The beauty of growing up in So.Flo. is that it’s virtually impossible to not know somebody who knows somebody who knows one of the flaming falsetto fairies that Orlando used to pump out like Chicanas and newborns. Because of this dangerously close and inevitable first or second degree of separation, me as a drug and alcohol obsessed girl in my early twenties would often be minding my own business on a Saturday Afternoon when I would hear something like this: “Omigod. You know my cousin’s neighbor whose best friend is from Orlando, right? Well he’s totally letting us all into the VIP of Crobar for free tonight. And guess who’s gonna be there. Ok, ok, wait, I’ll tell you. The fucking, swear-to-god, Backstreet Boys!”
You would think statements like this would send my open palm flying towards the side of her head. But there’s something you must understand about 21-year-old Conchita. I would have to go, cause there would be bottles. Free bottles. It’s amazing how much your capacity to ignore sequin wearers and bad techno music explodes when your free cup runneth over.
So thanks to alcoholism, I’ve had to meet all the Backstreet Boys. And most of NSYNC. Even if I was strong enough to see beyond my vodkaholcic tunnel vision, we would have still been forced to exchange fake pleasantries. Cause in my Miami waitressing days, I had to wait on them. Often. Lance Bass in particular. And guess what he was drinking. Ok, ok, wait, I’ll tell you. A Madras: One part vodka, one part cranberry, one part orange juice, one part People magazine.
Never mind all the singing and gyrating and sequin wearing, for way back then, in his hand he held the dead giveaway. I’d hate to get all Stephen Colbert on ya’ll and yell, “I called it.” But well, I think I kinda did.