MaDoNnA

If I'm very lucky, at a concert once in awhile, I'll get that feeling of vertigo. It's something that’s hard to explain: It’s like I get lost in the music and can’t find my way out and don’t really want to. I destabilize.

For me, the moment came again during “Like a Prayer” at Madonna’s MDNA Tour. It’s not like this came as a shock that this song was a highlight for me since it's always had such a resonance to me and is a big part of why I became the fan I did. Somewhere in the middle of it, with Madonna at the point of the catwalk doing the “Just like a prayer/ I'll take you there” breakdown, I felt that emotional vertigo. I was screaming and dancing and singing every word with my throat already raw but I was close to tears or something like them. It was undiluted euphoria. It’s the power of that song for me: Every time I hear it, I get caught up in that emotional undertow. There were no real gimmicks to that song; no new remixes. She just sang the hell out of it, getting the packed Wells Fargo Center on its feet. 

I very much enjoyed the show and there were no songs I didn’t like. The tour is a definite step up from Sticky and Sweet, which had a lot of dead spots. The costumes were a notable improvement over the last outing. Madonna moved and sang well and seemed very happy and relaxed. As it was the first show in America (fun fact: Philadelphia is the only city in the world that Madonna has visited on every tour), she made plenty of references to being home and was happy to be back in a country with freedom of speech, referencing the recent oppression of dissidents and gays in Russia.

“In my country, we have freedom of speech, freedom of expression,” she said. “Never forget how lucky you are to live where you live … Don’t get fat and lazy and take that freedom for granted.”

The concert started on a dark and violent note but I thought the gunplay was cartoony and nothing more offensive than in any movie. Madonna was silhouetted behind a confessional booth wearing a crown and a veil and following religious chants, the swinging of a giant incense censer and an Act of Contrition, she made her grand entrance in a pushup bra and waving a gun around, looking like a character from Faster Pussycat Kill Kill. This was for “Girl Gone Wild,” a song from MDNA that I don’t like but that was effective live. The gunplay continued for “Gang Bang,” set in a Quentin Tarantino-esque motel room, with Madonna swigging whiskey out of the bottle and tussling with her opponents before shooting them. Madonna’s voice had a feral growl that was hair-raising.

There was a penance of sorts after with a shortened version of “Papa Don't Preach,” and it was nice to hear the warmth in this song. My one complaint about a few of the songs is that they were a little abbreviated and she didn't really “finish.” But I guess for “Papa Don't Preach,” it worked at this stage of her career to cut out the “keeping my baby” lines and focus more on the rebellion aspect of the song. My only other complaint was that the sound was muddy but maybe that was my seats. I’ll be happy to have a bootleg or DVD to get a clearer idea of the sonic details.

Things lightened up considerably shortly afterwards, with the performers decked out in red-and-white cheerleader uniforms, with a marching band suspended from the ceiling. She did a kick-ass version of “Express Yourself,” incorporating a few lines of Lady Gaga’s “Born This Way” to emphasize the similarity between the songs. This was deliciously mischievous but the attention paid to this “fight” between the singers buried the lead: She performed “Express Yourself.” “Give Me All Your Luvin” was more fun than I expected, since I think it's kind of an insipid song.

Soon after, there was a real treat: A rare performance of “Open Your Heart” for the first time since 1990. She did this as a stripped down, gentle, almost tribal song with the Kalakan trio singing backup. It was really lovely and warm and I was thrilled that I finally got to hear this song live. The subsequent “Masterpiece” was better than I expected (the stunning ballad “Love Spent” should have gone here) with Madonna and Kalakan creating gorgeous harmonies.

A Madonna show always provides an original video to serve as a backdrop during a costume or set change and this time out it was a new “Justify My Love” video. As a sort of update to the original, Madonna cavorted and acted as a voyeur in various states of undress to an eerie remix of the song. This transitioned to “Vogue,” maybe my favorite performance of this song ever. She brought back the infamous cone bra, only this time it was this black wire bra and corset that fit like an exoskeleton over a white dress shirt, long black gloves and black men's pants. I adored this look and this performance. “Vogue” was always had some indefinable magic for me and this performance really captured that. 

