Best fucking day ever!
It's days like today that make me forget about work or responsibility and all the troubles of the world. When everything goes right... and it's odd because you wonder... where the hell did I go right? Karma must love me!
I really want to type everything it capital letters and in bold print... but I'll refrain... or try to.
So today my family went to NYC. I've never seen a broadway show, and they decided that it was about damn time that we went. This in itself made me really happy. So we go, and we decide to see The Producers. Needless to say... it was amazing. It was hilarious and everything was just... it was how I imagined it. But it is so much different in person. The lights, the actors, the dancing... fanfuckingtastic.
So after it was over, I was feeling pretty happy. It's hard not to after seeing something like that. We stop at a place, get some food, and start walking back to Penn Station.
Then I stop walking. I didn't know if I was imagining things and the heat was getting to me. But when passing people cleared out of the way, I realized I wasn't imagining it at all.
Rufus Wainwright was standing on the sidewalk talking to some lady who had far too much make up on. Rufus FUCKING Wainwright. I cannot even explain my adoration for him or his music. Everything he stands for and the messages he sends. I have loved him for quite a while. One of the few people who I've ever bothered buying every CD by. One of the few musicians I respect.
But there he was. Perfect. Gorgeous. And wonderfully gay. I don't know what to do at first. I was afraid to approach him because well... I don't even know what to say. So with a sheepish grin I walk up and say, "You're... Rufus Wainwright..." He smiles and says, "Yeah!" I mention adoring his music, and we talk briefly. I kind of zoned out because I kept thinking, "Am I imagining this?" But no.
So I ask him if he will sign something, and he is so polite and says, "Of course!" but I can't find a pen... luckily my dad had one. I have now confiscated this pen because it has Rufus cooties on it. But I don't have a damn thing for him to sign. So he gets out his wallet, looks through it, then pulls out a receipt. He says, "This is an art store receipt. So this will be extra personal." I laugh and say something like, "That's really appropiate..." because I was thinking about one of his songs. He laughs and nods, scribbling his name onto the back of the receipt and then hands me it and the pen. I thank him, exchange a few more words, then depart.
It was just... the MOST FUCKING RANDOM THING EVER. Walking down the street... then WHAM! Rufus Wainwright! He was amazing. I still can't even believe it.
So I look at the receipt afterwards... and at the bottom... in case anyone ever doubts that signature on the back... there are the little X's followed by the last four digits on his credit card, then underneath it says, "Wainwright, R."
Holy fucking shit. Rufus FUCKING Wainwright.
I really want to type everything it capital letters and in bold print... but I'll refrain... or try to.
So today my family went to NYC. I've never seen a broadway show, and they decided that it was about damn time that we went. This in itself made me really happy. So we go, and we decide to see The Producers. Needless to say... it was amazing. It was hilarious and everything was just... it was how I imagined it. But it is so much different in person. The lights, the actors, the dancing... fanfuckingtastic.
So after it was over, I was feeling pretty happy. It's hard not to after seeing something like that. We stop at a place, get some food, and start walking back to Penn Station.
Then I stop walking. I didn't know if I was imagining things and the heat was getting to me. But when passing people cleared out of the way, I realized I wasn't imagining it at all.
Rufus Wainwright was standing on the sidewalk talking to some lady who had far too much make up on. Rufus FUCKING Wainwright. I cannot even explain my adoration for him or his music. Everything he stands for and the messages he sends. I have loved him for quite a while. One of the few people who I've ever bothered buying every CD by. One of the few musicians I respect.
But there he was. Perfect. Gorgeous. And wonderfully gay. I don't know what to do at first. I was afraid to approach him because well... I don't even know what to say. So with a sheepish grin I walk up and say, "You're... Rufus Wainwright..." He smiles and says, "Yeah!" I mention adoring his music, and we talk briefly. I kind of zoned out because I kept thinking, "Am I imagining this?" But no.
So I ask him if he will sign something, and he is so polite and says, "Of course!" but I can't find a pen... luckily my dad had one. I have now confiscated this pen because it has Rufus cooties on it. But I don't have a damn thing for him to sign. So he gets out his wallet, looks through it, then pulls out a receipt. He says, "This is an art store receipt. So this will be extra personal." I laugh and say something like, "That's really appropiate..." because I was thinking about one of his songs. He laughs and nods, scribbling his name onto the back of the receipt and then hands me it and the pen. I thank him, exchange a few more words, then depart.
It was just... the MOST FUCKING RANDOM THING EVER. Walking down the street... then WHAM! Rufus Wainwright! He was amazing. I still can't even believe it.
So I look at the receipt afterwards... and at the bottom... in case anyone ever doubts that signature on the back... there are the little X's followed by the last four digits on his credit card, then underneath it says, "Wainwright, R."
Holy fucking shit. Rufus FUCKING Wainwright.