The announcement is made, and the scramble is on. Cell phones are pulled out like a 6-shooter in a Western movie: fast and furious. Ten thousand people are trying to get through simultaneously so as to score the front and center seats at Grama Superstar’s (GS) upcoming concert at the hottest venue in town. Never mind that these seats fetch $1100; with a credit card, you can pay that off in 3 years. Fifty years ago, when GS was a hot 25-year-old with a body that was firm and a voice that rocked the rafters, you were way in the back of the audience for $10. That night has been machined into your memory as one of the best days of your life. Love was all around, beauty was natural, and careers were started to get you the money you needed to do what you really wanted to do: listen to music and party harty, smarty. With 50 years of fun, foolery, and a landfill of monotony and missing money, you awoke this morning to an announcement that GS was coming to your town. Those rusty metal memories of decades gone awry were forgotten, and a smile cracked across your face like the San Andreas Fault. This magnificent bitch is going to put you back in your fantastic late teens era. The day finally arrives after spending 2 months waiting. You researched her life since those days and a little sadness has surfaced. Since that glorious evening of long ago, GS has done 100’s of concerts and has survived 2 marriages, 4 affairs, drug and alcohol addiction, and 5 surgeries to try and recover the functions of 3 important organs. After multiple interventions and long-term instituionized stays, GS has decided to tour again. And so she appears. With fog machines farting out San Francisco Bay-style vapors that hide facial folds and girdles underneath layered designer dress ensembles hiding flabby flesh, she starts out with her most popular hit. After a minute of going back in time 50 years, the reality depresses you. She’s lip syncing, and it’s not even close.
Torked Truth 