Angela Still is an ex-Los Angeleno now living back in her birth state of Georgia. She’s working towards her MFA in Creative Writing and revising her first novel, a story about, love, revenge, and magic.
GLAMLOVE: Adam Lambert, What Have You Done to Me? by Angela Still
Every day at 3:30, I eagerly make my way over to my email account and sign in with bated breath. Well, not on Saturday and Sunday, because those days I’m not trapped in front of a computer, so the times I mosey on over to google vary. Trust me, though, I still go. Every day. Seven days a week. Why, you ask? I have to check my Adam Lambert google alert.
For those of you who aren’t familiar with google alerts, it is a service provided for free by google wherein you give them a phrase, and once a day they send you updates on any news that has been posted on the internet about your phrase. It can be a little incomplete sometimes, but it stills serves as a great springboard for all the current news, and in this case, gossip.
Oh, Adam. Adam, Adam, Adam. What have you done to me? I admit, I’ve always had a weakness for make-up wearing femme boys in bands, and if they happened to be amazing singers, all the better. It started when I was just a wee lass with KISS. At the age of eight, I was pretty certain I was going to marry Paul Stanley. Later, this became a slew of now-embarrassing 80s bands (Poison, anyone?) and their singers. I also went through a pretty serious Bowie phase at this time, and the concept of androgyny took over. At one point, I was seriously considering a sex change operation, but just decided to cut off all my hair and wear combat boots instead.
But, see, here’s the thing. All this happened in my teens. Ok, some of it happened in my early 20s. Either way, these were appropriate times for this sort of thing. But I am now a slightly chubby, forty-year-old corporate drone. I should not be spending significant portions of my day worrying about you, Adam Lambert. I should have more important things to do.
But worry I do. When I first saw you in the lobby of the Hilton Garden Inn (let’s just let it slide for now that I spent hundreds of dollars and flew to Maine to see you perform for twenty minutes on the American Idol tour, shall we?) and you seemed so angry, and sick, and sweaty, and basically so miserable that me and a friend nicknamed you the Black Cloud of Doom, I spent the rest of the evening following you on Twitter, wondering how someone so intensely intense just moments before could be sitting in a room maybe only a few doors away tweeting like everything was fine. You had the flu. You were away from home. You were tired. You missed your boyfriend. I wanted to find you and bake cookies for you. I wanted to rub your feet. I wanted to wrap you in a blanket and feed you veggie broth.
And then you broke up with your boyfriend. I felt so sad for you. I had never really liked that boy (he’s a smoker-yuck), but the two of you had weathered the American Idol storm together, the lengthy tour separation, you looked so happy in your photos together. How were you handling it? Did your evil record company make you do it? Was it just a ploy so that the fantasy of Adam Lambert, rock star extraordinaire, wouldn’t be tainted in the minds of all those young girls who didn’t quite have a real grasp on what your being a gay man really meant just yet? I wasn’t sure, but when you released a statement just a few days later that the two of you were still friends, and that you were fine, I couldn’t have been more relieved. All the images of you curled up in the fetal position, wondering how you would ever survive without him, promptly left my mind. A New Adam, stronger, wiser, ready to face the world on his own, took Sad Adam’s place. All was well.
And then. The AMAs. Oh, Adam.
Personally, I didn’t mind that boy’s face in your crotch. I’ve been crossing my fingers behind my back since day one that an Adam Lambert sex tape would surface. The kiss between you and Tommy would have been hot if it didn’t look like you’d nearly ripped his face off. I was a little concerned that you seemed so angry, but hey, you were singing a song about S&M, so I let it slide.
But then ABC was so mean to you. And so were a lot of others. I was in a constant state of unrest throughout this ordeal. The google alerts were not enough. I spent hours scouring the internet for information. I was worried about your career. Would your Idol-based fan desert you like Dick Clark had? Would you end up working in a karaoke bar somewhere in LA, doing the Adam Lambert show Tuesdays and Thursday nights, then waiting tables the rest of the week? (I actually dreamed this very thing. I woke up clutching my sheets to my chin.) Of course, I should not have worried. The rest of your fans are as crazy about you as I am.
The most important thing that came out of the AMA scandal, for me anyway, was the tidbit that your mother is now working for you. The relief this bit of news granted me was immense. Your mom, lovingly known as Mombert by those of us who love you, is on the scene. She’s in LA, she’s your employee, she’s helping you keep it real. I am smiling, even as I type this. All hail the Mombert!
What this relief does is free me up to have proper rock star fantasies about you. Well, proper in context, anyway. You know, the ones where we are BFFs. We shop, we drink, we travel. We cry over boys, giggle over hot girls. We paint each others’ nails black or silver or turquoise. We attend premiers together, wearing outfits that would make Lady Gaga weep with envy, we go out dancing and shake our leather clad booties. Well, you do. I’m vegan. Anyway. At one of your shows, you reveal that you have been secretly rehearsing “You’re My Best Friend” by Queen, just so you can sing it to me. Did I mention it is my birthday that night?
So I suppose my point is this—I am in love with Adam Lambert. In an older sister but not quite kind of way (I would still watch the sex tape, don’t forget). I spend a lot of time, how much we won’t get into, thinking about him. He is a rock star. He’s gay. He’s thirteen years younger and about 3,000 physical miles and about 1,000,000 philosophical miles away from me. I will probably never get closer to him than I did that day in the lobby of the Hilton Garden Inn, and if I did, I’d probably be too shy to speak to him, just like that day in the Hilton Garden Inn. I love Adam Lambert. I am a forty year old, full grown woman, and I will not apologize.
P.S. And what’s up with this Tommy? He’s straight, yet he’s been caught on tape giving you kisses and practically sitting in your lap. He better not be leading you on. I just hope Mombert is keeping an eye on things.
(photos: justjared.buzznet.com; starsjournal.com)