I’m moving, slowly but surely, into the Venetian concert zone. Previously I was full-on Hong Kong—it’s closer, easier, and less rocky than a boat. But then two things happened: 1) All the good acts started going to Macau, and 2) Macau figured out how to host a good act. AsiaWorld is close, but the acoustics are weird and with HK crowds as bad as we are, we need every bit of help we can get.
This thesis was tried and tested when I went to the Venetian to see Rihanna, aka “Good Girl Gone Bad,” aka “super-successful-stripper-moves-pop-star-no-twerking-thanks.” Today Rihanna has morphed into a Bad Girl Gone Bad, which is great for me. I want my pop stars to be anti-role models, probably because I don’t have any kids, except for that mistake
in Southeast Asia once (but we’re not going to talk about it, OK? Move along people... move along... NOTHING TO SEE HERE).
We arrived at 8pm in Macau, the advertised “start” of the concert. My friend was worried we were going to be late. I laughed loudly and openly in her face—concerts do not start until about two hours after the scheduled start time. With time to kill, we went to the bar for shots shots shots shots shots (everybody).
The shots were ridiculous, by which I mean they were clearly watered-down and the establishment that serves them should be absolutely ashamed. I won’t name it, but let’s just say it’s kinda Irishy and close to the concert, and has no morals. Not to be deterred, we rallied and went to the best bar of all—the Duty Free. I bought a handle of vodka. We went to work. It got sloppy quickly. Too quickly.
We walked into Rihanna two hours late but she still wasn’t on stage, so we enjoyed the hip-hop DJ and the blurred lines (my vision, not the song). After about 10 minutes, Rihanna appeared onstage and everyone went cray-cray.
There was screaming, shouting, hip gyrations, and the Chinese dude next to me shrieking in a pitch so high that it would murder a dog. “THIS IS AWESOME!” I yelled to my friend and looked over, only to realize that she was completely, unequivocally passed out. I’m talking head back, eyes closed, mouth hanging open—passed out. “WAKE UP!” I yelled. Nothing. I guess if 10,000 screaming fans, bass and Rihanna couldn’t do it, I couldn’t either. The shrieking guy high-fived me and I turned to him and we danced the night away.