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.
Showing posts with label Madonna. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Madonna. Show all posts
Friday, November 11, 2011
Friday, April 24, 2009
The Furricane
This is going to make me sound old, but in my day, you went to a nightclub week after week and it always stayed in one place. Some lasted longer than others, and the ones which burned the hottest usually flamed out the fastest. And maybe that is just an LA thing. I used to love Club Louie, enticed by the rumor that Madonna was part owner, but it vanished so fast I don’t even remember what neighborhood it was in. The Men’s Room was a great Thursday night party until it got a glowing review in the Los Angeles Times. Street cred obliterated, I don’t think they even bothered to open the next day. I loved this place on Sunset until the doorman shot two people. Then they turned it into Project Angel Food. Well, it was a more innocent time then, as we like to say.
I went once to The Skinny when it was located just up the street from my office. My friend Danny of the solid packed body and skimpy underwear was one of the bartenders. Matt Kugelman is a mutual friend so he was there too. Then, last night was Thursday again and since Matty’s party at The Park is on haitus, I checked in with Kugie to see if he was going. And then I noticed that it wasn’t in midtown anymore, it was now in the grey area north of Chelsea near Madison Square Garden. So Matt and I met up at Brother Jimmy’s BBQ on 31st and 8th Avenue for dinner and then headed around the corner to 28th for the new Skinny. And just as an aside here, I was not feeling too skinny myself after I downed that chicken fried steak. The doorman recognized me and even knew my full name, which shocked the crap out of me, especially after that woman Kris from Long Island recognized me earlier in the day at the Starbucks downstairs from our office. Where did my precious anonymity go? It’s the beginning of the end everybody.
Once inside, I ran off to find the bathroom and it was a crazy quilt of stairs and passageways and printed signs that took me upstairs, around the corner, through a brightly lit photo shoot, past Sweetie looking not so sweet behind the bar, down into a dance floor open only to the lunatic fringe and then finally, hidden behind the DJ booth and near a fire exit: the bathroom. I felt like Ashley Judd in that Morgan Freeman movie where she was trapped underground by my boyfriend Cary Elwes: “There were doors…There were walls.” Yes, yes Ashley, very descriptive. Very helpful. “Okay,” I thought as I sighed with some relief at the urinal, “it’s going to be one of those nights.“ Downstairs, I met up with Matt again. He was talking to a guy who was running his hand along his forearm. “Furry,” he purred, “Are you furry everywhere? Is your butt a furry hurricane and the hole is the eye?” Yes, ladies and gentlemen, that’s a furricane.
During dinner, talk had turned to Matt’s screenwriting class, and later at The Skinny, in a cinematic fervor, I engaged Danny in a conversation across the bar and through the legs of an aggressively gyrating stripper. I figured the stipper at some point would step over us, but until the conversation ended, he bumped and ground over our heads, my hands resting gently on the bar between his ankles. After we got another round of drinks from Danny, we headed upstairs to look for Matt’s friends who were apparently there somewhere. In point of fact, they were everywhere. It was a complete reversal of last week at The Park, now with Matt the one with the popularity and the proximity.
The weirdness continued upstairs with a cute bartender in tiny underwear with what looked like an exceedingly painful wedgie. “No no,” he assured me. “It doesn’t hurt. And it just happens when I keep doing this.” He then proceeded to turn around and shake his ass like a blender blade until nearly all of the underwear had been sucked up into the smooth eye of his not-so-furricane. Some idiot tipped him $300 and then was mystified when he didn’t continue to get the same loving attention he was lavishing elsewere. Everyone knows you give them the $300 at the end of the evening. If that’s your opener, there is no reason to stick around. Three big bills buy a lot of brown rice and cocaine when you are twenty years old and live six deep in a studio apartment waiting for Fire Island to roll around again. Idiot.
