Today is Madonna's 54th birthday. Being the Madonna whore that I am, this is big news. I am indeed sporting my Madonna t-shirt in her honor. I will listen to her CDs all day. I will stare lovingly at the concert tickets I have for September 19th. I suppose I am a bit old to be any kind of musician whore but if Madonna can wear an almost-there mini skirt at age 54, I figure I can obsess about her all I want at age 50.
Since I am limited on time today, I am going to cheat--I am going to re-post (albeit updated) a previous Madonna-related blogging. I chose one from 2006, as I figure many of you weren't reading my nonsense back then and those of you who were probably don't remember one word of this. I know most of it came as a surprise to me. This was written just after I returned from the a 2006 Madonna concert, attended with the wife and MJagger. (I can't believe the wife went with us. What a woman!) We did indeed have an awesome time, as we always do at Madonna concerts. So, reminisce with me. And, happy 54 to the material girl.
THURSDAY, JUNE 15, 2006 (as re-posted in honor of madge's birthday 8/16/12)
CONFESSIONS OF A CONCERT-GOING MADONNA WHORE
You can call her Madge. Call her Dita. Call her Ester. Call her Boy Toy. Call her Madonna. I call her orgasmic!
I have returned from the concert and I am here to tell you that Madonna is orgasmic.
Before I go on, I want to confess that I am way too old for things like orgasmic concerts. I could barely get out of bed this morning, and I don’t even drink. I feel like I was hit by a truck. My muscles ache. I’ve got to step up my McYoga.
The contestants in this night of debauchery included MJagger, MJagger’s mom-in-law, the wife and moi. MJagger and I were so excited we could barely sit in the car. I was sporting a smelly-brand-new Madonna ICON fan club t-shirt (smelly because it was new & unwashed), while MJagger was a vision in white—white everything, from sparkly tank top to white flip-flops. What a virginal view of beauty! The trip to the United Center was harrowing—traffic out the wazoo. A 1.5 hour trip took three long hours—terminal traffic thwarted our efforts to get to the concert early. MJagger is not one to be troubled by traffic. She weaved in and out and did the best she could to get to the concert early; however, there is only so much you can do in bumper to bumper traffic. We parked in what MJagger called the “crack parking lot;” she said it’s where she always parks and that you can buy crack as well as park your car. Gee, crack is right on the top of my list of things I want to buy at the concert. MJagger clarified that we wouldn’t be buying crack (please—neither of us has put our lips on a crack pipe, so don’t start rumors). The lot was cheaper than the official lots and promised an “easy in, easy out” parking. I prayed to Grover the car would still be there after the concert. (The wife looked skeptical but said nothing. I think she was still chewing on the whole crack thing.)
Despite the traffic, we had plenty of time—we were in the arena with plenty of time to spare…and, since Madonna didn’t start the concert until 8:45 PM (um, the ticket said she’d be starting at 7:30 PM, but she’s Madonna and she can start her concert whenever she damn well pleases), we had time to pee two times, have a snack, titter about the various fabulous outfits being sported by the fans and meet the fifty zillion gay boys sitting around us. As MJagger is a professional “concert seat hopper,” I was invited to learn her seat-hopping skills. She NEVER sits where her ticket says she should be sitting—she goes for the best possible seat she can confiscate. Since we all had single tickets, she encouraged me to sit next to her (her assigned seat was much better than my cheaper assigned seat) until I got kicked out. So, I snuck by the usher (some high schooler who was not paying attention—not a hard thing to do) and plopped my sorry ass into the seat next to her. It was very entertaining, as the people around me were also not in their assigned seats—it’s like a game of chance. We found ourselves next to “Kenny Chesney” (a good ol’ gay boy from Kittyhawk, North Carolina sporting a cowboy hat and a tight, no-sleeved T-shirt) and his favorite boy toy. They actually flew in from NC to see the concert—my kind of people—and were very proud members of the Madonna ICON fan club. (They were in their assigned seats, by the way—one of the few behaving at this point.) Surrounding us was a fag-hag supposed DJ (who we think was really a pole dancer), her best gay boyfriend, a Chinese girl (who I do not think spoke English) and two Polish persons (who definitely did not speak English). I worked with the crowd to make sure I’d have a seat to jump to in case the rightful owner of “my” seat showed up. Several people thought MJagger was my girlfriend (one person actually asked me if she was my “bitch!”)—we had to explain that my girlfriend (my “bitch”) was sitting in a different, far-away section while I was sitting inexplicably with my friend. Only true Madonna fans can understand this. (We did, by the way, talk to the wife by cell phone before the concert began. We could see her from where we were sitting, so it was kind of like we were almost connected.)
