think I can safely speak for both of us when I say we had the best time at the show.
We walked into a tidal wave of energy and excitement. Every single person in the audience was facing the stage with total adoration and overwhelming enthusiasm. To say it was infectious is an understatement. Before we knew it, Westchester and I were freaking out just like everyone else around us, including dads chaperoning their daughters and gaggle of friends, couples, and many men holding signs with statements along the lines of MADONNA, YOU MADE ME GAY!!!
I gather she sold her soul to the devil in order to get the hottest bod I’ve ever seen. Honestly. And we were close enough to notice if there was anything wrong. Which there is not. I mean, she strutted around in leotards, tights, one-piece glitter mania and polyester suits. And she looked sick in all of it.
Lesbian crush? You betcha.
Not only can the woman put on an amazing show, her back-up dancers are insane. We both fell in love with this crazy guy who has a red Mohawk and manages to look kind of hot while dancing in rollerblades.
The icing on the cake? The place serves beer in plastic mugs with a pretzel rod sticking out of the handle. I kid you not. You may spend seven bucks on a beer – but it comes with a pretzel rod people! Now that is service if you asked me. An added bonus Yankee stadium never throws our way for sure.
Life Lesson # 26: Nothing beats a surprise concert with one of your best friends. And if Breathless Mahoney is performing, well, come on. That is just awesome! We may have been the only straight, mid-twenty females in the entire place that didn’t flaunt a fake British accent, really cheesy Madonna trucker hats, or give a hoot about her political agenda, but we had a blast nonetheless.
We even managed to bring a little bit of The Arm Pump to the arena. And for that, The Material Girl should be thanking us.
If I was 48 years old and could rock a onesie, you bet your ass I would. And I’d wear it all over town. Just like Madonna (as in the real Material Girl).
I spoke to my godmother on Tuesday morning, just to say hello and see how she was doing. With my early-but-temporary retirement still in full swing, I have time to make such phone calls. After a bit, she asked me what I was doing Wednesday evening. Of course, A Whole Lot of Nothing filled my agenda, although I didn’t exactly want to blurt that out.
“If I can get you tickets to see Madonna, would you be able to go?” she asked (My godmother is the right-hand woman for the dude who runs Time Warner or something like that. Clearly, perks are part of her every day business).
“Um, hell yea! Could you really do that?” I replied.
“I should be able to get two for you without a problem. They’ll be good ones. I’ll give you a call back in a few hours with any news.”
By the end of her workday, I had two tickets in one of the best sections of Madison Square Garden, along with laminated hospitality passes and a set of directions for a secret entrance used only by those people deemed important enough to gain access to. I totally am not one of those people, but I believe that The Gods of Pity look down upon us little people and throw a bone every once in awhile.
I asked my mom if she wanted to go since she’s usually up for such adventures. And because we had a particularly good time at our last concert outing at the Garden: Cher, with a surprise appearance by my personal favorite, Cindy Lauper (I was her for Halloween four years in a row as a child. Mild obsession only touches the surface.). We went with my best friend from college, drank way too much champagne and laughed at the only gay men we’ve ever seen who had absolutely no clue how to dance.
I decided this Golden Ticket would be bestowed upon the soon-to-be-twenty-five birthday girl: Westchester.I gave her a buzz while she was at the Yankees game.
“Hey, you doing anything tomorrow night?” I yelled into the receiver.
“No. Why?” she responded.
“Because I got Madonna tickets. And you’re coming with,” I said.
“ARE YOU SERIOUS!?” she screamed.
I sure was.
Before the concert we went to a midtown bar where Hansel was managing for the evening. Of course, it was imperative we get in a few vodka-based drinks and/or shots before heading over to see Mrs. Richie. A couple of these with some salad, and Westchester and I were ready to go in just over an hour.
When our cab driver’s license read Ahn Happyman, I knew our night was only going to get better. I mean really, how great is that name?
I think I can safely speak for both of us when I say we had the best time at the show.
We walked into a tidal wave of energy and excitement. Every single person in the audience was facing the stage with total adoration and overwhelming enthusiasm. To say it was infectious is an understatement. Before we knew it, Westchester and I were freaking out just like everyone else around us, including dads chaperoning their daughters and gaggle of friends, couples, and many men holding signs with statements along the lines of MADONNA, YOU MADE ME GAY!!!
I gather she sold her soul to the devil in order to get the hottest bod I’ve ever seen. Honestly. And we were close enough to notice if there was anything wrong. Which there is not. I mean, she strutted around in leotards, tights, one-piece glitter mania and polyester suits. And she looked sick in all of it.
Lesbian crush? You betcha.
Not only can the woman put on an amazing show, her back-up dancers are insane. We both fell in love with this crazy guy who has a red Mohawk and manages to look kind of hot while dancing in rollerblades.
The icing on the cake? The place serves beer in plastic mugs with a pretzel rod sticking out of the handle. I kid you not. You may spend seven bucks on a beer – but it comes with a pretzel rod people! Now that is service if you asked me. An added bonus Yankee stadium never throws our way for sure.
Life Lesson # 26: Nothing beats a surprise concert with one of your best friends. And if Breathless Mahoney is performing, well, come on. That is just awesome! We may have been the only straight, mid-twenty females in the entire place that didn’t flaunt a fake British accent, really cheesy Madonna trucker hats, or give a hoot about her political agenda, but we had a blast nonetheless.
We even managed to bring a little bit of The Arm Pump to the arena. And for that, The Material Girl should be thanking us.
posted by Penny at 9:52 PM
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