I use to say that I was a gay man trapped in a straight woman’s body. Particularly when I was a single woman living in San Francisco.
I liked having sex with men, a few different ones. I collected mid-century furniture, liked vacationing in Palm Springs and my music of choice was deep house. The kind of music that makes you feel like a guy in a gay bar at 1:59 am, doing a popper and not sure who you’re going home with. Thumpa, thumpa, thumpa.
I still workout to house music when I can. And I still have some Heywood Wakefield furniture. But my neutered mom-self has lost touch with a lot of that former FAB! self. That is, until I was a guest this season at the American Idol finale. Sixth row. When George Michael walked out on stage, I screamed like a gal in 1963 for the Beatles, I screamed like you scream for ice cream, I screamed like a college grad at an Obama rally. I was that excited.
I think I’m unmoved by Madonna, or other pop stars. But I love me some George Michael. Which is why I was so excited to see the posting on The Poop from a guy who loves GM, talking about his favorite songs. Well, a CD of Michael just goes from one delicious morsel to the next. But, come on, there can’t be any argument really, right? Hands down, “Father Figure.”