Madonna has a new Kraft single out. To say that it is terrible would be purely out of spite. After all, American Life is truly terrible and to be fair, Madonna has been slowly clawing her way back up to musical relevance steadily ever since that creative low point. Her latest is not bad, it just isn’t age appropriate. It sounds like Avril Lavigne covering Debbie Gibson covering The Shirelles. And Madonna still rhymes like a second grader, which aside from close-up shots of her hands, is the worst thing about her.
She is also on the cover of Harper’s Bazaar, another relic of another century. I saw a shot of her standing behind another woman with her arm poised around the lady’s neck. First thought: she is a vampire who will suck the essence out of you! Remember when she kissed Britney Spears and then Britney’s career collapsed and they finally reluctantly replaced Brit with a Japanese sex robot? Maybe almost none of that actually happened but sometimes, in that drowsy part of waking where dreams still seem so real around you, it feels true.
They played Madonna’s new single tonight at Industry and, almost as if to prove my point, it was preceded by Avril’s newest song. Matt Kugelman had not heard Madonna’s new single and didn’t believe my crucially apt description, even after his handsome friend assured him that I was not joking. I wish I had gotten the friend’s name but Matt, already somewhat drunk when I arrived after the show, never really introduced us. It doesn’t matter. You know how bad I am with names anyway.
Besides, I was more interested in my sudden impulse to bully an urban hipster by the pool table. He was in skinny jeans and a graphic tee with requisite black rimmed glasses that they must hand you as you enter Brooklyn these days like so many 3D glasses outside a movie theater. I wanted to intentionally bump him hard so I could tell him to “watch it!” and then rip his glasses off and stomp on them.
Matt thought the hipster was cute, which he was, but he still delighted in my darkest urges there. I also had some choice words for the bartenders at Industry. “Why do they all look like they selected their tank tops from the International Male catalog in 1989?” The one near us in the sagging tank and shimmery silver studded belt looked like a 90s Russian porn star, even if Matt pleaded for me to go easy on the guy since he was pretty sure he owned that same belt.
I had come to Industry to see Dallas Dubois perform, as I had promised. As much as I don’t like going out, I don’t like keeping promises either. But in my advancing age, I am continuing my mission to try and do new things, so keeping my promise to go out is one of them. But Dallas’ show wasn’t starting until Midnight, which meant at least 12:30am if I was lucky and Matt and his friends were anxious to go to Vlada to see their friend Bianca del Rio. Not wanting to be alone in a bar, I joined them in their trip across the street and vowed to return to see Dallas.
At Vlada, we ran into the usual characters: Matt’s former roommate, that adorable bartender who never remembers me, and of course Bianca herself. It felt so good to see Bianca, on this our second anniversary of me dropping by but not sticking around for her show. Bianca pretends to be offended but mostly I think some nights she is tired and she knows I would be a reliable target for her barbs and she could take the walk instead of trying to bat for home. Bianca did tell me an hilarious story about Lady Bunny and a refrigerator and in the midst of cackling like a chicken in an egg factory, I was recognized by a listener. Or I should say, my laugh was recognized.
They were visiting from South Carolina and couldn’t believe their good fortune at running into me randomly in a bar. The gay community is a lot smaller than you think, kids! I took a photo with them and assured them my laugh was real. They told me how much my show meant to people and I brushed it off so they insisted on repeating it later. It is hard to take the compliment when I spend most of my precious airtime suggesting Britney is a Japanese sex robot and telling fart jokes, but maybe that is all people really need at the end of the day. I also ran into Mike’s friend Mike, who introduced me to a handsome friend of his who loves the show and who tried to tell him the name of his book and his website, both of which I instantly forgot in the act of trying to remember.
I have done a worse job than usual remembering people and names. It is almost as if I thought I wasn’t going to write about it all later, but I promise I was writing it in my head as I walked out of the building tonight and headed to Industry in the first place. Maybe it is just bad luck. I remembered Matt’s friend was named Matt and that he was visiting from Los Angeles and that he worked in Pasadena and lived in West Hollywood and he was an editor and an actor but I still couldn’t find him online later. Damn you Friendster, this is when I could have used you most!
After I said good night to Vlada, just as Bianca was starting her show, I ran back across the street to Industry to catch Dallas. The bar was packed, especially near the tiny stage in the rear. I staked out a reasonably comfortable spot where I wasn’t bumped too much. But it didn’t matter, because someone still managed to spill half a cocktail down my arm and even though he did a half-assed job of wiping me with his crushed velvet corduroy jacket, I don’t think I was sufficiently grateful in his eyes.
The show started and Dallas did a rousing lip sync to Nicole Kidman’s Diamonds Are A Girl’s Best Friend from Moulin Rouge, including a surprise costume change behind the curtain. It really was great and the crowd ate it all up and begged for seconds. But I was too far away for Dallas to see me and the crowd was too much for me to get any closer. Besides, I delivered as promised. I came. I saw. I snarked. Mission accomplished, I headed for the door. As I zipped up my hoodie to head out into the brisk drizzly night, I spied that hipster by the pool table again. The urge to rough him up was gone. It had been a good night after all and I didn’t have anything left to prove.
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