Confession

I have a confession to make.

I don’t hate Celine Dion.

I know, I could get my dyke card yanked for this.

Let me defend it a little bit. I know there really is no excuse. But as I sit here and type this, and feel a little bit ashamed, I’m watching her Vegas show on Palladia.

It’s shot at Cesar’s, where I saw Elton John a few years ago.  It was, hands-down, the best musical performance I’ve seen. Like him or not, he’s a showman. It was well worth the large sum of money that my ex paid for the trip to Vegas and the show.  See him if you ever get the chance.

Back to Celine.

I sort of wish I’d gotten to see her show at Cesar’s.  Don’t say it.  I feel the shame.

I might have under-exaggerated it a bit.  Not only do I not hate Celine, I sort of like her.

Her music is closely tied to the summer after high school, when I spent my days bussing tables at a restaurant my parents once owned.  Friends of theirs has purchased it.  Gay male friends.  We listened to Celine Dion.  Every day.  There were 5 CDs in the changer, and one of them was The Colour of My Love.

Oprah loves her, and she seems to be a lovely woman, from what I’ve seen of her interviews.

My shame, and nostalgia (and Oprah), aside, she’s got a fantastic voice.  And, from what I’ve seen so far on Palladia, is quite the showman herself.