Good times were had Sunday during Chicago Pride, an event that there should be a law made saying everyone who's gay-friendly should attend at least once in their lifetime, and twice if they like it. B-Dubs and the Baby were my cruise directors, and everything was quite lovely for the majority of the day; the parade (which damn! three hours!), dinner afterwards and the first bar we went to after dinner were quite the barrel of laughs. But the Baby wasn't finding any wimmins, so we went to a second bar which was packed to the rafters with people dancing, drinking, sweating and spilling things on me, but it still wasn't horrible, though it was much more a gay bar than a lesbian bar and the Baby still wasn't having any luck.
It became horrible when the group (one of the Baby's friends and her boyfriend also came with) decided they wanted to go to a third club, and I didn't.
Now, I've discovered as I grow older that between my mental health issues and just generally growing older, slower and fatter, I'm not down with the huge crowd thing. Like, seriously not, and anyways after wearing my 3-1/2 inch wedges all day Saturday, my feet were already reaching bowling ball proportions before the day started. So walking another four, five blocks to the next club, which was also likely packed with people who would be dancing, drinking, sweating and spilling things on me? Nuh-uh. But I didn't really need to get home, either, and I certainly didn't want to ruin the day for B-Dubs and the Baby since it was their High Holiday, so my plan was to grab a Reader, go back to the car and hang out in solitude whilst they continued on. I mean, I wouldn't have tolerated them being out all night or anything, but a few hours, fine. So, they forged on ahead to the next club, and I turned the other way, thinking I'd use what little stamina my feet still had to get back to the car. Two minutes after they realized I disappeared, the Baby texted me, and I told her to tell the group to party on without me and to not worry about it.
Of course, as is my usual way, I realize I have no idea where we parked, so I decided to stop at the McDonald's across from Wrigley since it was well lit and easy-to-find when the group was done. I plopped myself down on this brick edge thingy and started to read.
A short time later, I checked my phone and found that the Baby texted me again, telling me that they were at the car, where the hell was I? and I told them I had gotten lost, was at the McDonald's and why weren't they out. She texts back
So I text her back: "I said go. Now ur going to blame me for cutting into your fun?" and I think she may have texted to call B-Dubs or whatever, but then I didn't hear from them, so I figured they ventured back out. Except they didn't, and then she texts me about an hour later to tell me they've been waiting for me at the car.
You can see the clusterfuck coming, right!??
I'm not as murderously angry at them anymore -- after all, it was just a big miscommunication, nothing to get all freaked out about -- but damn, would you fucking listen to me when I'm talking!?? That's what really pissed me off about the whole thing, that and the fact that I felt like they turned me into the bad guy when I wasn't trying to be. I mean, shit.
(From left to right: Me, SC, and B-Dubs, taken at JCfest, June 24, 2006)
Gots to get my beauty rest in time for Pride Chicago tomorrow, but I can't tell you how excited and proud that picture makes me. I, who grew up with no siblings, now have three in the course of eight years. Surreal, man.
I'm likely going to be the oldest person there, but I don't care. It's going to be righteous.
Except it's not raining:
Behold the water main that exploded right behind the Pimp and damn near swallowed it whole.
Maybe "swallowing it whole" might be a bit of an exaggeration, but I was NOT hearing things when the cop said to me as I was taking the picture, "Ma'am (!), you need to be careful because that asphalt's starting to get weak." So for all intensive purposes, it COULD'VE swallowed it whole. You don't know. Anyway, yeah, so the street exploded all over my car and almost ate it. Boy, wouldn't THAT have sucked rocks.
Broad needs heavy customization, implementation and integration.
Broad needs you to describe your audience, select sources of information that will give you fresh perspectives and ask questions.
Broad needs Red Cross Relief Funds. (Indeed!)
Broad needs safety interface modules. (Sure. Can I sell them?)
Like I told y'all yesterday, I really didn't have high hopes for the money I spent; I was waiting to be thoroughly whapped over the head with whatever rhetoric Madonna's selling these days or whatever. (Not that I don't agree with her, but sticking it all in a pointy bra doesn't really resonate, ya dig.) But she was just amazing -- looked great, sounded great, danced great, the whole package. And the lighting and images were divine. If you can, pay the money and go see her when she comes to town.
