November Spawned a Mozzster

Last Wednesday morning, after waiting for the elevator for an extremely long time I entered its doors and called it a skanky ass ho while pressing the button for the ground floor. Why I did this I have no idea. Aren’t hos supposed to serve you at your convenience? Aren’t they supposed to be quick to the draw? Do I have ho-speak tourettes? The only reasonable excuse for my outburst was that I was still delirious from the spell that Morrissey cast on me the evening before while performing at the Aragon Ballroom.

At first I was a bit disappointed that Morrissey chose to play the Aragon yet again. While a beautiful venue, the acoustics there have always been brutal. As in playing the telephone game with tin cans with your great uncle with a trach sounds better than most of the bands that I’ve seen there before. Also, I have a not too pleasant Morrissey memory tied to his last show I saw there circa the late 90s. He only played for around forty minutes that time around because he was Still Ill.

So, while crazy excited for the show given that it was the only stateside date he was going to play, I didn’t want to get my hopes up too high into the sky. Then it happened. His band came out it matching beige slack/vest outfits. There was a gong and a freestanding Guinness Records giant bass drum. Morrissey took the stage in a fuchsia button up shirt with a wide grey tie and grey slacks and the first notes of “Panic” by The Smiths filled the air. I knew it was going to be an awesome show.

He told the crowd that he loved us (pointing at me specifically) and that he wanted to put his gym made muscular arms around us. He took off his shirt on stage (hubba hubba) and changed his shirt two more times looking more dapper with each change.

His band and his voice were phenomenal. The Aragon was shown what it’s like to host a singer that sounds studio perfect live. He played “Disappointed” (in honor of our dear Cherry Ride who was unable to attend, sniff sniff), then “William, It Was Really Nothing” (one of my favorite Smiths’ tracks due to its excellent use of falsettos), followed by “Everyday is Like Sunday”. I thought I was going to spin myself into a tizzy. Later in the evening he played “Girlfriend in a Coma” and “How Soon is Now”.






“How Soon is Now” was particularly amazing to see live because of its wonderfully danceable guitar line (thank you Mr. Marr)and its only could be written by Morrissey spectacular scream with me lyrics: “When you say it’s gonna happen “now”, well, when exactly do you mean? See, I’ve already waited too long and all my hope is gone!” It also helped that the strobe lights were in full force for the song and Moz was a dancing fool. The only encore of the evening was another Smiths classic (they are all classics in my mind, really) “Please Please Please Let Me Get What I Want”. It was a perfect ending to an incredible show.

I have only one disappointment to mention. There was a woman in front of me who early on in the show said to her friend that she didn’t know The Smiths. Are you serious?! This was the only U.S. appearance by Moz! Who allowed her through security? If it were up to me I would have designed a test for all audience members to take prior to gaining entry. It would involve either a) doing the same dance Moz did while singing “Sheila Take a Bow” on Top of the Pops or b) naming their last video or c) naming Moz’s favorite flower or d) if you have sideburns like Moz you’re in, no questions asked.

A Vision of Things to Come

While only a wee little lass I aspired to be the girl in The Art of Noise "Close To The Edit" video. Not only did she have remarkable fashion sense and awesome hair and make-up, she was allowed to exhibit any aggro tendency her little punk heart desired. On top of all of these selling points, she destroyed in time with the music! Perfection! Hit anything I like with a wrench? Scream HEY to my hearts content? Have a team of minions follow me around to assist with wreaking havoc in an abandoned train yard? A girl can dream, can't she? I am still dreaming now.

And don't even get me started on how AWESOME the song is. . .

Oh What A Night *

The anticipation has ended! My reunion summary has arrived! So, here goes. As many of you know my ten-year reunion was a week and a half ago. In recent prior posts I have gone into elaborate detail regarding the preparations involved on my part and others to ensure that the reunion was a balls out event. Some of these preparations occurred: pre-party, upped puking stamina, VIP gentleman’s card presentation. Others did not: Little Superstar routine, 8x10 photos of classmates, getting addicted to catnip. I am a little disappointed in myself.

Now, I knew that there was going to be people there that gained some weight, some hefty homies and home girls, but I can say that nearly 70% of the guys in attendance had put on the lbs. Most of the ladies looked decent, some pretty hot if I do say so myself, and the ones that had put on weight actually had babies recently so they had a reasonable excuse.

