Britney briefing included the following to me + 15 boy colleagues (some mysteriously never seen before): do not put hands or cameras on stage, don't turn back to stage, don't photograph audience members, give us credit card/driver license in exchange for one-time security Britney pass which you'll turn in at end of 3 songs... and sign agreement that states all images made tonight will not be sold but may be included in your portfolio (!). What fun! At one point had to see something on my camera and, as it was very dark, turned back - sans thinking - on stage. I thought Oops (I did it again) hope they didn't see that and then realized just how fucked the whole situation last night was.
She, as in BS, had Pepsi commercials playing, the Pepsi logo on a spot that swept the arena, didn't even try to pretend that she was trying to lip-synch, changed costumes after disappearing via a trap door/Dracula-style exit system that a devil man in cape "playing" guitar had appeared in earlier as loads of pyros went off (much to my colleague Mark's chagrin) and dancers looking like voodoo mall shoppers pranced about. Did I mention the million-dollar green strobe lights, how she barely came near us photogs clutched around "Stage B" and how she kept grabbing her right tit?
Who needs surrealism with Britney Spears around.
Onwards.

Evidence that I'm an everyday badass:

1. Physical therapist yestiddy said You need cortisone injection in your shoulder (what I now refer to as my rotary cuff) to help the swelling/crap and I said nope. Then they suggested I might need eventual surgery. I said Hell no and proceeded to trash the medical office with high karate kicks.

2. As I'm being photographed this evening at 7PM for my special Britney photo id I'm going to throw up some gansta-style hand gesture that I've been practicing in the car all the livelong day - an inverted/backwards ILOVEYOU rock gesture while looking real pouty and sexy like Pink. Except, unlike Pink, I won't be captured in the middle of ripping my own clothes off. Pink, if you're reading this - stop with the self-ripping.

3. I think 2 examples are plenty. And now I sign off with Love. Oozy-goozy Britney beyond Spandex and frosty eyeshadow Love. Love that can accept the need to lipsynch one's brains out as one is dancing too hard with an ensemble of boys and girls who've practiced their lives away to join you onstage for one fleeting moment in hot lights, hoping all the while you catch the eye of someone who can make you a star and hoping not to, on the other foot, catch any sparks from any onstage pyros because nothing says unsexy like 3rd-degree burns.

ps: Whomever logged in as epinw reader #1000 you win a special prize!!!... contact me at njparisi@netscape.net for a special email from me. For you. Prized you.

Wednesday at the ol' Arena me and boy colleagues must and will check in at 7PM for our photo id photo shoot to shoot Britney. Then we must report back at 8:30PM on the journalistic dot to be ushered in for 3. Wondering what backstage mayhem led to the needing of photo id's. If this becomes de rigeur I will have a neat new collection of credential stickers/geek passes bearing my likeness!
Saturday night drove up to Toronto with Reese, beau, pal to see the post-5-year hiatus of band The Pursuit of Happiness. They officially rocked and rocked out. Many attend events in Canada for the turbo-powered Canadian beer. But guess what? Single malt scotch tastes the same, trips across the tongue and other vital organs the same.
Love.