As added icing, BFKAS, B-Dubs and I had a really good time, though I must admit it was more than a little disconcerting to hear my 56 year-old birth mother singing "Like a Virgin." Yes, I know she would've been only 35 when the song came out (to my 15). Doesn't matter.
The Orange County Register
It very likely will be the pop spectacle of the year – a politically charged combination of Cirque du Soleil, performance-art commentary and dance-party explosion that more or less sums up everything she has been striving to say and show this decade. But that much we expected, even without knowing what tricks were hid under her skin-tight leotard. No one – but no one– stages elaborate eye-candy productions like Madonna, whose highly impressive Confessions Tour opened Sunday night at a packed Forum so sweltering it seemed as though it were being prepped for the world’s largest Bikram yoga session.
Every other diva cut from roughly similar cloth, whether equally iconic (Cher, Janet Jackson) or simply a progeny trifle (Britney Spears), ranks so far behind the not-so-notorious chameleon that they belong in a lesser league. They merely present dazzle; Madonna effortlessly builds mounting anticipation for hers, trumps theirs within the first 10 minutes, then adds depth for most of the remaining 100. Of course, at $350 a ticket (and that’s just face value), she had better deliver a bonanza far beyond her contemporaries’ abilities. There are those who find that price obscene, and it’s worth noting that by demanding so much for entry into her momentary wonderlands Madonna continues to largely lock out middle-class and poorer fans, who just might revere her more than wealthier devotees.
It’s one of the downsides of mounting such expensive tours and insisting on an enormous paycheck: What is intended as an over-the-top yet populist celebration of all races, nationalities and religions often winds up a rather elitist experience. But, then, the same charge could be hurled at the Rolling Stones, and they charged $100 more for choice seats when they played the Forum two months ago. And though this is definitely a case of comparing apples and oranges, Mick Jagger and his graying mates certainly didn’t offer a sight half as ridiculously delicious as a remarkably fit middle-age woman in equestrian-dominatrix gear gyrating and grinding atop a rodeo saddle spinning in circles via a carousel pole.
That’s how the 47-year-old Madonna performs "Like a Virgin" this time out, after being lowered to the tip of her stage’s catwalk via a mirror ball that opens like flower petals, then launching into the most darkly lascivious number she’s presented this decade. Set to a blending of the new song "Future Lovers" with Donna Summer’s classic "I Feel Love" – and preceded (and interrupted) by footage on a giant, wrap-around screen of the lithe sexpot sliding a riding crop between her teeth and writhing half-naked with a gagging harness strapped to her head and her hands tied behind her back – Madonna slowly parades around her bare-chested, abs-flexing dancers in a top hat and tails (and not much else), occasionally whipping and riding one like a horse. It’s enough to make you think this production will be as racy as her Blonde Ambition Tour, or perhaps finally provide the climax that the tour-free "Erotica" never quite achieved (unless you really enjoyed her "Sex" book).
Yet that’s only a tease; indeed, by the time she actually revives the song "Erotica" late in the disco finale of her two-hour show, any remaining lust has been stripped away. Even amid the raciness of the opening section, she hints at where she’s headed, singing in "Get Together": "Do you believe that we can change the future?" The next line is "Do you believe that I can make you feel better?" – but it might better have been amended to "make you think." After concluding her coming-out with a bounding gymnastics display attached to the track "Jump," she suddenly shifts into bleaker, more challenging terrain, quickly emerging with a centerpiece that is sure to stir resentful feelings with the same people who didn’t like her controversial "Like a Prayer" Pepsi ad many years ago.
