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…

After the housekeeping witnessed fuck session (followed by a trip to The Disney Store and dinner at Bennigan’s), The Fella and I settled in early for the evening so as to get a good night’s sleep for the awe and wonder of (no longer) teen pop star Debbie Gibson the next day.

All night long I tossed and turned, like a child waiting for Santa. As The Fella gently snored, I watched the clock, counting down the minutes until we could get our big gay on and hit Halsted Street.

I was in the shower at 7 am sharp, dressed by 7:20, and shaking Tristan awake at 7:21. He stared at me through one half open eye.

“You do realize she doesn’t perform until 2:30, right?” he asked between yawns.

“Yes, but Tristaaaaaaaaaan,” I explained ever so slowly since he was obviously still in the throes of slumber and not thinking clealry, “it’s Debbie Gibson.  There will crowds, possibly even traffic jams. Debbie.”

He sighed and padded off to the shower.

One quick train ride later — unlike a certain other ‘mo, The Fella is a master of the mass transit system — we found ourselves in Boystown, epicenter of Pride 2009. As if the gaily (hee hee) colored banners and balloons festooned Halsted Street weren’t enough to assure us that we were nearing our date with Deb-stiny, the banners confirmed it:

I could barely contain myself. Debbie Gibson! (Forget that Deborah shit — she’s always gonna be Debbie to me.)

Since the songstress extraordinaire wasn’t due to perform until 2:30, we took advantage of the 3 hour wait time (I was NOT going to risk missing the genius behind ELECTRIC YOUTH!) and strolled about the street festival, taking in the sights. There were skewered lamb kabobs laying in the 90+ degree heat, a gay cheerleading squad, one of the pushiest HRC reps that I’ve ever seen (when I am looking for my boyfriend in a teeming throng of hot, sweaty gay mens, do NOT ask me if I need his permission to make a donation to a worthwhile cause, m’kay?), and a veritable shitload of saucy window displays celebrating our shared ‘mo-ness.

Seriously, who doesn’t love a genital-free three-way?

But even as The Fella and I meandered about enjoying the chance to just be us, in the back of my mind was one persistent thought: Debbie Gibson….Debbie Gibson…Debbie Gibson.

And as befitting any venue sporting Grade A talent such as my beloved Ms. Gibson, no expenses were spared.

Classy, right? (For the record, though, I must admit that the sights outside…

…were much better than those inside.)

After a quick lunch at a quaint little place I once dined at when I dated a certain older gentleman, it was off to the North Stage where I forced a path to the front of the stage and endured an hour of female drag queens (kings?).

By 2:20, there was a crowd of literally hundreds of tens, all salivating to shake their love with the pop princess of the 80’s.

I turned to The Fella. “Are you goose-bumping? ‘Cause I am SO goose-bumping,” I squealed, balled up fists making small circles in the air on either side of my jowls.

A moment later, the final drag king exited the stage and the emcee came out. I was thisclose to pissing myself in 90 degree plus weather and then standing there in my own filth. Debbie Gibson was about to perform!

But instead of introducing the greatest singer to ever write, produce, and record an album in her parents’ garage, he began announcing a change in the line-up. What? Huh? First syllable, sounds like…

It seemed that Thelma Houston had a family emergency, necessitating her needing to leave earlier than expected and ever the consummate professional, Debbie had agreed to switch slots with her and would instead be performing at 4:30.

Fuck.

Me.

Hard.

I felt as though I had been kicked in the ‘nads.

And as Thelma Who-ston — a.k.a. Big Bird — took the stage, I felt my Debbie Gibson dream slipping away…

TO BE CONCLUDED

It was brought to my attention that 80’s pop princess and Dirk Mancuso goddess Deborah Gibson (a.k.a. Debbie Gibson) will be appearing in Chicago on June 27 as part of the Pride Weekend celebration festivities.

Deborah Gibson, people.

Only In My Dreams. Lost in Your Eyes. Electric Youth. Foolish Beat. Shake Your Love. (How many times did I bust a move to that one at work, Trout?)

Debbie Gibson.

“I must attend,” I told Tristan the moment I heard the news.

“Deborah Who?” he asked between bites of turkey burger and tater tots.

My right hand flew to the collar of my ringer tee, clutching nervously at the fabric. Was he fucking kidding me?  If not, the bitch better get with the pop music program pronto.

“Tristan…Boo — Debbie Gibson? Shake Your Love?” I replied, hoping he was merely suffering from brain fever or severe head trauma.

His response was to lean in, eyes wide, hands thrown up in a “I got nothing” gesture.

I cleared my throat, tapped out a “one, two, three” with my foot and then burst into song: “I’m under a spell again and boy, I’m wondering why…This is not a game of love, but an emotional tie…I’m trying to figure out my heart…(But I can’t offer you proof)…Of why we should never be apart…and that is the (that is the!) that is the truth…Oh shake your love! I just can’t shake your love!”

Tristan looked at me with huge special needs eyes, his mouth screwed up, and shrugged. “Did she sing in malls?”

I gasped, sucking the air out of the room. “That was Tiffany!” I hissed. “Debbie Gibson was no hack! She was the good girl who wrote all her own music and made purity cool!”

Tristan stifled a smirk.

Suffice it to say things got ugly from there.

Long story short, if I can find a hotel room we’re going to (our first) Pride and The Fella will fucking learn to love him some Debbie Gibson or else. And if I can’t find a room, I will fucking take the train for the day, Tristan or no Tristan.

Because it’s Deborah Gibson, people, and even after all these years I still can’t shake my love.