Instead of milling around, most people were in their seats by 7:30pm; I’m presuming because, like us, they didn’t want to miss anything. Well, we had plenty of time, as the sold-out show began 15 minutes late. In lieu of an opening act, the concert started with a 30-minute overture that consisted of pictures, photographs, and video clips scrolling on two giant screens as Paul McCartney/Beatles’ songs played in the background. The effect was interesting, but my husband regretted not getting in line to buy us drinks. By the time Paul opened the show by singing Venus and Mars/Rock Show/Jet, the guy next to me had elbowed me in the side one time, and I was sick to my stomach from his super sweet pot. Thanks for the contact high, asshole.

After singing a few songs, Paul talked about when he and the Beatles appeared at the Hollywood Bowl “about a million years ago.” (They played their last show there in 1965.) Then Paul stopped the show and took center stage to, he said, “Take a moment to drink this in.” He stared at the audience. Subtext: I will continue the show once I receive enough applause from you peons out there. Once everyone understood his message, we all started clapping. My husband and I, who have seen many pop/rock legends in concert (e.g., Queen, Madonna), looked at each other. I whispered, “What the hell?” My husband replied, “What an egomaniac!”
Although I was disgusted by his arrogance, I also admired Paul because he proved to us just how powerful he was. Though I couldn’t help thinking, if he were secure in himself, he wouldn’t need to demand applause on cue. He even told stories about girls screaming so loudly during concerts that he and the guys couldn’t hear each other sing. Taking the hint, two blonde Playboy types in the front row shrieked until their dark roots showed. Paul smiled.

To be fair, when Paul shut up and sang, the effect was wonderful. I was bouncing up and down in my seat to Drive My Car, and the graphics behind the band were fantastic. Let Me Roll It, a blue-jazzy number, had me rolling my neck, swinging my arms, and swaying my hips. The Long and Winding Road featured pictures of beautiful landscapes. Paul dedicated My Love, a song he originally wrote for Linda, to “all the lovers in the house.” However the strong emphasis on the last two words at the end of the song, “to me” made me wonder about their love affair. Was it all about him all the time?

Paul may be at his best when he picks up an acoustic guitar and sings a cappella. Here Today, a song he wrote for John after he died, brought tears to my eyes. Paul’s voice sounded smooth yet emotional; few artists today have that kind of raw talent. Even though Paul’s show had the bells and whistles of a modern-day concert, he didn’t need them and that is refreshing. Paul masters whatever instrument he is playing whether it is the piano or the guitar. Paul even played George’s ukulele to perform Something—a dedication to George who wrote the song.

During Sing the Changes, shooting stars turned into an image of President Obama behind the band to which my husband said, “That’s too bad because it’s a good song.” Paul picked up the pace with Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da, which had people jumping and singing even if they only knew the “Life goes on” part. He kept up the energy with Back in the USSR; unfortunately, the sound tech cranked up the lead guitar, and it overpowered Paul’s voice. Paul shared a story about meeting the head of Russian defense years ago. The man said to him, “We learn English from your music. Hello. Goodbye.”

My husband wasn’t a fan of Paperback Writer, but I thought the graphics were cool—novel covers about naughty nurses. The concert exploded during Live and Let Die, as fireworks and pyrotechnics lit up the sky. The show “ended” too predictably with Hey Jude, but of course, there were two planned encores, which I think are ridiculous. Paul thanked the sound guy Pablo and the video crew, but he failed to introduce his band, which both my husband and I found odd. Perhaps it was an oversight, or maybe Paul stopped acknowledging other musicians after the Beatles broke up. I mean, why bother when it’s all about you.

I thought it was funny (and perhaps sad) that a man who used to get women’s underwear thrown at him on stage got a teddy bear tossed to him during this show. Seeing that brown, fuzzy, stuffed animal and thinking about the soft, silky panties of the past has to make even Sir Paul, the unofficial king of England, feel old. Despite his over-the-top ego, Paul performed for an impressive two hours and forty minutes without taking one break. He closed the concert with a crowd favorite Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band.

We’re Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band
We hope you have enjoyed the show
Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band
We’re sorry but it’s time to go.

Thanks, Paul, I did enjoy the show, but every now and then when you feel so insecure—ask for help, not applause.

AWW — XoXo

P.S. To see all of the pictures that I took during the concert, visit my Picasa Photo Gallery. To view the set lists for the two Hollywood Bowl shows, visit Paul’s website.

