Sticky and Sweet

“I want to thank God, and all my friends, that it DIDN’T FUCKING RAIN TODAY!” screamed Madonna mid-set. Sean, standing behind me, was 30 minutes into screaming and now his voice sounded more like an owl after a swig of diet coke. JS had got us tickets so close to the stage, I could practically smell the dancer’s resilient anti-presperant. Now that’s what I call Sticky and Sweet.

Sticky and Sweet, though not nearly the emotional tour de force that was the Confessions tour, was sexy, and total innovation – from the stage design to the remastered versions of all her great songs. Aside from some punk-ass bitch that tried to cut in front of us, the show was a visual treat, and the sounds that came from the mega speakers were divine. All hail the Queen.

Less than 48 hours later, I was strapped in a tight flight suit, bracing myself to jump out of a plane at 10,000 feet. I wasn’t even nervous, but at the fear of looking like the Dalai Lama I tried to joke around a bit. My instructor was more playful than I was. Since it was my first ‘Jump’, he was strapped to my back to guide the skydive, and, when it finally opened at 3,000 feet, the parachute.

“Mate, what’s the difference between a Ferrari and an erection?” He yelled at me as I sat on his lap in the cramped, noisy wooden plane (yeah, I was ready to jump out of that thing if it ever got us to 10,000 feet). “What?!” I managed to yell back. He moved in a little closer and said “I don’t have a Ferrari”. All of a sudden, the air got colder, the sound of the engine faded. I was dropping, so fast. The clouds were far…below me. I was coming at them full speed. The air was so clean and crisp. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing, yet it was going by so fast.

I was coming up on the clouds, and as the mist hit my face, the parachute shot up.