Previously on Too Disgusting to Contemplate, too Compelling to Ignore: Dirk and The Fella’s fuckery has an audience and later as every orifice in his body clenches up in anticipation of his beloved Debbie Gibson taking the stage, tragedy strikes as a scheduling change leads to a faded disco star taking the pop princess’s slot…

As Thelma Who-ston began warbling, I immediately dug out my Pride Program to do the math and figure out when Debbie would be performing. If a pop princess leaves the station at 2:30 at the speed of awesomeness and a faded disco queen whose hit(s) I couldn’t recall if my Little Mermaid collection depended on it leaves another station at 4:30 at the speed of WTF, when can a nancy boy see the celebrity of his choice on the North Stage? Plus 2…carry the 4…divide by the square root of why-does-this-always-happen-to-me…

Goddammit.

It would be 4:30 before Debbie would be rockin’. How could I possibly ask my fella to wait another 2 hours to see someone he was only there to see because I was nuts about her? 

Thankfully I have the bestest boyfriend in the known universe because before I could even begin whining and cajoling and promising to take his nearly 8 inches down my throat once we got back to the hotel, he said something so super-wonderful that it brings tears to my eyes once again as I recount it for y’all:

“Why don’t we go get something to drink, cool off, and then come back so you can see Debs?”

Ohmigod.

Handsome, hairy, AND he totally got the depth of my love for the Debster.

I know, right?

So it was off to The Cellblock for a couple of cold ones and then back to the North Stage where this time a drag queen show was in progress. After what seemed like a bajillion years, the emcee once more took the stage and said the words I had dreamt of hearing ever since I was a *coughcough* sophomore in college: “Ladies and gentlemen — Deborah Gibson!” (Well actually I had dreamt of hearing Debbie Gibson, but dreams — like people — have to be a wee bit flexible, I guess.)

And then as the opening strains of “Shake Your Love” — my all time favorite DG hit it should be noted — filled my dainty shell-like ears she took the stage, a marabou trimmed black top and white mini shorts clad dynamo.

I inhaled deeply, turned my face to the heavens and muttered a “thank you, Jesus” before returning my focus to the stage.

And the hits kept coming: Out of the Blue…Lost in Your Eyes…Foolish Beat…

and of course Electric Youth. (Mad props to back-up dancers Justin and Eddie!)

It was pure Debbie magic.

The time flew by and as the final note of her grand finale  – Only In My Dreams — faded into the air, I let go a sigh of great contentment. I had seen Debbie Gibson. In person. Could it get any better than this?

In a word — yes. Because as we stood there rooted in place filing our Debbie memories away for all time, the emcee once again took the stage and uttered words that sent shivers down my spine:

“After a brief break to freshen up, Debbie will be signing autographs and posing for pictures…”

Oh.

My.

God.

And as the unthinkable settled in, so did another thought: Tristan had already indulged me so much how could I even ask him to spend another hour or two waiting to meet the greatest thing since the mesh half shirt?

Remember that part earlier where I said Tristan was the bestest boyfriend in the known universe? Scratch that. He’s the bestest boyfriend in the known galaxy, because before I could even open my big gay yap with myriad promises of finally doing that one little thing I’m not so crazy about and he is, he took my hand and said, “C’mon — you better get in line before there’s a thousand people ahead of you.”

I swear to God I hit the big gay jackpot with this one, folks.

And so we took our place in what appeared to be the Million Man ’Mo March to meet and greet Ms. Gibson.

I’m not gonna lie, folks — it was grueling: it was sweltering, my sunscreen was failing me something fierce, more than one person’s deodorant was flagging, and we were in front of two women who had just returned from The New Kids On The Block Carnival Cruise and were totally regaling the crowd with tales of that epic sea journey to the delight of the gentlemen in front of us and behind them. Frankly, it was the Bataan Death March of autograph lines. But I endured. And I texted The Pirate like mad as we inched ever closer to the musical angel from Brooklyn, New York.

Then after what seemed like an eternity (but was in all actuality only about 37 minutes), I found myself three fans away from greatness. Two fans. One.

And then it was my turn for an audience with The Debinator.

Those 55.3 seconds was everything I had dreamt of and more. (Okay, that’s a lie because in my dreams we totally brush each other’s hair, talk about cute boys, and diss Tiffany but there were other people waiting…)

And because I’m a giver, not only did I snag an autograph for myself but I got one for The Pirate, too!  Of course they were both on Panera Bread receipts because I did not $15 for an official 8×10 but whatevs. (When I texted her with the news afterwards, she responded “I JUST SHAT MYSELF.” Now that is someone who gets the Debbie Gibson experience.)

With the thrill of a lifetime behind me, I quickly sent the photo to everyone in my directory that I knew would be totally jealous and wish they could’ve traded places with me as well as a few who could care less.

Debbie Gibson and Dirk Mancuso. Further proof that dreams do come true.
___________

And now for all the super Debbie fans like me, I give you the trailer to a little film I recently ordered from Amazon…