Downstairs the real show was about to begin. One of the strippers on the bar recognized Matt from a previous party a few weeks ago and started a long distance flirt with him from his station on top of the bar. The stripper was furry himself, though he had an appropriate Chelsea trim to him. Wearing a jock strap under his underwear, his back to us, he playfully ran his fingers along his lips while making eye contact with Matt. Then he ran his hands down his back, gently pushing his underwear down and slipping his middle finger into the eye of his furricane. Then he pulled his finger out, drew it up to his face, ran it playfully along his chin until, when he had our complete and undivided attention, he stuck his finger in his own mouth and sucked on it.
This was a revelation. Not since the topless drag show in spanish at The Plaza on La Brea in Los Angeles have I seen such a display of unabashed and playful raunchiness. And there the tranny dancer had popped out from behind a screen in just a bikini bottom, spun around a bit, took a cigarette from a man in the front row, puffed on it, jammed it into the cheeks of her ass, did a cartwheel, pulled it out of her ass, puffed again and then handed it back to the patron, who let the cigarette burn itself out in the ashtray in front of him untouched. For my money, this ran a close second.
As our gasps of horror at The Skinny subsided to cheers of delight, the stripper jumped down from on top of the bar and engaged us in conversation. He even shook my hand, which in retrospect was probably not the brightest thing I ever did, but life is an adventure right? Apparently at a club last week, he had done a similar trick with a blow pop that did not go over well. “After that, I looked around and realized that I should probably just go home because no one here is gonna want to make out with me now.” I am pretty sure if someone did, that would be true love. But what do I know about true love or blow pops?
We were so entranced by the strip show we barely noticed that the place had cleared out like it was on fire. It wasn’t until we saw a guy do a cartwheel down the middle of the bar, followed by some impromptu drag balling that we noticed how dead the place was. And the only action was a straight couple making out in the corner. It might actually have been a fire because as we were saying good night to Danny all of us could quite distinctly smell smoke, and not in a good way. Our evening was at an end and we hardly needed smoke signals to see it.
I guess all good times have to come to an end eventually. The twenty year old bartender’s good time will end five summers from now when his bloated corpse is found floating in a Fire Island pool some post Labor Day afternoon. The days of The Skinny may already be numbered. Five club promoters and they could barely fill the place for a couple of hours. No wonder Sweetie looked so sour. I drove home up the Henry Hudson Parkway along the river, the top up on my convertible on the final chilly night of the year until fall. The cold has come to an end too this weekend, which just goes to show you that the end of one chapter and the beginning of another isn’t always so bad after all.
I went once to The Skinny when it was located just up the street from my office. My friend Danny of the solid packed body and skimpy underwear was one of the bartenders. Matt Kugelman is a mutual friend so he was there too. Then, last night was Thursday again and since Matty’s party at The Park is on haitus, I checked in with Kugie to see if he was going. And then I noticed that it wasn’t in midtown anymore, it was now in the grey area north of Chelsea near Madison Square Garden. So Matt and I met up at Brother Jimmy’s BBQ on 31st and 8th Avenue for dinner and then headed around the corner to 28th for the new Skinny. And just as an aside here, I was not feeling too skinny myself after I downed that chicken fried steak. The doorman recognized me and even knew my full name, which shocked the crap out of me, especially after that woman Kris from Long Island recognized me earlier in the day at the Starbucks downstairs from our office. Where did my precious anonymity go? It’s the beginning of the end everybody.
Once inside, I ran off to find the bathroom and it was a crazy quilt of stairs and passageways and printed signs that took me upstairs, around the corner, through a brightly lit photo shoot, past Sweetie looking not so sweet behind the bar, down into a dance floor open only to the lunatic fringe and then finally, hidden behind the DJ booth and near a fire exit: the bathroom. I felt like Ashley Judd in that Morgan Freeman movie where she was trapped underground by my boyfriend Cary Elwes: “There were doors…There were walls.” Yes, yes Ashley, very descriptive. Very helpful. “Okay,” I thought as I sighed with some relief at the urinal, “it’s going to be one of those nights.“ Downstairs, I met up with Matt again. He was talking to a guy who was running his hand along his forearm. “Furry,” he purred, “Are you furry everywhere? Is your butt a furry hurricane and the hole is the eye?” Yes, ladies and gentlemen, that’s a furricane.
