Operation Keep Elly Distracted seems to be in full effect. I can’t count the number of amusing emails people have sent over the past couple of days with the subject of “made me think of you.” It’s some weird shit.
My reply? I think that if that made you think of me then clearly you think I’m not a clear thinking thinker. That’s what I think.
Before this gets any worse. You might want to just give up now and go read about today’s Craftastrophe find. There are red glittery nipples involved. There should ALWAYS be red glittery nipples involved.
Still here? Well you asked for it. This showed up in my email this morning with the note, “Hoping this pic will spark something in you.” Oh do I have comments I’d love to share, but I don’t think that’s allowed considering I currently (Get it? Current? As in electrical current? Cue Fozzy Bear.) have a Catholic saint buried upside down in a planter on my stoop. Now is not the time for me to go pissing off any possible deities.
Speaking of St Joe, I dug him up yesterday and gave him a very spirited (look ANOTHER pun) pep-talk before the open house. He didn’t appear very moved, but then again he’s a mud-caked phallus-shaped wad of plastic with super powers. I haven’t dealt with many of those, so recognizing any sort of change in his hard plastic countenance isn’t exactly in my skill set. Clearly I need a Catholic interpreter.
Yeah, no one’s put in an offer yet. I think my St Joe is broken.
Yesterday, forced to vacate my apartment for six hours while strangers went through my closets under the guise of an “Open House,” I traipsed into Manhattan to enjoy some lunch and catch a show. Within half an hour and a five block radius, I amassed an impressive number of celebrity sightings. I saw Elvis, King Tut, some stranger I didn’t recognize signing autographs outside a limo, and Elmo. Some days, you just have to love New York.
Even when she smells pungent enough to rival Dirty Jersey’s worst low tide.
But I braved the smell because I never pass up free tickets. And I’d been evicted. But let’s focus on the positives and the free tickets, shall we?
Last night’s cultural adventure was Girls Night: The Musical. The basic premise is five gals (only one of them dead) get together for a night on the town at a Karaoke bar to celebrate dead girl’s daughter’s engagement. Dizzy yet? You should try and process all that while sipping a vodka soda as a disco ball spins directly above your head.
I spotted exactly three men in the audience. Those men each had a commanding knowledge of Donna Summer’s song book and a deep appreciation for precision tailoring if you catch my drift. The fella behind me was particularly adorable as he sang along while the cast belted out “I Will Survive.”
The show was…amusing. I would have loved it if only I had consumed more cocktails. And if they hadn’t insisted on that whole plot thing. And I was sitting in Justin Timberlake’s lap. And I had an attention span of more than fifteen minutes.
But then intermission happened and things got exciting. The bathroom attendant, a small, older black woman with blond dreadlocks peeking out from beneath her pink crocheted beret, entertained us with song and witty commentary while we peed. With our newly liberated bladders, we bee-lined for the bar, stopping only briefly to peruse the lipstick vibrators and feather boas available for purchase.
As we placed our orders, the MC asked the crowd if there were, “Any single ladies in the house tonight?” The first notes of “Single Ladies” filled the room, and the singing fella immediately behind our seats leapt into the aisle and started working it – HARD. He had the entire dance memorized to perfection. Within moments, the MC had Beyonce’s doppelganger working the stage before a screaming crowd of women and two gay men. I felt like I was watching a YouTube sensation in the making.
Obviously I totally made out with him for the entire second act. When NPH finally realizes he needs to be my new BFF, I’m totally going to hook those two up on a blind date. Then every Friday night will be just like an episode of Glee, but with less pubescent hormones. Slightly less.
After the dead character rambled off some monologue in an attempt to wrap up the lose ends of the story that I wasn’t really following, she announced they had a special surprise for us that evening. I slurped my empty vodka soda impatiently, debating my next cocktail.
And then? Would you believe who climbed onto the stage? Mrs Motherfucking Gloria Goddamned Gaynor herself! I thought the sweaty Beyonce-doppelganger behind us might pass out with excitement…or dehydration. It could have gone either way, I suppose. I’m pretty sure he actually squealed. Though, that might have been me.
She still looks good, Interwebz. She sounds even better. She killed “I Will Survive.” The good kind of killed, not the Whitney Houston kind of killed.
She’s also very strong. I know this because she and her security guys sorta plowed over me as they tried to work their way to the rear of the building. Who knew disco queens had such pointy elbows?
So by the end of the night my celebrity sighting list was Elvis, King Tut, some stranger I didn’t recognize signing autographs outside a limo, Elmo, AND Gloria Gaynor. And yes, because it needs to be said – when Gloria plowed into me I stumbled, but I did not crumble, nor did I lay down and die. Oh no, not I.