Hanging mock-crucified on a huge mirrored cross, a crown of thorns atop her wavy blond locks, Madonna sings an inspired rethinking of the heretofore sappy ballad "Live to Tell," its usual bed of tinny synths replaced by churchy organs, its lyrics – "A man can tell a thousand lies / I’ve learned my lesson well" – seemingly directed at powers-that-be she deems dogmatic and hypocritical. The bridge, during which almost all background music faded out, was especially captivating. "How will they hear?" she asks. "When will they learn? How will they know?" The meaning of that and the equally outspoken moments that followed is wide open to interpretation, considering that it took in all manner of subjects, from burka-shrouded women breaking away from servitude and the plight of AIDS-ravaged African children to a visual attack on world leaders past (Hitler, Mussolini, Hussein, a number of popes) and present (Bush, Blair, bin Laden).
"Forbidden Love," for instance, instantly changed from just another gay anthem to a moving plea for spiritual harmony, with an array of religious symbols (formed out of thousands of blood cells) intersecting and colliding. A turbaned vocalist introduced as Isaac blew shofar to introduce Madonna’s new song of the same name, while a woman draped in gray danced as if a caged bird. "Like It or Not" was transformed from merely a self-satisfied statement of defiance into that aforementioned skewering of political figures, with the star hollering, "I can’t take it / Don’t speak / I’ve heard it all before." It was multimedia, cross-cultural preaching to the choir on a scale only U2 has reached lately. But unlike that band’s recent performances, the momentum here isn’t maintained; it’s just one portion, followed by a rocked-up section (in which she straps on a Gibson for thicker takes on "I Love New York" and "Ray of Light") and a house-heavy finale, kicked off by a mash-up of "Music" with the classic "Disco Inferno" and Madonna making moves in a white Travolta three-piece suit. Only the tender acoustic pairing of "Drowned World / Substitute for Love" and "Paradise Not for Me" reminds of the thought-provoking sentiments she puts forth earlier in the performance.
Is that a flaw? Depends on how you view it, I suppose. I sensed a little life go out of the show in the last fourth, when the choreography grew routine and the hits came too few and too radicalized ("La Isla Bonita" was far too rapid for her too keep pace verbally). Surely some will be dismayed to learn the show features all but two songs from her latest album but relatively few staples. They should have attended the last tour, which was largely about reinventing such material. This show is about summation and reconfiguration – the same formula presented unpredictably. Since the decade began – and Madonna returned to regular touring – she has been leaning toward something like this, something that encapsulates all of the various theatrical strains she incorporated just before 9/11 and the sociopolitical invective she added after that fateful day. This one isn’t perfect – yet. By the time it’s on HBO, it may be fine-tuned for more power. For now, however, it’s quite possibly the best production she’s ever concocted.
I love you, BGB! Thank you!
-- Poppy, about one of her friends who hasn't quite mastered the whole potty training thing for neither man nor beast
So other than having to drop $150 on two new tires because my alignment ate the others, notta lotta is still going on up in Chez Broad, except I? am wearing my new green cargo pants that I couldn't get into two months ago when I bought them, huzzah. Haven't really done anything in particular to make that happen one way or another, but I'll take what I can get, thankyew. And they're not even stretchy pants.
Info meme #1
Typelogic says I'm an INFP.
Check my weekly astrological groove here.
Give it to me, baby.
Pssst ... My birthday's Feb. 3, and I want this, and this, and this ...
The Make-Believe Oral Cancer Foundation (M-BOCF) is now accepting donations on my behalf. Won't you please help those of us who jump to hideous conclusions regarding our oral health and help me get a root canal or two!??:
/> Wanna make a bunch of money doing what you're doing right now?
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Broad said: Like I said, my feelings are complicated on the matter, so ... I’m interested, however, in Her Highness’ thoughts on… ...[go].
Caterina said: ARGH!!! Not to deny you your goddess-given right of reflections and wishing what might-have-beens, but this guy was straight up… ...[go].
Wholovesya? said: By the by, guess who was most nasty about the charitable giving? The frigging church. My church and my mom’s… ...[go].
Wholovesya? said: By the by, I’m not the only one I know. I have friends who work at soup kitchens because they’re… ...[go].
Wholovesya? said: As you know, I was a voyeur to the beginning of this, and I was loving your comment! I have… ...[go].
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This explains that large bit of type at the top.
Tagline by Ben F'in Mollin, talking about those times you wake up still drunk from the night before.
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