The Queen took the stage in a flimsy burnoose of chartreuse, beaded, of course. She was wearing a yellow wig that was a tad scary. But then she opened her mouth and the sound of angels was heard in Boca.
Her upper register was a bit shaky, but that meant nothing when you heard the velvet and honey of the lower register. She treated us to her classics, her new music, a little gospel and a little Puccini.
The audience was wild. There was way too much bad white girl dancing, and I don't mean bad girls, I mean bad dancing. There was the escapee from the go-go cage. There was a mother and daughter where the mother had on a white mini skirt and kept shaking something that looked like a sack of wet sandbags. It wasn't pretty. Nor was it moving enough to look like a sack of puppies. Nope. Wet sandbags were hidden under that mini.
There were a couple of terrifying visions: a woman with Suzanne Somers hair (circa 1988) fried, teased, bleached, fried, stiffened with unknown substances and pulled into a fetching pony tail over her left eyebrow. Another woman in what had to be her daughter's quince dress. Or maybe her granddaughter's bad prom dress. Mini. Black. Chiffon drape in white across the bust and over the shoulders into a mini train-like thing. Worn with white (WHITE!!! It wasn't Memorial Day, yet, babe) high-heeled mules. EEK!
Sitting in front of us was something I never thought I would ever see: two gay men who couldn't dance. Lord knows, they tried. It looked like one of them was receiving electroshock therapy. They both had enormous heads. I couldn't even see Miss Aretha, and let me tell you, she is a large, large woman. But those two jokers with the beachball sized craniums completely blocked my view of the stage. If only they had blocked the view of the woman with the sandbags.
Finally, I have this to say about Boca: $11 for a Washington Red Apple? Are you kidding me? And not even Crown Royal? Granted, it was tasty, but eleven fucking dollars? Are you charging me for the attitude? Because when I asked to be seated in the "no screaming baby, no cell phone" section, the Barbie Doll at the desk gave me a look that was meant to kill. Sorry, sweetiedarling, but I've been giving that look since before you were born, and that stare of yours didn't even curl my hair. But I bet the word I called you back gave you a little start.
Her upper register was a bit shaky, but that meant nothing when you heard the velvet and honey of the lower register. She treated us to her classics, her new music, a little gospel and a little Puccini.
The audience was wild. There was way too much bad white girl dancing, and I don't mean bad girls, I mean bad dancing. There was the escapee from the go-go cage. There was a mother and daughter where the mother had on a white mini skirt and kept shaking something that looked like a sack of wet sandbags. It wasn't pretty. Nor was it moving enough to look like a sack of puppies. Nope. Wet sandbags were hidden under that mini.
There were a couple of terrifying visions: a woman with Suzanne Somers hair (circa 1988) fried, teased, bleached, fried, stiffened with unknown substances and pulled into a fetching pony tail over her left eyebrow. Another woman in what had to be her daughter's quince dress. Or maybe her granddaughter's bad prom dress. Mini. Black. Chiffon drape in white across the bust and over the shoulders into a mini train-like thing. Worn with white (WHITE!!! It wasn't Memorial Day, yet, babe) high-heeled mules. EEK!
Sitting in front of us was something I never thought I would ever see: two gay men who couldn't dance. Lord knows, they tried. It looked like one of them was receiving electroshock therapy. They both had enormous heads. I couldn't even see Miss Aretha, and let me tell you, she is a large, large woman. But those two jokers with the beachball sized craniums completely blocked my view of the stage. If only they had blocked the view of the woman with the sandbags.
Finally, I have this to say about Boca: $11 for a Washington Red Apple? Are you kidding me? And not even Crown Royal? Granted, it was tasty, but eleven fucking dollars? Are you charging me for the attitude? Because when I asked to be seated in the "no screaming baby, no cell phone" section, the Barbie Doll at the desk gave me a look that was meant to kill. Sorry, sweetiedarling, but I've been giving that look since before you were born, and that stare of yours didn't even curl my hair. But I bet the word I called you back gave you a little start.