Pilgrimmage to Beyonce's ass - Part II
So, no sooner did my little sister whisper "backstage passes to Destiny's Child" than I had booked my self a hot little ticket down to melbourne and promised all el prima's kids (and their cousins!) to get as many signatures / photos as possible. I felt like Charlie finding his golden ticket to the Chocolate Factory ...
(oh. that is a big picture isn't it? *fans self with hand*)
I did not bargain for the behemouth of maccas marketing however... by the time my lil sis and I arrived, palpitating with beyonce fever and clutching armfuls of children's clothing to be dutifully signed, it became apparent that the "backstage pass" was in fact a ticket to a staged "meet and greet" session, and that it was one ticket only - for my sister alone, who had worked her little assistant manager butt off to win a management award. Freeloading relatives (ie me) would not enjoy the privileges. And there would be no signing or photos (other than the official maccas photographer) - only some episodic shaking of celebrity hands.
Here is where we must divert to review a terrible and sad confession - once upon a time a LONG LONG LONG time ago (let me spell this out - about 12 years ago - gasp!) - i wore these:
with a lot less enthusiasm than this young lass. I didn't buy them at the camberwell market for 20c and just decide to wear them home, rather, I was a teenage macca chick. (amazingly enough, when I typed "macca chick" into google, that was the picture I got... along with some fluffy looking penguin chicks / osprey etc) I imagine the osprey chicks don't usually work for $5 an hour serving lard in the shape of different "foods", but then I'm no ornithologist AM I?
N E Way.... we'll leave the horror stories of a teenage macca chick for another time - suffice to say that I started at maccas as an enthusiastic meat-eater, and emerged a clown-phobic vegetarian. The fact that my beloved baby sister not only works there, but has risen through the ranks is a testament to her hard work and strength of character (and stomach).
So. Just as I'm moaning about missing out on my once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to ask Beyonce for a personal demonstration of that "thing" she does, my sister points out the marketing manager who is progressing through the small crowd of metaphorical-golden-ticket-waving hopefuls. And a little light goes on in my head - it's Michelle - who worked with me on the counter all those years ago and was one of the people at Macas who didn't make me cry. (that was only once, and if you were being yelled at for not smiling enough by a 6foot tall woman with her peroxided hair pulled back so tightly it was a wonder that her 2cms of makeup didn't just *ping* right off when she put her lips together the day after your kitten had gotten run over, well, you might cry too).
When Michelle arrives I launch into "Hi Michelle - do you remember me, we used to work together - you've got a twin sister haven't you? and here I am with *my* sister, I've flown down from sydney especially, actually we were just wondering..."
"Hi Sjusju, nup sorry you can't come in".
and she was gone.
My sister departed with promises to tell Beyonce "how much I missed her" and all, and I was left there like Veruka Salt after she popped out of the Chocolate River pipes, all bedraggled with chocolate-flavoured disappointment.
I lumped off towards the city, swore at who-ever-it-is having the cheek to move the melbourne tramlines around without asking me, and haranged my dear friend s to come and have a drink with me. there's nothing quite like surprising people when you show up in town again - that and some red wine in a small bar mended my mood.
as for the concert itself - it was superb. Although you can whinge at the edges about turning 4 of destiny's child's best early songs into a medley, they were lovely and brilliant and noisy and oh they can sing, and oh they can dance.
the herald-sun was a lot less kind