Madison’s first of two performances (the second is coming up on the 27th) at Leeward Community College took place last night. The show, Iconology, featured some of the most memorable music from the ’50s-’10’s, making it the equivalent of KSSK for the past 30 years. You may recall Madison’s first performance during which I asked some deep philosophical questions such as What’s happening here? and What am I paying for? While I have come no closer to answering these questions in any meaningful way, I am absolutely thrilled to report that Madison is improving.
About halfway through the 8th performance – the Beatles’ “Yellow Submarine” – I had a thought. Maybe it was something about the yellow stage lights and piercing yellow/orange spot lights and the puffs of little ballerinas bouncing up and down on stage. I looked around the theater at the other people in attendance. I looked up an the mirrorball and the lights making shapes on the ceiling. I leaned in toward Lynnette. “Man, my life would be super different if Madison was a boy, huh?” I said. She nodded.
I spent the afternoon watching Lynnette do things I couldn’t possibly do. She made up Mad’s hair with 84 bobby pins and some of my hair product. She applied makeup to Madison’s face in such a way that made her look beautiful and not like Sweet Tooth from Twisted Metal. Would things be totally reversed if Madison was actually David Wright Pascua Higa and Lynnette had to watch me hit him grounds over and over? What kind of tanlines would Lynnette have from sitting at the park all weekend? How many games would it take for me to get tossed? The questions are endless and impossible to answer. What I do know is this: there’s something sweet and endearing and ultimately ineffable about witnessing Lynnette and Madison work together during female activities.
Madison’s class danced to Elton John’s “Crocodile Rock.” It’s never been in that group of my favorite Elton John songs with “Tiny Dancer,” “Rocketman,” “That’s Why They Call It The Blues,” and for karaoke purposes “Don’t Let the Sun Go Down on Me.” Maybe it’ll have to get added to the list. Anyway, I have to say that Madison’s much better than the last time we saw her perform. This time, she was able to keep track of her body movements AND where she belonged on stage. I gave her the nickname Side Eye because she still peeks to her right and left to see what everyone else is doing, and this makes her a beat or two behind. I know every parent feels this way about their kid, but SHE WAS SO CUTE!
Whenever Madison practices at home, it looks fine to me, but that’s because I don’t really know what it’s supposed to look like. It isn’t I saw her with the class that I could tell she’s probably right in the middle in terms of performance. She coordinated enough to do most of the moves without killing herself (which is already six or seven levels beyond me), but she’s got these huge hulking feet that don’t do anything gracefully. I blame myself. And my dad.
I would be remiss if I didn’t mention the (non-Madison related) highlights of the night. Here they are, in no particular order: the little girl in the platinum blonde wig that absolutely killed it in “Vogue” by Madonna; the super-young girl who straight up murdered “Motown Philly”; getting a text from Paul that read “Are they really gonna have 41 performances?”; Janet Jackson’s “Rhythm Nation” into “If” featuring choreography straight from both music videos (yes, I’m old, and yes, the arm things); finding out that my mom forbade my dad from drinking beers after work in preparation for the recital; watching the Tahitian dance, leaning over to ask Lynnette if she can do that only to be met with a quick “No” followed soon after by her saying “We used to take lessons when we were younger, but I got side-pain.” That slayed me.
I want to thank my parents, Lynnette’s parents, Paul, Matty, and Tanya for coming last night. They sat through two hours of song and dance to watch Mad on stage for only a few minutes. Mad was so happy to see you all there. Lynnette and I are grateful for your support of the Goob.