The Lady Mosiman goes Ga Ga

To commemorate Sydney's recent graduation, Savannah thoughtfully got her sister tickets to see Lady Gaga. "Wouldn't it be super-extra special if you took Daddy and me with you as well," I suggested, knowing that having us along would add the necessary glamour-cool cred that the girls are still lacking. "You didn't even know who Lady Gaga was until Mrs. Harris sang Alejandro non-stop to you for a week," Savannah accused. She was right, I recalled fondly. "Mrs. Harris also taught me how to properly pronounce Costa Rica," I said, "Are you saying I don't have any right to visit Costa Rica too?" "Show me where Costa Ricca is located on a map," Savannah replied smugly, rolling her r's expertly, "and then we'll talk."

Anyhoo, I successfully weaseled my way into scoring some sweet Lady Gaga tickets. The show was last night. Poor Brad had to work so we invited Sydney's friend Sam to join us at the last minute. I was so happy for her, all day long. "Just imagine," I told Savannah, "when Sam woke up this morning, she had no idea that she was going to see The Lady Gaga." Our prompt 7:30 arrival was awarded by two hours of pre-show entertainment where we sat and stared in confusion as the 5-girl Korean band, Crayon Pop, armed with giant glow sticks, danced in synchronized precision like a human piston engine. Wearing helmets (I looked up at the auditorium's ceiling with concern but it appeared stable), the girls enthusiastically encouraged audience participation so I passionately yelled my vowels while Savannah pouted. A disc jockey wearing professional office attire who enjoyed flapping her hands was next. "Shouldn't she be wearing some sort of gothie-looking outfit," I asked, wondering if she was hot as she continued fanning her face frantically. "You have completely invalidated the entire concept of goth by calling it gothie," Sydney explained as the sound of a submarine inexplicably joined the kidney-jarring bass, "plus this show is all about not typecasting people." I sighed, eyeing up the stage curtain. "Do you smell french fries with ketchup," I asked, elbowing Savannah who had repeatedly told me that we shouldn't arrive promptly to scheduled concerts. She perked up like a gopher and we scanned the crowd that I was valiantly trying NOT to typecast. "There," I squealed, "between the middle-aged muffin-tops wearing bandannas and the row of drunk twenty-year-olds who keep lifting their left legs up over their heads for what I presume will eventually become their Christmas card portrait." Savannah squinted, "No, those are chicken tenders." During the subsequent forty-five minute interval where I alternately flapped like a floundering chicken and sniffed out french fries, I realized that The Lady Gaga was a marketing genius. At this point, I would have paid ANY amount for french fries with ketchup. Unfortunately, I was practically paralyzed by my fear that I would miss the beginning of the concert.

And then...there she was and I temporarily forgot about french fries with ketchup. I've discovered that it's NOT a Lady Gaga concert if you are not completely confused the entire time. "Do you think she had to pay George Lucas royalty rights for using his set design for Tatooine," I screamed, tossing an imaginary lasso up over my head. It wasn't until I had tired myself out that I noticed the phallic nature of the structure. "Is that a giant nipple on the front of her bodysuit," I asked, giving my own behind a mighty whack while galloping in place. Savannah inched away from me, giving me more room to flail about. The wardrobe changes were impressive although I'm not sure that changing into varying degrees of thong-coverage actually constitutes as a wardrobe change. I loved the wigs, especially the sexy brown Barbarella one. At one point, Lady Gaga burst forth,

outfitted within her own specially-fitted balloon sculpture. "Is she making some sort of commentary about latex," I bellowed, now shadow-boxing tiredly while Savannah wrestled with Sydney in an attempt to change places with her. The final wardrobe change quickly quieted the audience as the singer faced into the stage and was stripped naked (in a very tasteful way) with her quirky crew maneuvering her into her final fabulous outfit. Abandoning my fist-pump technique until my upper-arm toning regiment kicked in, I paused to reflect upon The Lady Gaga's unique way of communicating with her fans. Call me old-fashioned (if you actually call me "old-fashioned," I'll resurrect the fist-pump technique in a hurry), but I have become accustomed to hearing the f-word used in mostly negative circumstances. You know, when the bank heartlessly comes to take your family farm after a plague of locusts destroyed the crop that had miraculously survived a hail storm that lamed one of your plowing oxen. But The Lady Gaga transformed the f-word into a complimentary adjective that was almost (when I could keep from twitching) pleasing to the ear. I'm thinking about the application of this trend in the classroom setting. "Susie-Q, that is the finest f-ing paragraph that I have ever seen. Good f-ing job!" For the finale, I had switched over to my stand-by "Peanuts" move: arms stretched down the length of the body, palms extended out perpendicular, left shoulder up then right then left while hopping from foot-to-foot with my neck tilting attractively from side-to-side. I noticed that the girls were checking out my routine with admiration. "I think it's time to go," Savannah said, grabbing my arm. I glanced back for a last glimpse of Lady Gaga. "C'mon Mom, we'll get you some french fries."