Enough about us--let’s talk about Madonna. She arrived on stage via a giant disco ball. Now, that’s the way to start a party. She was dressed in her best horse-jockeying outfit and the stage was filled with galloping horses. (Madge is really into horses these days.) Quite to my delight, her second song was an updated dance version of her oldy-moldy “Like a Virgin,” sung while riding up and down on a black leather horse saddle. Yee-haw!
Madge is really, really, really tiny. Very thin these days. She has what the wife and I call “arm legs;” meaning, her legs are so small they are like a “normal” person’s arms. Muscle and bones. Lots of muscles but still very teeny. It’s hard to look good in leotards—especially a white leotard, but she is the exception to the rule. I’m worried about her. Falling off that horse must have led to her being teenier than I remember. She still looked amazing—just teeny weeny and incredible in a leotard. The catwalk made it really easy to see Madge up close and personal—very crowd-friendly.
In my humble estimation, the crowd seemed rather poopy. Madonna even flipped off the front row because they weren’t dancing and having a good time. Geez, I would have taken my clothes off to be in the front row! What is wrong with these people? She chastised the crowd for not showing enough effort—and I agreed. MJagger and I were dancing our little legs off, but others were just standing there. Madge got the crowd going by changing the words to “I Love New York” to “suck George Bush’s dick.” (And, the Dixie Chicks get grief? Good God, she just told the crowd to give a blow job to the president!)
There I was, dancing my life away, when I suddenly noticed MJagger was nowhere to be found. Alas, she had made her break for the floor seats. You go, girl! She weaseled her way in next to two “we-don’t-want-you-standing-her-but-we’ll-tolerate-you” boys. MJagger is the master of getting the best seat possible and she is always successful. I aspire to glean some of her skills.
The show was incredible. The wife absolutely loved the “Saturday Night Fever” part of the show—Madonna came out in the best “John Travolta” white pantsuit with black shirt. She recreated the John Travolta movie solo and did a kick-ass job. Then, the dancers came out on rollerskates—a true 70’s flashback. I was beside myself. (Terri, you would have loved it! You would have been right back in 1979 at the roller rink!) Madonna got the crowd grooving and singing (all except those boring farts in the front role—ass wipes!) and hopping up and down. She even put on a “Dancing Queen” white-disco-lit cape. By the way, the “Madonna on a Cross” thing was no big deal—although, I suppose being on a disco-mirrored cross while wearing a crown of thorns could be construed as rather sacrilegious—actually made sense in relation to what was happening at the point in the concert. (It was about the 12 million orphans in Africa, orphaned by AIDS. Madonna has always seemed to hold education and prevention of AIDS near and dear to her heart.) Once she got off the cross, the dancing went into overdrive. Madge wanted to dance, and dance she did!
Suffice it to say that most of the songs performed were from her "Confessions on a Dance Floor" album, which was fine with me as I'm a big fan of that CD. My favorite song of the night was "Sorry," which also happens to be my favorite song on the CD. (I dedicate that one to MJagger, because I am very sorry, as well as I should be.) I don't understand, though, why Madonna insists on performing "La Isla Bonita" at every concert. It's not a favorite of mine and she always performs it. Blech. No offense. I'd rather hear "Holiday."