During dinner, talk had turned to Matt’s screenwriting class, and later at The Skinny, in a cinematic fervor, I engaged Danny in a conversation across the bar and through the legs of an aggressively gyrating stripper. I figured the stipper at some point would step over us, but until the conversation ended, he bumped and ground over our heads, my hands resting gently on the bar between his ankles. After we got another round of drinks from Danny, we headed upstairs to look for Matt’s friends who were apparently there somewhere. In point of fact, they were everywhere. It was a complete reversal of last week at The Park, now with Matt the one with the popularity and the proximity.
The weirdness continued upstairs with a cute bartender in tiny underwear with what looked like an exceedingly painful wedgie. “No no,” he assured me. “It doesn’t hurt. And it just happens when I keep doing this.” He then proceeded to turn around and shake his ass like a blender blade until nearly all of the underwear had been sucked up into the smooth eye of his not-so-furricane. Some idiot tipped him $300 and then was mystified when he didn’t continue to get the same loving attention he was lavishing elsewere. Everyone knows you give them the $300 at the end of the evening. If that’s your opener, there is no reason to stick around. Three big bills buy a lot of brown rice and cocaine when you are twenty years old and live six deep in a studio apartment waiting for Fire Island to roll around again. Idiot.
Downstairs the real show was about to begin. One of the strippers on the bar recognized Matt from a previous party a few weeks ago and started a long distance flirt with him from his station on top of the bar. The stripper was furry himself, though he had an appropriate Chelsea trim to him. Wearing a jock strap under his underwear, his back to us, he playfully ran his fingers along his lips while making eye contact with Matt. Then he ran his hands down his back, gently pushing his underwear down and slipping his middle finger into the eye of his furricane. Then he pulled his finger out, drew it up to his face, ran it playfully along his chin until, when he had our complete and undivided attention, he stuck his finger in his own mouth and sucked on it.
This was a revelation. Not since the topless drag show in spanish at The Plaza on La Brea in Los Angeles have I seen such a display of unabashed and playful raunchiness. And there the tranny dancer had popped out from behind a screen in just a bikini bottom, spun around a bit, took a cigarette from a man in the front row, puffed on it, jammed it into the cheeks of her ass, did a cartwheel, pulled it out of her ass, puffed again and then handed it back to the patron, who let the cigarette burn itself out in the ashtray in front of him untouched. For my money, this ran a close second.
As our gasps of horror at The Skinny subsided to cheers of delight, the stripper jumped down from on top of the bar and engaged us in conversation. He even shook my hand, which in retrospect was probably not the brightest thing I ever did, but life is an adventure right? Apparently at a club last week, he had done a similar trick with a blow pop that did not go over well. “After that, I looked around and realized that I should probably just go home because no one here is gonna want to make out with me now.” I am pretty sure if someone did, that would be true love. But what do I know about true love or blow pops?
We were so entranced by the strip show we barely noticed that the place had cleared out like it was on fire. It wasn’t until we saw a guy do a cartwheel down the middle of the bar, followed by some impromptu drag balling that we noticed how dead the place was. And the only action was a straight couple making out in the corner. It might actually have been a fire because as we were saying good night to Danny all of us could quite distinctly smell smoke, and not in a good way. Our evening was at an end and we hardly needed smoke signals to see it.