After that, the singer stripped down from her corset of armor, metaphorically and literally. I was surprised how good “Candy Shop” was since it was my biggest complaint going in about the setlist. The song had more of a jazzy, loungy vibe and it helped that she inserted a few lines of “Erotica,” which got the crowd roaring (though she also could have just performed the fan-favorite “Erotica”). By the end of the defiant “Human Nature,” Madonna had stripped down to her bra and was emotionally vulnerable for a very different performance of “Like a Virgin.” She sang this as a heartfelt ballad to a piano and violin in her very deepest register, rolling around a little on the floor like a more heartbroken and world-weary version of the girl who writhed on the floor in 1984. It was a very unusual performance and a daring way to invigorate the heard-it-a-million-times song. 

By the last section of the show, the emotional arc made sense to me. MDNA started in darkness and ended in redemption with the last few spiritually inclined songs. I've always thought “I'm Addicted” was like a dance floor prayer, with the lilting hymn-like quality of the verses before the chorus builds to an electrifying climax. This blew me away live, with Madonna dressed in this chainmail-like outfit, looking like Joan of Arc, with her and the dancers doing these precise martial-arts moves. The dance was almost like a spiritual meditation during the cacophony of the song. “I'm a Sinner” was a resolution of sorts, with the singer making peace with her human frailties. The end segued into a few verses of the old B-side “Cyberraga” with some beautiful harmonies. I was proud of myself because you know you’re a hardliner fan if you can sing along to a B-side in Hindi.

Then there was the catharsis of “Like a Prayer.” The last song, “Celebration,” was good, with the entire cast dancing on these lit-up cubes that popped up from the floor. But it was odd to have this song (which I never liked) as the ending because after “Like a Prayer,” there’s really nowhere to go.

As always, good show, Madonna.

A peek into my mindset

My mind is a tumult these days. With the Madonna concert and the shore both close enough to taste, I thought I’d give you a glimpse at what is going through my head.

Seatowne 14 Madonna MDNA sitting on the deck Like a Prayer deadline thunderstorm beach Vogue when did your name change from language to magic Johnny Walker Black Gang Bang 36 hours warm ocean Dogfish Head died for our sins it’s such a loss Shore Whore 12 days updating the website lose my voice cheerleaders packing sunset at the dock antsy to get out of here 36 hours Express Yourself four more days at work Grotto friends ribs Open Your Heart the glow of the radio towers across the bay tour program Rock Band Seatowne Olympics feed the cats cathedral I Don’t Give A when you call my name Madonna 12 days Setback Mad Libs rifle guests gave good face Food Lion 35 hours sunscreen rumored setlist changes outlets tear out of the office parking lot Fenwick Island Like a Virgin the lights go down king-size bed section 211 outta here outta here outta here MDNA Seatowne 14 MDNA Seatowne 14 MDNA Seatowne 14 MD14NA SeaMadonna Seeaaatownnnne144411 MANDNADANDNAMMMMMinuucr32923*(NLIN8yew8ho23ndklnlnlkdjiqw0wqk((999999kjkdjnkasdnaskd#30#

I had the most judgmental dream

I dreamed that I got a Christmas card dated April 26 from some family named the Clearys that we apparently knew in the dream world. I was insulted that they would not only send a Christmas card as late as April but that they would acknowledge it by putting a date on the card.

I tend to judge that sort of thing. I am mostly laissez-faire about manners but a few things bother me and I turn into a prim Victorian woman. If you can’t get your Christmas cards out by Christmas, don’t bother.

The card had a long note that someone in the family drowned one of their kids. This is not normally the sort of thing one expects to read in a Christmas card. It’s usually more along the lines of positive things that happened during the previous year, like graduations and vacations, not child murder. You’d think I would have heard of that tragic case on the news and wouldn’t need an update in a card saying my friend had killed someone. I guess that’s why they sent the card in April — the Clearys were probably busy with mourning and court appearances.

I tend to judge that sort of thing, too — drowning a child. Sometimes you’ll heard about something horrible and someone will warn you not to judge but I think sometimes there’s nothing wrong with a little righteous judgment.

I think of when that guy witnessed the child rape in the Penn State showers and didn’t tackle Jerry Sandusky. Some people said, “Don’t judge because you don’t know how you’d act in that situation.” One might say the same thing about the guy at the Dark Knight Rises shooting who left his girlfriend and child to escape. He drove off and didn’t come back until she called him, so for all he knew she and the kid were dead.

Fair enough: You really don’t know how you’re going to act in a traumatic situation. But if I ever act like an ass and leave kids in harm’s way, judge me. Judge the shit out of me. I’d deserve it.

Electoral Dealbreakers

I was in my hotel in Washington, DC, last week, half-watching the news. It was one election commercial after another, with the Obama and Romney campaigns sniping endlessly. Given that there are still almost three months of this level of hell to endure, I thought: We need to shut this shit down.

