A Staten Island Woman
from "Wonder Women"
Mike Topp

Christina Aguilera arrived wearing a strapless cocktail dress looking true, truer. I peered over a bodyguard's shoulder and into her cleavage at the risk of entangling my eyebrows and jacket, cut, apparently, from the same bolt of fuzzy goods. Christina is drop-dead gorgeous, with a wonderful personality, lives in the moment, and she imparts that same happiness one might have experienced in ancient times at the sight of some choice goats' paunches roasting over an open fire.
Without a man, she may be lonely. Has her art been enough to sustain her, or does she look to her blog for gratification? The music of Christina is like the sound of an autumn gale sweeping down the Val d'Aosta. Her artistry is, in my opinion, and despite a certain tendency to mannerism, the closest thing to perfection.
I last saw her in Paris when we were seated round the peanuts and had ordered our drinks -- "Deux Scotch" Christina had said to the comprehending and indifferent waiter. Christina gave me a brief resume of her "recent whirlwind and lightning concert tour." From Cooperstown to Harper's Ferry, with a brief side trip to Davenport to perform with Marilyn Manson, who is evidently beginning to find favor in Iowa -- she held nothing back. She still maintains her usual discretion in that she has revealed to no one that I sometimes wear Wonder Woman underpants. From my observation of her behavior in public one could only benefit by her proximity.
Youthful vigor, a bronze tan, increased stature, a powerful jaw, a head of at times clean hair, and a boyish exuberance. As my niece, she has been a total delight, and I have never held it against her that she identifies herself sexually as a man who is gay. Only recently I made her a chain of paper clips to wear with her sweaters, instead of the usual pearls, and she shyly shook it lightly so that it danced back and forth.
Christina and her entourage are glorying and unrepentant. Her hangers-on include Pearl Hurlburt (nail concern), Cynthia Bonita (massage), Delza Arana (voice), and Alice Bridgewater (personal trainer). They siphon off the money of the performer. When I sat before Christina Aguilera and her four friends, one seat over from Britney Spears, and two from Paris Hilton, my lover, I felt I was in the New York of old, with the magic of El Morocco, the conversation of the Algonquin Round Table, with no sheepish emanations expressed from Lindsay Lohan, sitting in front of me, on Madonna's shoulders, or Beyonce, one seat to the right, who arrived late with Hannah Montana.
The usually scruffy living room had been transformed into a sumptuously inviting salon, its centerpiece a kind of rose window of God knows what. We all sat there, the Queen and I, the stars, the different ISPs, the gossip columnists, the adoring eyes, the jealous looks, amid some leftover turkey and rosettes of pale green mayonnaise. Everything was there where it should be. I re-entered the TV and peace reigned in the desert of art.