Whenever I hear those words echo out of my car radio, I think two things: Is this my real life—the one without Adrienne? And is she talking to me right now? Queen was one of Adrienne’s favorite bands and even though “Bohemian Rhapsody” was not her favorite Queen song, whenever I hear it—especially the opening—I think of her, and lately, Queen seems to be following me everywhere.

Last month, just about the time I decided to buckle down and finish the second draft of my memoir, my husband commented, “Have you noticed we keep hearing a lot of Queen lately?” Indeed, I had. Whether we were in my car listening to Los Angeles radio stations or in his car listening to XM Satellite radio, Queen seemed to sing to us as soon as we pushed the power button. From Jack FM to KLOS, Freddie, Brian, Roger, and John reminded me that I had made a commitment to myself. To my husband. To Adrienne. Are you ready? Hey, are you ready for this? I don’t know, but then the song continued … Are you happy? Are you satisfied? How long can you stand the heat? It is just a coincidence, I told myself as I turned off the radio.

No matter what your religious beliefs are, I think we all hope that there is some kind of afterlife. I mean, who wants to believe this is it? This one life. I couldn’t get up in the morning if I thought Adrienne was gone forever. While I don’t believe that heaven is above us and hell is beneath us, I do think there are other planes of existence. The year after she died, I felt Adrienne’s presence near me several times, but I haven’t “seen” or “felt” her in seven years. I have this theory that maybe where she is at, time moves slower. Maybe in her world, one day there is one year here, and in her mind, she has only been gone a week so there is no need to keep in touch.

However, my theory starts to fall apart when I hear Queen nonstop for three weeks, and I wonder if Adrienne is reaching out to me. Telling me to just do it. You’re ready, Sissy, yes you’re ready for it. You’re standing on your own two feet. Write our story. You have a dream—a vision. Finish your book. Your voice, your hope, it’s your decision. Fight your pain, she says. Be a Killer Queen. That’s what you taught me. I guarantee you’ll blow their minds.

It is me, Sissy. Listen …
Open your eyes
Look up to the skies and see
You’ll be successful
You need no sympathy
Because you’re tough as nails, tough as stone
Little high, little low
Anyway the wind blows
We’ll always be together you and me.

I want to believe in blue faeries. I want to believe that people actually win the Publisher’s Clearing House sweepstakes. I want to believe that one day I will live in my dream house in Gold Beach. I want to believe that the sudden barrage of Queen music is not a coincidence. But most of all, I want to believe Adrienne is out there and that some day we will be together again.

AWW — XoXo

Note: All of the italicized words are Queen lyrics or slightly altered Queen lyrics. This one is for you, Adrienne.

One by one
Only the Good die young
They’re only flying too close to the sun
And life goes on—
Without you …

Addendum
Hours after I wrote this post, I got into my car to go and tutor my students. I flipped the ignition switch, turned on the radio, and after less than a second, I heard the beginning notes of one of my favorite Queen songs “Somebody to Love.” The strange thing is that I was running late, yet the timing of the song was perfect. Stunned, I sat and listened. I have spent all my years in believing you … You’re okay, you’re alright. Ain’t gonna face no defeat. Okay, Adrienne, I hear you. I believe …

Soon after that party, I bought Thriller (on cassette), and later I joined Jackson in being Bad and Dangerous. I tried to imitate his dance moves, but I could barely muster the moonwalk. His music videos continued to astonish the world as well as set a standard that few other artists could touch. Even when his actions seemed strange: his constant need to be around children, the creation of Neverland Ranch, the endless shopping sprees, I (like many others) considered him to be an eccentric Peter Pan. His talent far outweighed any bizarre behavior so I accepted it.

However, my love affair with Jackson ended when the first allegations of child abuse surfaced in 1993. I remember seeing him on television being accosted by reporters and instead of feeling pity, a knot formed in my stomach. Although I’ve never been physically or sexually abused, I consider child abuse worse than murder. Not only are abused children more likely to suffer from psychiatric disorders, commit crimes, and develop drug and alcohol problems, but one out of three will victimize their own children. I never bought another Michael Jackson album because every time I looked at him, my body cringed. I even gave away my copy of Thriller because for years I couldn’t listen to the album that had shaped my childhood.

We’ll never know the truth about the first case because it did not go to trial; the plaintiff’s family settled for an undisclosed amount. When the second case of child molestation emerged in 2003, it seemed more suspect because the victim had already appeared on camera in the documentary Living with Michael Jackson. Holding hands, Jackson and the young teenage boy explained to Martin Bashir why sharing a bed was a beautiful thing. When I watched that segment of the show, goose bumps appeared along my arms as a chill went through my body. Two years later, Jackson was acquitted of all charges, but his image was forever tarnished due to his unorthodox lifestyle.