The two-hour sweat-filled concert ended without an encore. Hell, I wouldn’t have given an encore to that crowd, either. It wasn’t a let down, though, as the ending of show packed a punch. Gold balloons floating from the rafters, pounding bass rattling the chest cavity, disco ball a-spinning. I was exhausted and satisfied. The show was as good or better than the other four Madonna tours I have attended.
For the record, everyone should go to at least one Madonna concert in life.
You can call her Madge. Call her Dita. Call her Ester. Call her Boy Toy. Call her Madonna. I call her orgasmic!
I have returned from the concert and I am here to tell you that Madonna is orgasmic.
Before I go on, I want to confess that I am way too old for things like orgasmic concerts. I could barely get out of bed this morning, and I don’t even drink. I feel like I was hit by a truck. My muscles ache. I’ve got to step up my McYoga.
The contestants in this night of debauchery included MJagger, MJagger’s mom-in-law, the wife and moi. MJagger and I were so excited we could barely sit in the car. I was sporting a smelly-brand-new Madonna ICON fan club t-shirt (smelly because it was new & unwashed), while MJagger was a vision in white—white everything, from sparkly tank top to white flip-flops. What a virginal view of beauty! The trip to the United Center was harrowing—traffic out the wazoo. A 1.5 hour trip took three long hours—terminal traffic thwarted our efforts to get to the concert early. MJagger is not one to be troubled by traffic. She weaved in and out and did the best she could to get to the concert early; however, there is only so much you can do in bumper to bumper traffic. We parked in what MJagger called the “crack parking lot;” she said it’s where she always parks and that you can buy crack as well as park your car. Gee, crack is right on the top of my list of things I want to buy at the concert. MJagger clarified that we wouldn’t be buying crack (please—neither of us has put our lips on a crack pipe, so don’t start rumors). The lot was cheaper than the official lots and promised an “easy in, easy out” parking. I prayed to Grover the car would still be there after the concert. (The wife looked skeptical but said nothing. I think she was still chewing on the whole crack thing.)
Despite the traffic, we had plenty of time—we were in the arena with plenty of time to spare…and, since Madonna didn’t start the concert until 8:45 PM (um, the ticket said she’d be starting at 7:30 PM, but she’s Madonna and she can start her concert whenever she damn well pleases), we had time to pee two times, have a snack, titter about the various fabulous outfits being sported by the fans and meet the fifty zillion gay boys sitting around us. As MJagger is a professional “concert seat hopper,” I was invited to learn her seat-hopping skills. She NEVER sits where her ticket says she should be sitting—she goes for the best possible seat she can confiscate. Since we all had single tickets, she encouraged me to sit next to her (her assigned seat was much better than my cheaper assigned seat) until I got kicked out. So, I snuck by the usher (some high schooler who was not paying attention—not a hard thing to do) and plopped my sorry ass into the seat next to her. It was very entertaining, as the people around me were also not in their assigned seats—it’s like a game of chance. We found ourselves next to “Kenny Chesney” (a good ol’ gay boy from Kittyhawk, North Carolina sporting a cowboy hat and a tight, no-sleeved T-shirt) and his favorite boy toy. They actually flew in from NC to see the concert—my kind of people—and were very proud members of the Madonna ICON fan club. (They were in their assigned seats, by the way—one of the few behaving at this point.) Surrounding us was a fag-hag supposed DJ (who we think was really a pole dancer), her best gay boyfriend, a Chinese girl (who I do not think spoke English) and two Polish persons (who definitely did not speak English). I worked with the crowd to make sure I’d have a seat to jump to in case the rightful owner of “my” seat showed up. Several people thought MJagger was my girlfriend (one person actually asked me if she was my “bitch!”)—we had to explain that my girlfriend (my “bitch”) was sitting in a different, far-away section while I was sitting inexplicably with my friend. Only true Madonna fans can understand this. (We did, by the way, talk to the wife by cell phone before the concert began. We could see her from where we were sitting, so it was kind of like we were almost connected.)
