The bad news: I didn't have a camera to document it.
The story of how this travesty came to be is a twisting tale that involves me very nearly dumping my boyfriend at the Mandalay Bay arena. I'll recount it only briefly, because every time I think about it I want to simultaneously strangle him, slap myself in the face, and cry. It's a sore subject.
So, as we're getting ready to go to the concert, my boyfriend points out that the tickets say "NO CAMERAS" in large, ominous letters. I respond with something along the lines of "Fuck that, I'll hide it in one of my body cavities." My boyfriend then proceeds to tell me that when he went to a Tool concert, beefy security guards were confiscating cameras and throwing them in barrels of burning oil (I may be exaggerating a bit here, but you get the point). I say, "But my readers! They're expecting pictures!" He says, "Security will search you! You'll lose your camera!" It was then that I made one of the worst decisions of my life: with visions of confiscation dancing in my head, I listened to my boyfriend for the first time in our three year courtship. I left my camera in the hotel.
As soon as I entered the arena, I came upon hordes of screeching girls and gay men excitedly snapping pictures, documenting the apex of their existence. You know how some cultures feel that every time someone takes a picture, it takes away part of your soul? Well, I pretty much get that now.
Anyway, enough of that downer drivel. No pictures of the concert, boohoo. I shall paint you a picture with words! But before I do that, let me paint you a picture with...pictures--a couple I took before and after the concert. Here's what I wore:
And here's what I spent my life savings on:
Tyra would chide me for not having a neck in this picture. Damn. Anyway, I went for "less is more" because I knew I'd be throwing on a tour t-shirt as soon as I got there, and then dancing myself into a sweaty mess. Both prophecies came true, so I was glad I left my scratchy sequins at home.
Dear Friends: This is why you're going to get crappy Christmas gifts. Sorry.
And here's where I actually use words:
Our seats were two sections up from the floor, diagonal from the stage. Three fifty-year-old Scottish men were drinking heavily in the seats in front of us, and since they didn't have any women with them and looked alternately angry and confused throughout the concert, I assumed that they'd fallen asleep at last night's boxing match, woken up at the Spice Girls, and just gone with it.
The way the arena was set up, the box seats for rich people were right above our section, but instead of being boxed in with bulletproof glass and "STAY OUT, PEASANTS!" signs, they were wide open. If we were so inclined, we could reach out and touch the rich people in these seats. It was pleasantly egalitarian.
So anyway, about ten minutes after we sit down, people start pointing to the skybox right behind our seats and shrieking and snapping photos. We turn around, and there's a guy standing there waving at the crowd. He looked sort of like Woody Harrelson after a severe bar fight. The Scottish drunkards were jumping up and down excitedly, so we asked them what the big deal was. "That's Ricky Hatton," they cheered. "He lost to Mayweather last night!"
I pretended to be impressed by this, and called my brother to brag about it. He was impressed. I went back to guilt-tripping my boyfriend about the camera.
A few minutes later, the screams erupted again, ten times stronger, and people started rushing toward our section. I looked back at the box, and DAVID FUCKING BECKHAM was now standing there, ten feet away from me. I nearly DIED. I don't think I've ever seen anyone so good looking in my life. I gasped and made a comment to my boyfriend that I would more than happily have sexual relations with Mr. Beckham. My boyfriend said, "Me too." So that worked out well.
By this time it's about 9:00, and the concert was supposed to have started at 8. Finally, the lights dim and the crowd goes crazy. I glance up at the rich people box one more time, and Becks has taken a seat next to Hatton. A woman is walking toward them. She has incredible hair. Like, really incredible hair. Like, the place is almost dark and her hair is still blinding me with its potent shine. How much do you have to pay to get hair like that HOLY SHIT IT'S KATIE HOLMES! AND OH MY GOD TOM CRUISE IS RIGHT BEHIND HER DOING THAT CREEPY THING HE DOES WHERE HE HOLDS HER HAND UP IN THE AIR AND THEN GESTURES TO HER AS IF HE'S WAITING FOR EVERYONE TO SAY, "VERY NICE WOMAN YOU HAVE THERE, TOM" AND HOLY HELL THEY JUST SAT DOWN NEXT TO BECKHAM AND LIKE HALF THE WORLD'S TOTAL WEALTH IS NOW WITHIN FIFTEEN FEET OF MY GRASP! GAAAAHHH!
I was a bit starstruck.
But can you believe that? Out of all the Spice Girls concerts in all the world they choose this one, and sit down right next to me? I could barely control my bladder. I do have to say that I have never felt any attraction to Tom Cruise before, but good god that man could fill a stadium with his charisma. His smile is like a tractor beam. And I am now a Scientologist.
Alright, I'm done with the name dropping. Actually I'm not. About three-quarters of the way through the concert, I glanced to my left and who is sitting there but Fergie, Duchess of York and Star of Weight Watchers Commercials! She was with her daughter, Princess Beatrice (thank you Wikipedia), who was rocking it out. Those royals know how to boogie.
But now, let's get to the actual concert. The girls came out in their fab Roberto Cavalli outfits (he even knocked off an Adidas workout suit for Sporty), and answered my prayers by opening with "Spice Up Your Life," just as they did in the climactic concert scene of that cinematic classic, Spice World. Next was "Stop" and then an appropriately vampy performance of "The Lady is a Vamp." I self-actualized, and danced my ass off.
They took a break to say "We love you, Vegas," and then sang "Headlines," which we all pretended to like. After that, they each sang a solo number. And when I say "they each sang a solo number," I mean Ginger, Baby, Scary, and Sporty sang solo numbers. Posh...walked up and down a catwalk silently. But I don't know, I felt sort of bad for Posh. Pretty much the whole concert she maintained the facial expression of someone who had grabbed the mike to do some karaoke, and, about ten seconds into their song, realizes they're so not drunk enough to be doing this. Perhaps David's judging eyes made her freeze up?
Other Notes and Observations:
- Ginger got skinny. Like, Posh skinny. Remember when she was all curvy and saucy and fun? Not anymore. I was worried her dancers were going to crack her in two like a ginger snap. (heh. heh.)
- Sporty can really sing.
- During Scary's solo, she brought a male audience member up on stage, strapped him to a ladder, and simulated fellatio on him for like five minutes. It was certainly scary.
- Baby Spice is adorable.
- Halfway through the concert, my boyfriend told me that I look like Baby Spice. This is when I started loving my boyfriend again.
- I missed pretty much all of the concert because I was staring at David Beckham.