Though I consider Michael Jackson one of the most brilliant entertainers to have ever lived, he is still a fallible, troubled man who spent his entire adult life chasing the childhood he never had. I don’t think Jackson sodomized any children because I don’t believe he is a true pedophile: an adult who is sexually attracted to young children. In fact, Jackson has always struck me as being asexual. However, compared to our American standards of normal behavior, I am convinced that he was inappropriately affectionate toward young boys. We cannot forget that at a very young age, Jackson was physically abused, exposed to sexual acts (i.e., his older brothers having sex in the same hotel room), and exploited by older, authoritative figures. Therefore, he was predisposed to becoming an abuser.

When I heard the news of Jackson’s death, my first thought was not sadness or surprise, but relief for him. He was never going to escape the media scrutiny or the public’s adoration. Jackson often mentioned in interviews how painfully shy he was, which was ironic considering he was and will always be the King of Pop. No matter how many times he changed his face, Jackson never seemed entirely happy with the Man in the Mirror. Children, however, brought him joy, which may explain why he seemed bewildered by the accusations of molestation. Jackson even told Bashir that if children ceased to exist that he would kill himself. Perhaps his character in the Thriller video said it best, “I’m not like other guys; I’m different.”

With his sudden death, an extraordinary man with an ordinary name, Michael Jackson may have given his three children what he always desired—a normal childhood.

AWW — XoXo

I was at my psychiatrist’s office today. I like his office for its sheer variety of magazines: current and past editions of W, American Photo, and Entertainment Weekly (EW) lie on the table. I cannot picture Dr. Kadoyan reading W and who knows about American Photo, but EW is for patientss’ trivial reading, something to pass the time. Every enlightened doctor’s office has piles of EW, People, and/or Us magazines in the waiting room because patients like them. The articles in those magazines are short, easy-to-read, and usually a good distraction from whatever problem brought you there in the first place.

However, I stopped reading entertainment magazines years ago. I let the subscriptions run out or canceled them. I was a Cosmo girl in college, but while I was pursuing acting I read TV Guide, Premiere, Movieline, and of course, Entertainment Weekly without fail. I could tell you which movie was number one on any given week and how much it grossed when it opened. I could tell you details about almost any actor’s life, who was sleeping with whom, and {insert trivial detail here}. One day I realized how much space this useless information was taking up in my brain. I looked at all of the unread books on my shelves and thought it is time to read a story, not a log line, a review or a list of who is wearing what name this week.

But upon seeing all those silly magazines, I couldn’t resist picking up a copy of EW dated 5/26/06. I skimmed and then went straight to the back of the magazine, something I would never do with a book. That’s when I saw it—a new feature or a one-time piece titled Stupid Questions: This week with Reba McEntire. Now what I’m trying to figure out is why Reba (who appears to be a down-to-earth woman) would agree to answer questions that she knows in advance are labeled stupid. Maybe the editor didn’t tell her. My favorite stupid question was: Who is a bigger redneck woman: you, Gretchen Wilson, or the always popular write-in vote Britney Spears? Not only is the question stupid, but it is also mean.

I thought to myself none of the above. Reba doesn’t strike me as a redneck. I don’t know who Gretchen Wilson is (sorry Gretchen), and Britney is what we Southern gals call white trash. Or trailer park trash. Except Britney is rich. “Rich, white trash” seems to fit. Reba answered, “I’m gonna vote for Britney Spears. Bless her heart.” Now I have difficulty feeling sorry for a young woman who has more money than she’ll ever need, has horrible taste in men, and has endangered her child on at least one occasion. I want to scream at her, “Pull yourself together, divorce your husband, take some parenting classes, and figure out what makes you happy!”

I can forgive Reba for answering EW’s stupid questions, but I cannot forgive Britney Spears aka “Miss Rich White Trash” for being stupid.

AWW — XoXo

P.S. Since I initially wrote this piece, Britney has had another child, obtained a divorce, gone crazy and become sane again. I, however, still only read “entertainment” magazines at doctors’ offices or while I’m standing in line at the grocery store. I do subscribe to The Week, Writer’s Digest, and Inc.

Thank you Queen and David Bowie. I couldn’t have said it (or written it) better myself.

AWW — XoXo