I guess all good times have to come to an end eventually. The twenty year old bartender’s good time will end five summers from now when his bloated corpse is found floating in a Fire Island pool some post Labor Day afternoon. The days of The Skinny may already be numbered. Five club promoters and they could barely fill the place for a couple of hours. No wonder Sweetie looked so sour. I drove home up the Henry Hudson Parkway along the river, the top up on my convertible on the final chilly night of the year until fall. The cold has come to an end too this weekend, which just goes to show you that the end of one chapter and the beginning of another isn’t always so bad after all.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Release Me
"How are you going to blog this one?"
I don't have a good answer. Peter Stickles is standing next to me, looking up blankly at the stage. I am transfixed by a bedazzled dragon on his neck. I should have taken a picture of that instead of the bowls of dime store candy on the table next to me. It is ten minutes before Madonna's new album Hard Candy is due to be released and Peter is waiting next to me in the basement of the Virgin Megastore in Times Square. His neck is the most interesting thing I have seen in the last two hours.
Originally, Jonathan had wanted me to join him at the midnight release so that we could pick up the new album and he could try to win tickets to see her free concert at Roseland on Wednesday night. But then he had to go out of town at the last minute and asked me to still go so I could pick him up a poster or something other cool giveaway stuff. So after the show tonight, I bundled myself off to Virgin and waiting for the excitement to happen. The excitement that never came.
When I arrived just after ten, drag queen and part time Tyra Banks enthusiast Shequida was presiding over the "talent" show that was supposed to constitute entry to win tickets. Everyone had 30 seconds to wow the panel of judges, none of whom I recognized immediately. The talent most often displayed was a gushing insistence of urgent homosexuality followed by the certainty of impending doom if somehow begging alone wasn't enough to get into the show. Ten minutes of this and I was certain that my idea of stringing together 30 seconds worth of Madonna lyrics from two dozen hits into a plea for tickets would have been a guaranteed winner.
I tried to take video and pictures of the event with my phone and send them immediately to Jonathan in Florida but my phone was not cooperating. So I went back to my office and picked up my camera and backpack and headed in for round two. Immediately upon arriving, I ran into DJ Corey Craig, one of the judges. I asked him how it was going and he just rolled his eyes in disgust. Apparently the talent had not improved during my thirty minute break. I stationed myself behind him at the judging table where I snapped some quick photos of him texting his friends, the other judges looking at anything but the contestants, and the sad bowls of candy.
Moments later, I noticed Peter standing nearby. He looked as cute as always. His skin is like that was a baby. I know he is older than sixteen but he doesn't look it. Tonight was Michael Carbonaro's birthday and I asked why Peter wasn't there helping celebrate. "I slipped out for this." His expression remained blank but I couldn't imagine he wasn't regretting the decision.
Shequida called the finalists to the stage. Only four minutes left to save us from this world of misery. It is hot and I want to go home. There is nothing here to get for Jonathan. What a waste of two hours of my life. The tickets are given out. One of the guys seems to have won solely on his looks. Good for him. The appointed hour arrives and everyone rushes upstairs to line up for CDs. I head for the door.
Well, I figure as I head outside into the cool night air, I will email Jonathan the photos and video so he will know that he didn't miss anything. I had considered standing in line to get a CD but the line was insanely long and after yesterday's fourteen hour flight home, all I want to do is go home and go to bed. I can get the CD tomorrow when it won't be an hour long wait in line. I feel bad that I am leaving empty-handed but at least I know for certain that Jonathan didn't miss anything by not being there. My text messages to him all evening have made the point clear, but the photographic evidence will seal the deal later, CSI style.
On the train home, I upload the photos and video and start my blog. Peter was right. What could I possibly say that would be interesting? Then I get a simple and final text from Jonathan "ps Peter got me a poster." Suddenly I am incensed! Where? WHERE???? There were no posters. There was NOTHING. My mind scans through mental images of the crowd at Virgin, coming up empty again and again. They must have been selling them with the CDs at the end of the endless line I refused to stand in. So now it's the worst possible outcome for the evening. Not only did I waste two hours of my life, but I didn't even get the one thing I was sent there to get. And someone else did. Now I am a douche. I could have had the same outcome just going home on time. I guess it is true that no good deed goes unpunished.
