Dear Foible Friends,
While I more than admit the output on this blog is minimal, I nonetheless like every now and then to deviate from its chosen theme and write a post concerning an episode from my life. While I’m still not willing to divulge my identity or profession, for various reasons, I would like the readers of this little blog, some of whom are new subscribers, to get to know me somewhat better. With that stated, I offer you these two humble observations concerning a certain individual and her entourage who just so happen to reside within walking distance of my workplace. The individual’s name is Madonna.
So I work around the corner from Madonna’s house in Manhattan, which is a large, multi-story, Dickensian/Jane Eyre like brownstone complete with a tall, black wrought iron gate that covers the expanse of the property in front. Its many windows facing the street typically have their blinds closed, so it’s impossible to see inside as one walks by. In general, none of us who either work or live in the neighborhood make a big deal out of the fact that she abides within our midst. However, we all know she’s there, and if she steps outside for a jog, or her oldest, rumored chain smoking daughter takes her friends to the pizza restaurant on the corner of their block, or she sends her personal assistant to the local CVS for a box of latex gloves and a fresh bottle of lube, we all find out within minutes of it happening.
Anyway, while I’m not a fan, she’s still among the world’s most famous people, and whenever the mood hits me I make it a point to walk by her house either while I’m on my way to work, or on my way to, or from, lunch. Once, while walking by, I noticed her multi car garage door was up, I also happened to be peaking through her gate at that moment, and observed a black Cadillac Escalade parked comfortably inside.
Which brings me to the reason why I’m writing this now. One day recently while I was taking a gingerly stroll back to work from lunch, and I just so happened to be passing by Chez Madge, I noticed her black SUV parked in front. And then I noticed a bald, ripplingly muscular, Latin/Mediterranean, early 30something, FINE ASS MAN, stepping out of the driver’s side of the vehicle, nonchalantly strutting up to the gate, foisting a key in its lock, and effortlessly walking inside Madonna’s lair as the door closed behind him.
Now, all of us habitués of the neighborhood know how neurotic the menopausal Material Girl is concerning her personal security. Only Michael Jackson and Prince were bigger nut jobs when it came to limiting and controlling the access of other people to their inner sanctum. One wouldn’t be surprised if even her senior staff and security don’t have actual keys to her mansion and have to be buzzed in. For this young man to be driving around in Madonna’s Escalade and be given a key to the chateau could only mean one thing: He’s hitting it from the back, and hitting it so GOOD!!!! that he’s been upgraded to in house dick with the privilege of coming and going as he pleases, as long as he keeps his sugar momma CUMING regularly. He also has full access to his benefactor’s fleet of vehicles.
Since divorcing her last husband, who according to many was more than happy to see her go, Madonna’s developed the unfortunate habit of squiring around effeminate, 20something, pretty boy model types who, to put it bluntly, give the impression of Madonna’s having been the only punanni they’ve had since punanni had them. This Sexy As Hell Man, on the other hand, is definitely an upgrade in the heterosexual fornication sweepstakes. Of course, there’s every possibility, given Madge’s preference for men who like dick as much as she does, that this newest presumed bedroom partner of hers is at least bisexual, if not an all out gay muscle bear/steroid addicted gym bunny type. Still, if that’s the case, he appears more than able to fake the funk in Madonna’s inner sanctuary, much more so than her previous in house rentboys could!!!!
So good for Madge!!!!! Her career’s an extended joke, she’s grown more talentless with age, her sartorial tastes render her trashy and desperate on a good day, and her latest facelift makes her look like Skeletor’s mother with cheap blond extensions, but at least the Crypt Keeper is currently holed up in her darkened lair with a companion whose ensuring her last days on this earth are happy ones!!!! RIP!!!!!!
After a year and change of working around the corner from Madonna’s house, I’ve finally seen the menopausal Material Hag herself. Our random sidewalk encounter occurred just the other evening as I was making my way from work to the subway station. While I normally avoid walking up Madonna’s block, especially after a long day on the job, it technically provides a shortcut to my train stop, and there are certain nights when I just can’t help myself. This was such an evening.
Anyway, just as I approached Chez Madge it’s tall black front gate immediately opened, and out quickly walked three women into the street, obviously anticipating a car that would shortly pick them up. The middle woman was far shorter than the two on either side of her, and as I got closer it became clear she was far older than the other two as well. Madonna was dressed in all black wearing a short sleeved pull over shirt and matching trousers, her blond hair tied back in a chignon, and donning black sunglasses. Her look was reminiscent of Carolyn Bessette Kennedy, which is ironic given the ill fated, short lived Mrs. JFK Jr’s 20 year wedding anniversary is quickly approaching. Her similarity to Jackie O’s posthumous daughter-in-law is further ironic given Madonna’s among the legions of women who banged John John before poor Carolyn sank her claws into him. But I digress.
I also noticed, this time in person, how horrifically pulled back the skin on Madge’s face has become since her last facelift. Her cheekbones at this point look as if they can cut glass. I might not have taken all this in had Madonna not turned and glowered directly at me as I walked by. It’s well known throughout the neighborhood that she hates encountering pedestrians as she enters and exits her abode, and therefore coordinates her returns and departures in such a manner as to ensure she’ll be seen by as few strangers as possible.
In response to her glance, I gave her a side eye, briefly met her gaze, rolled my eyes, smirked, and kept walking as if entirely unbothered, though mildly amused at the pretension of the person I’d just passed by. Madonna/Esther needs to realize that various other humans live and or work within her midst, and glancing at her as we go about our daily routine isn’t a crime. Looking at her mangled face up close is definitely a punishment, but nonetheless isn’t a crime. Besides, she doesn’t own the sidewalk in front of her brownstone. A municipal judge has already made that clear to her.
Just as quickly as I caught a glimpse of Madge, one of her fleet of black Cadillac Escalades immediately pulled up, the tall, thin, African American girl standing beside her turned to her and said, “Thanks, Mom,” Madonna got into said vehicle, and as it drove away the two girls went back into the house. For the record, the Material Mom’s two adopted African children, who are younger than her two biological offspring, are far taller than their older siblings. During the summer her older son, Rocco, who now resides in London with his dad, frequently went skateboarding in the neighborhood with his little brother, David, and a tall, willowy, latino boy with curly, shoulder length hair. Rocco would always walk in the middle of the trio, and if they were wearing shirts, he was bare chested, whereas if they’d chosen on a certain day to unleash their nipples to the sunshine, his were covered. He’s a thinly muscular, bald, comely little lad that reminds one of a young version of Popeye the Sailor man.
His older sister, Lourdes, is a frequent patron of the Italian restaurant on the corner of our block, and is rumored to be going through some kind of undergraduate lesbian faze in which she delights in taking her girlfriend to this eatery, making out with and aggressively fondling her in full view of the restaurant’s older, mostly Jewish fellow diners, who are often accompanied by their grandchildren. Such is life among us neighbors of the Ciccone family.