Do You Think I Can Impregnate You Tonight?
The long weekend has come to an abrupt halt, but my independencecontinues. The Judge for whom I work has left for Italia, allowing met o stumble into work wearing holy jeans and sandals and barely having to scrub off the lecherous film from a debaucherous weekend. And I wear it well.
Friday night, the fabulous GA rolled into town with torrential downpour, and their simultaneous arrival was no coincidence. I was supposed to have a solo dinner with KD that night before meeting people out for a birthday celebration, but alas, the best laid plans of mice and men, blah blah. Instead we conflated the plans and all met up at a quaint BYOT (the T is for tequila) on Chestnut Street. While there, I drank said tequila, the alcohol which provides me with the most direct path to drunkness. Eventually we disbanded from the larger group, met up with JD, and popped GA’s gay bar cherry. She had never been. So, to maximize the horror, we took her to Woody’s and showed her the ugliest time possible. Seriously, it was downright aesthetically horrifying.
Anyone who cared deeply about Live 8 woke up early and positioned themselves in such a way that would provide them with a great view of the concert. GA and I woke up around 11:00, and sat around for 2 hours before we could be bothered to even walk over to it. It truly was a "long walk to justice." Sure, we missed Will Smith, but I recorded a “Fresh Prince of Bel Air” that night to make up for it. On our long walk to the concert, homeless people kept asking for some money. We politely told them that today is about the Africans only and that we would need proof of citizenship before we were willing to help. We think they understood.
Not that we saw any of it, but the concert seemed pretty cool. The highlight for me was Def Leppard. I will never understand why they only got to play 3 songs while Linkin Park played for what seemed like 6 hours. They have a lot of rage, you know. When Rob Thomas was performing, GA and I kept singing “This Shit is Rob Thomas. Rob T-H-O-M-A-S!!!” (sung to the tune of ‘this shit is bananas’ from Gwen Stefani’s magnum opus, “Hollaback Girl”). Lots of other people performed, but GA and I were too busy trying to embarrass the other to really notice.
We noticed that it wasn’t really awareness of African poverty that was bringing people together as much as the nitrous balloons that people were selling in makeshift drug distribution centers. Philadelphians are crafty, if nothing else. My sister thought it was cute that nice men were giving out balloons. Aw! The largest crowds we saw were huddled around the tanks, dirty hippies waiting to take a hit. Also, there were tons of people in green ruffly skirts. It’s the new little black dress. Therefore, I surmised that if you really want to help the Africans or at the very least show support, you need to be high on nitrous and wearing a green ruffly skirt. As I write this, I fit both those descriptions. Because I want to make poverty history!
The next night, after Assclown cooked us an amazing meal, I went out to a bar and ran into Rufus Wainwright. No one else in the bar seemed to recognize him (or they were just being respectful of his privacy). I am great with facial recognition and I have no time in my life to respect the privacy of others, so I approached him. My smooth opening? “You either are Rufus Wainwright or you look just like him. Either way, good for you.” He admitted to actually being RW, and we talked for a bit about life, love and Philadelphia. Clearly, he buckled under the pressure of my overwhelming charm. He was smaller than I expected, and he had very big hair. He was hanging out with some twink, dressed all in white, who looked like he had no clue where he was. We did not make plans to hang out later, though he looked me up and down. Whatever, Rufus!
The trend of people cooking good food for me continued into the 4th of July, when I went to a BBQ at JB’s house. I may be inept in the kitchen, but I am smart enough to surround myself with amazing culinary wizards. My contribution to the party was ice, it’s basically all I can handle. The party was a darling affair with Londonbroil and peach margaritas, among other things. There was even a (chocolate) fondue station for dessert! This was full out Barefoot Contessa shit!
From the party, we walked to the second concert extravaganza on the parkway in 3 days. This one included Elton John, my new boyfriend Rufus Wainwright, Miss Patti LaBelle and her huge tits and Bryan Adams. It was an all-star line up, featuring one American. Elton performed a 3 hour version of the song “Rocketman.” I think he was trying to play until scientists confirmed they had developed a cure for AIDS. During the fireworks, someone proposed to his girlfriend during the horrible Lee Greenwood song “I’m Proud to Be an American,” while people looked on, aghast. It was basically a nightmare proposal scenario, and I like to think that her tears were not tears of joy. But then again, maybe they’re the most patriotic couple ever.
I learned an interesting fact at the concert: you’re not supposed to yell “Rape!” if you’re being raped or witness a potential rape. You’re supposed to yell fire. Who knew? Apparently, yelling “rape” makes people run in the other direction. I told my friends I would be just as likely to run away from a fire as I would from a rape, and that perhaps victims should get in the habit of yelling “Pizza!” or “Free Beer!” Don't say I never had any good ideas.
Would it be inappropriate to wear a green ruffly skirt to Luther Vandross’ funeral? R.I.P., brother man.
Finally, if you’re not watching Being Bobby Brown, you’re trippin’. Like Whitney, all I gotta say is “Hell to the NO!”