For my birthday this year, Mr. Liverpool buys me a ticket for Cher’s tour, Dressed to Kill.
You’ve got that right, sister, the one and only C H E R!
Sonny’s Cher. Mask’s Cher. Slapping Nicholas Cage’s face in Moonstruck’s Cher. Cher dressed in Bob Mackie. Glittered, feathered Cher. Silkwood’s Cher. Cher, whom along with the roaches, would be the only human being to survive a nuclear attack.
Yeah, I kind of jump up and down like a fool with my hands flaying in air.
“Yes! Yes! Yes!”
Another thing to cross off my bucket list along with Madonna, marrying a dude from Great Britain, Vera Wang shoes, & reading War and Peace.
Heee. Just kidding about the War and Peace thingy.
Anyhow, about a month later, Mr. Liverpool informs me that he can’t go with me, that he hadn’t looked at his schedule properly, that he had a soccer tournament on, can you believe, the same day as Cher.
“I’m serious,” he says. Was he? Reeeeally? “Call Jeanie. She’ll go with you.”
Of course,” Jeanie says, “HELL, Yes.”
I book a shuttle to Minneapolis for Thursday the 12th of June… Because if you know me at all, you know my sense of direction is pure and utter shit. Okay, put it this way, if you told me North, I’d ask, “is that right or left—up or down?”
On Tuesday, Mr. Liverpool asks, “What time does the shuttle leave tomorrow?”
“Not tomorrow, Silly. The concert is on Thursday.”
“No, I’m pretty sure it’s tomorrow, Kimmy.”
He was right. Again. I hate when that happens. Hate hate hate.
I change my ticket immediately.
After that particular fiasco, Jeanie calls. “O, Kim, I royally screwed up.”
“Cher is at the Target Center. I booked a hotel for us near the Excel Center. We can’t get our money back.”
“How far away are we from Excel?”
“Lets just say, we need to take a train across to Saint Paul.”
“Will it be a long or short ride?”
“Um, long,” she mutters.
It doesn’t matter. We are going to see Cher and it’s her farewell tour. Hell, she’s almost 70 years old. My god, it’s once in a lifetime, baby.
Thus, I’m finally on the shuttle halfway between Duluth & Minneapolis listening to Jodi Picoult’s, The Tenth Circle. It’s about this girl who falsely accuses this guy of raping her because he dumps her.
Right in the middle of a philosophical sentence explaining the emotional motivations of why some idiot would bogusly accuse somebody of raping them, I scream.
The scream gushes from my mouth unexpectedly, abruptly, embarrassedly.
The other passengers turn to stare at me, but nobody says a word. Not a single word. It’s like being stuck in the middle of nowhere with a bunch of
“Oh, No No No No No!,” I shout. Just incase I wasn’t heard the first time around.
Again, not one person asks me what’s wrong, but I volunteer my dilemma regardless.
“I forgot my Cher ticket! What am I going to do? Who do I call? I can’t believe it.”
Panicking. Loud sighing. The rocks on the shuttle are from the Twilight Zone. I despise all eight of them.
I contact Mr. Liverpool who sends out emails and calls people who call other people who call more people.
Jeanie and I walk to the train in pouring rain. It seems to take an eternity to get to where we are going.
My false eyelashes are melting off. My hair is ruined. My lipstick is bleeding.
Unfortunately , we miss half of Cindy Lauper.
…But we see all of Cher. We dance wildly to Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves, If I Could Turn Back Time, & Strong Enough with full glasses of red wine.
By the way, she was FAN-FUCKING-TASTIC.
—–Darlings, who have you seen in concert that rocked your socks off?