We need one of the candidates to make a gaffe so huge that the campaigning can end immediately and we can all retain our sanity. There would still be an election in November and the results would be technically up for grabs but one candidate would screw up so badly that both sides would figure the results are in the bag and would stop airing commercials. I started thinking of what kind of dealbreakers would tip the election either way. For fun, let’s think of some hypothetical scenarios for this election and recent elections. (No, I’m saying any of these candidates would actually do these things.)

At a campaign rally at a Catholic high school in Ohio, President Obama snorts a line of cocaine off a hooker’s tits.

During the Republican convention, Mitt Romney introduces his “most important platform” and shows a 17-minute video of child porn.

Hillary Clinton calls Obama the N-word during a debate. This wouldn’t be just a murmur one could plausibly deny. She’d scream, “You’re dead wrong, you fucking N-word!”

Cindy McCain shows up at a campaign speech with a black eye and her arm in a sling.

President Bush falls off the wagon and goes to a debate blind drunk. He waves around the nuclear football and challenges Iran to a duel.

When pressed by an interviewer, John Kerry literally cannot find America on a map. He points vaguely to Scandinavia.

Dick Cheney interrupts all TV broadcasts, appearing live from an undisclosed location, a white cat in his lap. He announces that he has invented a device that lets him control the weather.

At the National Archives, Sarah Palin rips up an original copy of the Constitution and shrieks, “Fight the real enemy.”

Rick Santorum gets caught in an all-male orgy at Fox News headquarters.

Under Al Gore’s tax plan, everyone who owes can just make the check out to “Al Gore.”

Joe Biden shows up naked to a debate and recites the script of Equus.

John Edwards cheats on his cancer-stricken wife and fathers a love child.

Oh, wait …

K-Stew & R-Patz

I don’t care on any level about the breakup of Robert Pattinson and Kristen Stewart. I have no interest in either of these people. I have never had any interest in these people. I am not on Team Robert or Team Kristen. I cannot imagine any situation in which I will be interested in these celebrities at any point in the future or in any alternate future. I have never read or seen any of the Twilight books or movies and never plan on doing so. The romantic relationship between these two people, or lack thereof, has absolutely no bearing whatsoever on my life. It does not affect any physical, psychological, intellectual or social aspect of my being. I am completely and totally uninterested in any of the confirmed or speculated details about Stewart’s affair. The male partner in her dalliance, as well as the timing and place, is of no concern to me on a moral or any other level. I have complete and total torpor toward Pattinson’s reaction to the affair or his subsequent state of mind. Whether or not he eats pints of ice cream directly from the carton or addresses his heartbreak on talk shows is beneath my notice. Likewise, I have an adamant apathy vis-à-vis Stewart’s mental state or potential level of despair following the altercation. On a more practical note, I remain un-impacted regarding whether or not Stewart will be removed from the Snow White sequel due to her infidelity. I am not intrigued by the love lives of these people on a personal level, on an ironic level, as a novelty, as camp, as kitsch, as cautionary example, as a morality play, as celebrity gossip, as Schadenfreude, as a reflection of contemporary values or as an insight into the machinery of Hollywood. There is an impressive litany of matters, both portentous and picayune, in which I am more invested than the status of Pattinson and Stewart, although listing those matters would involve an impressive amount of time and space. If I could visually represent my interest in this celebrity couple, the resulting graphic would be too small to detect with the naked eye. My disinterest in these two is so extreme that if one were to graph it, it would appear as a black hole, sucking in all light around it and threatening to pull my interest in more relevant topics down with it. I have a total lack of caring so powerful that it extends retroactively into the past so I have never have read any article or seen any photo of Robert Pattinson and Kristen Stewart. It would take a major act of will for me to give a shit — an act of will so mammoth that it would kill me. My disinterest is immense. It is legion. It is immutable. To sum up: I just. Don’t. Care.

I want my stuff

Lately I’ve read a bunch of articles about people living in small spaces. There’s some kind of program in New York City to make very small apartments available to people and I’ve read about people living in 300-square-foot apartments and things like that. These people have structured their lives and arranged their space so they can live in glorified broom closets. They tout the benefits of living lighter with less clutter.

And I want nothing to do with it. I did my time in my first apartment, which was small (although it did have a dining room and space on the back porch, so maybe it wasn’t as tiny as I remember) and I am not going back. I don’t need a starter mansion but it’s not too much to ask to have a second floor and a little extra display space for knickknacks and whatnot.

