Know you think you're special when we dance real crazy
So as it happened, I lucked into a free ticket to one of the hottest shows in town this week: Lady Gaga. And it was hot in so many ways: insanely expensive, sexually charged, hot in physical temperature, throbbing with a crowd of devotees walking around in everything from underpants to bubble dresses. It was something else, mainly a lot of fun.
One of the awesome and refreshing parts of the whole experience was the crowd. Gaga's reigned in a new realm of freaks; where the outcasts and misfits once had goth and glam rock, the new alternative flock to this lady like she's the Virgin Mary. I sat between two twenty-something friends and two ten year old girls, behind two teenage boys and next to a man waving a crutch in the air. As word spread that I was attending the show, more than one person told me I'd have a shit ton of fun at "gay church" (I did).
The insanity was electric: grown men made the signature little monster claw gesture, the crowd on their feet the entire time, fist pumping and singing along to every song, taking breaks to collectively cheer for equal rights. The show was surprisingly entertaining as well, though, not really youth appropro. She swore up a storm, bathed in a blood fountain, dressed like a nun with pastie crosses on her breasts. With a corps of twenty or so dancers, she bump and grinded her way through the show.
I'm not going to debate of the merit of her music, because it's something to dance to, not Iron & Wine. And there's no way I'd pay the exorbitant prices to take part in that party. But it was pure guilty pleasure to lose myself in dancing for an evening, and it was long overdue.