While looking at the pictures that were taken during the reunion my BFFs made an interesting observation-they thought one of the guys in attendance had a face transplant. Not the botox here/collagen there type of transplant, more like a getting smacked in the face multiple times with super absorbent chewing tobacco that in turn created some crevices/cancer in the facial area that shouldn’t be there when you are at your ten year.

Enough about appearances, let’s proceed to a section I will entitle, “What Happens When People Don’t See Each Other for Ten Years and go to an All You Can Drink” with the following sub-headings “I never talked to you in high school, but I will take this opportunity to show you what a complete asshole I am now!” or “Liquor makes me/him/her/us complete morons.”

Multiple people asked me where my red hair was. Seriously folks, I had fire engine red hair for about three months my junior year of high school, is that ALL you remember about me? What about my brains, charm, fantastic taste in music, and magnetic personality? All right then, what about my boobs?

After I told an old friend of mine that I was living with my BFF in Chicago I was asked by the same friend if I was married. Yes, I am married but have decided to not live with my husband because that would just be too awkward.

I will always dance like a complete moron even when there is not a dance floor and there is no one else dancing. There are pictures of this, mostly of me flailing my arms in the background. Why does it always look like I am doing the mashed potato? I need to get better paparazzi.

I ran into my first boyfriend who really still looks like he did in 6th grade. He was wearing an old school Chicago Bears scarf (awesome, but I do not regret breaking up with him, although I would consider dating him again if I gained possession of the scarf). My BFF asked him if he was Harry Potter. He didn’t seem too pleased with the comment. I, on the other hand, guffawed.

I mistook a room that was “fashioned” to look like the outdoors (Why? Don’t ask me.) to be an actual patio. I was recalling the evening the next day with a friend of mine who was also in attendance and told her that the patio was pretty sweet. She was disappointed that she didn’t hang out in the patio, but a few seconds later said, “You mean the room with the fake fountains that we checked our coats?” I could have been in Europe for all I knew.

During the reunion and after-parties it was painfully obvious that a multitude of dudes were trying really hard to make some time with whatever lady crossed their path. Most of the ladies were ones that they never spoke more than two sentences to during all of high school. In an effort to impress those of the female persuasion the guys even had the nerve to say to that they didn’t believe that they went to high school with them. Yes, fella that certainly is the best way to her heart or into her pants.

With all this being said, I am eagerly awaiting my 10.5-year reunion.

*This was seriously my prom theme. What am I 72?

Love My Way

People, I am sorry regarding the delay in the much-anticipated summary of my reunion. I promise that in the next few days you will receive a comprehensive overview of the happenings, it’s just right now I am still processing all that occurred at the event and do not think I can do it justice at present. So, instead I leave you with my reflections upon one of my favorite Chicago bars where my presence has been sorely lacking as of late, my beloved Tai’s Til Four.

Some people wonder why I love my fav watering whole so much. It’s really a dump although they classed it up a bit in recent years (even though the owner against his better judgment did not take my suggestion of getting a mural painted on the wall of himself lying shirtless on top of a trans am). There really isn’t any other place in Chicago that can attest to having a dance floor that kicks out the jams until 4am during the week and until 5am on Saturdays. By now, I would hope that you know that Classy loves to dance and will dance anytime, anywhere as long as there is some semblance to a beat. Now, I am not looking for the perfect beat, but as long as there is a beat I will proceed to turn it around (really, what does that mean?)

Okay, why do I heart Tai’s? The reasons are voluminous. I am their most loyal non-paying customer. I can skip line at any hour even when there is a line down the street. I can drink Old Style tall boys. I have access to Jay’s Hot Stuff chips. I can tell off the drunkards that are there and tell them that they have the clap and then proceed to clap in time to the beat with no repercussions. I can get kicked out and literally two minutes later regain my coveted space on the dance floor. I can dance for three hours straight in suffocating heat and still go back for more. I can jump up on a garbage can outside and do reverse pushups on the front façade, again with no repercussions. I can request a song and actually hear it being played (Lil' Kim, anyone?). I can throw elbows and clear the dance floor with my BFFs with our tag team back again hijinks. I can see dudes doing the worm on the skanky ass dance floor. I can walk home! Did I mention Old Style tall boys?