But at least now, Peter, I have something to blog about.
I don't have a good answer. Peter Stickles is standing next to me, looking up blankly at the stage. I am transfixed by a bedazzled dragon on his neck. I should have taken a picture of that instead of the bowls of dime store candy on the table next to me. It is ten minutes before Madonna's new album Hard Candy is due to be released and Peter is waiting next to me in the basement of the Virgin Megastore in Times Square. His neck is the most interesting thing I have seen in the last two hours.
Originally, Jonathan had wanted me to join him at the midnight release so that we could pick up the new album and he could try to win tickets to see her free concert at Roseland on Wednesday night. But then he had to go out of town at the last minute and asked me to still go so I could pick him up a poster or something other cool giveaway stuff. So after the show tonight, I bundled myself off to Virgin and waiting for the excitement to happen. The excitement that never came.
When I arrived just after ten, drag queen and part time Tyra Banks enthusiast Shequida was presiding over the "talent" show that was supposed to constitute entry to win tickets. Everyone had 30 seconds to wow the panel of judges, none of whom I recognized immediately. The talent most often displayed was a gushing insistence of urgent homosexuality followed by the certainty of impending doom if somehow begging alone wasn't enough to get into the show. Ten minutes of this and I was certain that my idea of stringing together 30 seconds worth of Madonna lyrics from two dozen hits into a plea for tickets would have been a guaranteed winner.
I tried to take video and pictures of the event with my phone and send them immediately to Jonathan in Florida but my phone was not cooperating. So I went back to my office and picked up my camera and backpack and headed in for round two. Immediately upon arriving, I ran into DJ Corey Craig, one of the judges. I asked him how it was going and he just rolled his eyes in disgust. Apparently the talent had not improved during my thirty minute break. I stationed myself behind him at the judging table where I snapped some quick photos of him texting his friends, the other judges looking at anything but the contestants, and the sad bowls of candy.
Moments later, I noticed Peter standing nearby. He looked as cute as always. His skin is like that was a baby. I know he is older than sixteen but he doesn't look it. Tonight was Michael Carbonaro's birthday and I asked why Peter wasn't there helping celebrate. "I slipped out for this." His expression remained blank but I couldn't imagine he wasn't regretting the decision.
Shequida called the finalists to the stage. Only four minutes left to save us from this world of misery. It is hot and I want to go home. There is nothing here to get for Jonathan. What a waste of two hours of my life. The tickets are given out. One of the guys seems to have won solely on his looks. Good for him. The appointed hour arrives and everyone rushes upstairs to line up for CDs. I head for the door.
Well, I figure as I head outside into the cool night air, I will email Jonathan the photos and video so he will know that he didn't miss anything. I had considered standing in line to get a CD but the line was insanely long and after yesterday's fourteen hour flight home, all I want to do is go home and go to bed. I can get the CD tomorrow when it won't be an hour long wait in line. I feel bad that I am leaving empty-handed but at least I know for certain that Jonathan didn't miss anything by not being there. My text messages to him all evening have made the point clear, but the photographic evidence will seal the deal later, CSI style.
On the train home, I upload the photos and video and start my blog. Peter was right. What could I possibly say that would be interesting? Then I get a simple and final text from Jonathan "ps Peter got me a poster." Suddenly I am incensed! Where? WHERE???? There were no posters. There was NOTHING. My mind scans through mental images of the crowd at Virgin, coming up empty again and again. They must have been selling them with the CDs at the end of the endless line I refused to stand in. So now it's the worst possible outcome for the evening. Not only did I waste two hours of my life, but I didn't even get the one thing I was sent there to get. And someone else did. Now I am a douche. I could have had the same outcome just going home on time. I guess it is true that no good deed goes unpunished.
But at least now, Peter, I have something to blog about.
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