Enough about us--let’s talk about Madonna. She arrived on stage via a giant disco ball. Now, that’s the way to start a party. She was dressed in her best horse-jockeying outfit and the stage was filled with galloping horses. (Madge is really into horses these days.) Quite to my delight, her second song was an updated dance version of her oldy-moldy “Like a Virgin,” sung while riding up and down on a black leather horse saddle. Yee-haw!
Madge is really, really, really tiny. Very thin these days. She has what the wife and I call “arm legs;” meaning, her legs are so small they are like a “normal” person’s arms. Muscle and bones. Lots of muscles but still very teeny. It’s hard to look good in leotards—especially a white leotard, but she is the exception to the rule. I’m worried about her. Falling off that horse must have led to her being teenier than I remember. She still looked amazing—just teeny weeny and incredible in a leotard. The catwalk made it really easy to see Madge up close and personal—very crowd-friendly.
In my humble estimation, the crowd seemed rather poopy. Madonna even flipped off the front row because they weren’t dancing and having a good time. Geez, I would have taken my clothes off to be in the front row! What is wrong with these people? She chastised the crowd for not showing enough effort—and I agreed. MJagger and I were dancing our little legs off, but others were just standing there. Madge got the crowd going by changing the words to “I Love New York” to “suck George Bush’s dick.” (And, the Dixie Chicks get grief? Good God, she just told the crowd to give a blow job to the president!)
There I was, dancing my life away, when I suddenly noticed MJagger was nowhere to be found. Alas, she had made her break for the floor seats. You go, girl! She weaseled her way in next to two “we-don’t-want-you-standing-her-but-we’ll-tolerate-you” boys. MJagger is the master of getting the best seat possible and she is always successful. I aspire to glean some of her skills.
The show was incredible. The wife absolutely loved the “Saturday Night Fever” part of the show—Madonna came out in the best “John Travolta” white pantsuit with black shirt. She recreated the John Travolta movie solo and did a kick-ass job. Then, the dancers came out on rollerskates—a true 70’s flashback. I was beside myself. (Terri, you would have loved it! You would have been right back in 1979 at the roller rink!) Madonna got the crowd grooving and singing (all except those boring farts in the front role—ass wipes!) and hopping up and down. She even put on a “Dancing Queen” white-disco-lit cape. By the way, the “Madonna on a Cross” thing was no big deal—although, I suppose being on a disco-mirrored cross while wearing a crown of thorns could be construed as rather sacrilegious—actually made sense in relation to what was happening at the point in the concert. (It was about the 12 million orphans in Africa, orphaned by AIDS. Madonna has always seemed to hold education and prevention of AIDS near and dear to her heart.) Once she got off the cross, the dancing went into overdrive. Madge wanted to dance, and dance she did!
Suffice it to say that most of the songs performed were from her "Confessions on a Dance Floor" album, which was fine with me as I'm a big fan of that CD. My favorite song of the night was "Sorry," which also happens to be my favorite song on the CD. (I dedicate that one to MJagger, because I am very sorry, as well as I should be.) I don't understand, though, why Madonna insists on performing "La Isla Bonita" at every concert. It's not a favorite of mine and she always performs it. Blech. No offense. I'd rather hear "Holiday."
The two-hour sweat-filled concert ended without an encore. Hell, I wouldn’t have given an encore to that crowd, either. It wasn’t a let down, though, as the ending of show packed a punch. Gold balloons floating from the rafters, pounding bass rattling the chest cavity, disco ball a-spinning. I was exhausted and satisfied. The show was as good or better than the other four Madonna tours I have attended.
For the record, everyone should go to at least one Madonna concert in life.
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