I’d like a little more room than our rowhome, of course. A backyard would be great. My dream is to have a library where I would have floor-to-ceiling shelves to store all our books and records and mementoes. Or maybe an extra room that we don’t even name because we already have rooms that fulfill every function we need. Oh, and a second bathroom would be delightful.

I once read about a couple in New York that lived in some absurdly tiny space. It was not much more than a bed and toilet. They had no space for clothes so they kept extra clothes at the office and changed there and just dry cleaned everything. They didn’t eat there but just ate every meal out and were always out.

I’ll pass. I guess I’m getting old but I’m more of a homebody. I don’t need to piss away my money at bars and restaurants all the time. I like to eat out, too, but it would be insanely expensive and I it makes no sense to me to use cheaper rent to subsidize the cost. Staying out all the time would exhaust me. At a certain point, I just want to go home and hang out. I need some comfortable home base where I can put my feet up. A decent home is security and there are few things that are more psychologically important for me than my security.

Possessions are not the most important things in the world but I just like having my stuff around me. I like having access to the things I own. That’s why I can tend to over-pack on vacation: I like knowing that if I want to wear a certain shirt or read a certain book, they’re with me. That’s why I am opposed to cloud computing. I’ll back up my own files but I would like to have them on some kind of hard drive that I can access without relying on some third party that could very well go out of business.

Possessions are fleeting but I’ve acquired a lot over the years and a lot of it has sentimental value. If I stay on the sane side of the hoarding divider, is it asking too much to have a nice place with enough space where I have these possessions in easy reach? 

More thoughts about the Olympics that I am having

Oscar Pistorius is simply amazing. People throw around the word “inspiring” for things that sometimes are not inspiring but this guy actually is an inspiration.

I barely noticed before but now the podiums for the silver and bronze medals are on the same level. This is bullshit. It’s unfair to the silver winner to be at the same level of the bronze winner because even though 0.001 seconds might separate them, that still means something to people on the Olympic level and the podium, even if it’s only symbolic, should reflect that. I hope nobody did this in a misguided attempt not to hurt people’s feelings. These are tested Olympians and I think they can handle being third place in the world. Maybe the podium is just that way because it’s easier to build it with two levels instead of three.

There has been a lot of discussion about the media attention on Lolo Jones, who finished fourth in hurdles. Then Dawn Harper and Kellie Wells, who finished silver and bronze, wondered in an interview why nobody paid more attention to them. They have a point. I wonder how many athletes have intriguing stories but get less coverage than the perceived stars of the Olympics.

It’s anticlimactic that two United States teams played in the women’s beach volleyball finals. There’s no suspense in knowing our country gets gold either way. Each country should only have one team per event. Also, in a bracketed event, I guess the loser of the finals gets silver but how they determine who gets the bronze? 

I like watching countries that never win anything win medals. It was fun to see the Grenadians go crazy when one of their countrymen won a medal. For whatever reason, I enjoy watching the Jamaicans win their events.

It’s so refreshing to see Gabby Douglas’ million-dollar smile. She stands out because she actually looks happy. The rest of the gymnasts look like they’re terrified to go home; like if you make any sudden moves, they’ll run away. I cannot tell most of these women apart. They look like identical fawns with ponytails and glitter makeup. There’s something creepy about it.

I don’t like the gymnasts’ rhinestone fuchsia uniforms. They should go back to the iconic red, white and blue leotards of Mary Lou Retton’s days. I should be able to tell they’re American without having to squint to see the little flag.

I don’t care for the cultural reports NBC does. These shouldn’t happen in prime time because there are too many sports highlights to show. I didn’t have a burning need to watch a report on bagpipes. If they want to deliver feature-type stuff, they should stick with the weepy reports on athletes’ backgrounds. I am a sucker for these.

It was entertaining to see the debate over whether that rower had a boner during his medal ceremony (he says no). Hey, I wouldn’t blame him if he had been erect. If you can’t sport a chub during your Olympic medal ceremony, when can you?

Congratulations to Michael Phelps. But now I have no desire to watch any more interviews with him or his mother. Enough. 

Like other Americans, I by default root for the U.S. But I wouldn’t care if the men’s basketball team lost. I have no desire to see Kobe Bryant get another accolade. I also don’t have any interest in watching the basketball games because I could see a season of that if I actually cared about the sport. At the Olympics, I like watching sports I never watch otherwise, like swimming or fencing or shotput.

Huh. So that’s what a velodrome is.