Super Friends Stefani and Coco

I think this is the new album cover?

When I was 11, I went to Disneyworld. I haven't been that excited since. Until April 9, when Lady Gaga came to The Big Easy, just three hours west of P-town 2.0. Two days prior, I was driving and listening to the radio, hoping Gaga's latest hit would be played. The DJ came on and briefly mentioned tickets were being given away to see our lady in New Orleans. I had to find out when, and how I could make my attendance happen.

StubHub showed me that I had 48 hours to make it happen. (How had I not heard?) Then the best kind of excitement kicked in. A wish. Was coming true. NOW. Grateful for fellow Gaga fan and co-conspirator, Marine wife Leslie, we bought corner seat tickets and prepared ourselves for a night of driving and dancing. Serious dancing. The kind that involves jumping up and down, fist-pumping, screaming and singling along at the top of your ooey-gooey lungs. Because who hasn't felt like they were born to feel that way.

My favorite concert to that date was Britney Spears. Yes, even over Coldplay's yellow beach balls popping through the audience, Lilith Fair's free-spirited weed smell, and Jars of Clay crowd-surfing (and yes, the only mosh pit I've dared enter is a religious one - but this will hopefully change the day I can afford a floor ticket). So Stefani Joanne Angelina Germanotta took the cake and ice cream, too.

Courtesy of Anirudh Koul's Flickr stream (since my shot sucked)

While the former reining princess of pop Ms. Spears had an indoor waterfall, laser lights and eye-sticking, all-American good looks, our lady had a flaming piano, a flaming bikini, a piano inside the hood of a pickup truck, and a wiggly fame monster from the bottom of the sea. But above all, she committed wholly to putting on a riveting, passionate show centered on what was, in my opinion, pure pop musicality and branding genius. She can write, sing, dance, entertain and NEVER lip-syncs.

"I never have, and I never will," she growled prettily.

She also intermittently yells at us little dressed little monsters to put your fucking phones away, stand the fuck up, get your fucking hands in the air, and just dance. So I did.

Queen's Radio Gaga incarnate also took fall-defying (and sometimes submitting) stances, posed precariously between piano bench and bandmate guitar stem. The girl is crunk - striking poses, strutting moves, and singing notes that would make the greatest artists gape in awe. The cherry on top is that this chick's not publicly political, just out for equality.

If you can get past your normal self (aka a civilian versus a star) - perhaps one who doesn't sleep with both men and women, drink from a teacup with a fake diamond at the bottom every morning, try to give a Vogue interview buzzed, or wear masks, meat, wigs and decals that make you look like you've got protruding bones - you'll see how you can't argue with that. Equality, in case you forgot. WINK

The kicker ... She knows what everyone says. Her body's okay; her face is blech. She shrugs it off. Because she puts on her cape (her fans' fandom) and holds her head high. Can't we all learn from that? Feel it? Can't we all ignore the peanut gallery a little more successfully because of our own personal fans and her anthem-esque music, a cornucopia of hits with hooks and climaxes like Just Dance, Bad Romance, Telephone and Alejandro. They can make us hold our heads a little higher, try a little harder, think outside the box. Run further, dance bigger, make love crazier.

Twenty-five years old. As the hus would say, lock her up and throw away the key, so she can do no harm to herself and continue to create musical bliss.

One concert tour T-shirt later, I fold it in next to my "It's Britney, Bitch" T. It's no plastic dress, disco stick, go-go boots, or even feather earrings, the other little monsters were sporting as we watched Gaga live - but I'm a bigger little monster for having been there, seen it.

Courtesy of This is Not the Blog You Are Looking For

Some 20,000 people poured out of the arena, adrenaline happy, experience appreciative, maybe even ready to tackle another chapter in the next great American novel all us writers claim to be working on. Paws up. Show your teeth.

The only thing that would compare to being Stefani's bud might be being Coco's. Sure, the gaunt, brilliant designer would have been a nice friend, but Conan O'Brien's team Coco takes the cake here.

Every night, he joins our DVR, waiting with self-deprication, corny but down-to-earth jokes, quirky impressions, awkward movements and self-centered interviews.

Can't the stars just interview him?

I would settle for working for him over a lifelong friendship, just writing out the queue cards or being assistant to the assistant to the talent booker, even polishing Andy's shoes. But if there was a chance I could be in a sketch, write a sketch, or merely shake his hand - as I walk on stage to be interviewed as the youngest Pulitzer Prize winner ever...

Er, maybe I should start by just seeing his show live, too.

Latest funny Conan bit. Fricking watch it all.



And a bit of a song from our lady's new album, (releasing May 23). (Yup, sorry, I shot it.) Don't worry about the ballad feeling, she said - and I so-called quote - the new record will still be something you can dance to and shake glitter at.



What other super friends are in our future?

A new combination of Madonna and Michael...

A new Oprah...

An iPad 1 Million Robot...