Lecherous Broads For Clay Aiken!
Lecherous Broads for Clay Aiken!


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2003-09-01
6:31 p.m.

BEVR: RainJane/Portland

Broad's Eye View Report: RainJane/Portland

Portland, Oregon - Wednesday, August 27, 2003

On this date, Mars came closer to the Earth than it has been in 60,000 years.

On this same date, a blazing comet just starting a thrilling ascendancy passed through Portland, Oregon, specifically the Rose Garden Arena.

The Mars occurrence is unprecedented in recorded human history.

For me, the comet known as Clay Aiken transcended anything Mars ever had in its arsenal.

Prologue

I was going to start my BEVR all witty and clever, but having been extremely sick, and accommodating company from out of state at the same time, I�ve ended up days past my �deadline�, and with each passing day I feel less and less able to do my feelings justice. It doesn�t help that tonight, the night I�m actually writing this, is the last night of the tour. So I want to start by stating that I bow down to all the BEVRs that have gone before me. Your writing and observations have made me laugh, cry and some other things I won�t mention. My own submission will surely be overly long, somewhat incoherent and emotional. I apologize in advance and ask you to bear with me, as the emotions I am expressing are still quite close to the surface.

Pre-Concert

I want to start by saying that I didn�t get tickets for our concert until they�d been on sale awhile � not till about 3 or 4 days before the tour started. I had gotten so worked up and crazed during the last few weeks of the show, capped with The Anomaly, that I felt I would not be able to stomach seeing Clay for the first time in some sort of strange tag-team ensemble cum Disneyland revue. My dearest friend and roomie, fellow Broad Patti, wasn�t nearly as discerning and was chomping at the bit for tickets. I kept saying we couldn�t really afford it right now anyway, blah, blah, blah. I finally caved in to her demands, but we ended up with nosebleed seats. Oh, well, I told her, at least we�ll be in the same arena. I still wasn�t happy about seeing him in this context so it was sort of a moot point for me.

Fast forward to about a week before the concert and I am on my third set of tickets, this time 12th row. By this point I am in a state of near frenzy over going, and no seats, short of sitting on Clay�s lap, were going to be close enough; however, by this time we had spent the equivalent of over $200.00 per ticket and I just had to stop checking TicketBast*** or go insane. Somehow I managed to opt for sanity.

Things did not go smoothly in my RL leading up to my concert. Patti had company in from LA, her childhood friend who shall be known as �RH�, and said friend entered our household with very little knowledge of AI2; the little she did know was enough for her to make disparaging statements regarding Baby. This, as you can imagine, did not sit well with me.Let us just say that if I didn�t value Patti�s friendship so much, RH might not only have gone back to LA the same day she arrived, but in little pieces to boot. Folks, we had a serious learning curve to surmount here, as she was going to the concert with us. On top of this, I came down with a hellacious head cold/sinus infection to complement my usual severe summer allergies here in the special hell known as the Willamette Valley, putting me flat on my back from pain and exhaustion the day before the concert. Capping it all off were the Internet reports that Clay had been hospitalized/ hooked to an IV/maimed in the leg/poisoned with an almond in Seattle the day before our show and that he was direly ill. I was practically in tears over all of it by the night before.

Day of Show

The morning of the concert, we headed from our home in the sticks to our Portland hotel located just a few blocks from the Arena. I was barely conscious and downing/inhaling/

snorting 7 medications plus OTC treatments for my problems. It seemed I was seriously channeling Clay�s current medical condition, much to my detriment. I crashed in the hotel room and got some sleep. By 5 hours before the show, my face hurt down to my teeth and I decided to take some Advil; after about an hour it became apparent that Advil was (once again) worth pearls beyond price as not only did my face stop hurting, but I also become ambulatory and coherent. I took 1.5 times the maximum dosage (I would have mainlined it if I could have) and even now I am seriously considering putting the makers of Advil in my will. By 3 hours preshow, our group had met up with fellow Broad Lyn and gone to dinner and I was feeling capable of emitting creepy full body screams with the best of them. I was hoping with all my heart that I was unconsciously reverse channeling my renewed energy and health back to Clay.

Because we had worked so diligently and tirelessly at immersing RH into the wonder that is Clay Aiken, we had actually made a significant dent in her armor. RH is our age, married with 2 children, one not much younger than Clay. While she was, understandably, quite taken with his voice by now (and was at least giving us lip service about agreeing with the fact that he has the most wonderful personality and giving soul on the planet), she was still doing Freudian interpretations about the appropriateness of lusting after a person in her own daughter�s age range. Considering her initial comments, I figured if that was the biggest hang-up she had about Clay at that point, I could live with it (plus I was able to remember that I actually did love her as a friend myself, once my blood pressure reverted back to normal and steam was no longer coming out of my ears.) By concert time, we were all good to go (and I�ll never understand how I avoided getting hit by a bus on the way to the concert as a fitting ending to the mess leading up to the show).

I will state at this point that I WAS VERY DISAPPOINTED IN THE PORTLAND CROWD. First of all, the place wasn�t even near being full (I�d say � or less is more like it). Then, the demographic seemed heavily skewed to a mix of:

~ folks my own grandma�s age (were she still alive. . .)

~ folks who didn�t have anything better to do and got some of those great seats TicketBast***s released at the last minute

~ folks who thought the Blazers were having a practice game and got free tickets at the venue from the crappy local radio station that to my knowledge has yet to play a single fricking Clay Aiken song

~ tweens and teens who go see everybody regardless . . .

~ oh, and a smattering of Clay and Ruben fans

I felt like I had walked into The Concert Twilight Zone. Top it off with the fact that the cursory search going in would have allowed me to bring in an Uzi, a shotgun and few rounds of ammo and I knew it was going to be an off night for atmosphere.

This was my first trip to the Rose Garden Arena. We were led to our seats, which were in the middle of 3 sections spanning the floor, to the far left of our section as you face the stage, one seat (which was Lyn�s) from the aisle. PRIMO Clay viewing territory. I stupidly looked up at the stage before sitting, grasped the enormity of how close I would be to the Divine One and promptly got dizzy (didn�t help I had a truckload of pharmaceuticals coursing through my veins, either). I sat in my seat gasping like a beached fish while Patti and RH went for water so I could cram more Advil down my throat. I was honestly fearful that I wouldn�t be able to survive the effects of seeing him that close. I guess row 12 was a blessing in disguise, because anything closer surely would have killed me inside of the first few bars of TITN. After Patti and RH got back, I hit the bathroom and told my bladder �this is it, your only chance, make it count� because I was wobbly going up the stairs and feared my legs would not cooperate navigating said stairs again during the concert. I did not leave the vicinity of my seat for the rest of the show.

The crowd continued to disappoint as they trickled in. Considering we were in the area that SHOULD have been Clay Party Central, I found that we were surrounded by a sea of anything-but-red shirts and fans of indeterminate allegiance. There were enough signs to find some Clay fans, but overall the mood was less festive than during previews at the movies. When the side screens showed an ad for Entertainment Tonight and ran a montage of AI2 contestants shortly before the concert started, I had to grind my teeth at the complete and total NON-reaction to it; personally, any little sniff of Clay, videotaped or otherwise, was like a lit match to my emotional tinder at that point.

Lyn arrived and took her aisle seat shortly before the start. She wisely suggested we unhook our chairs so we could casually creep outward into the aisle to getter a better line of sight. Unfortunately, this didn�t help Patti and RH, who ended up with a Clay Revival tag-team in front of them. Yup, that BIG �God Bless Clay� sign was up in their faces all night. My friends didn�t bring it to my attention during the show, otherwise I would have taken care of it for them (oh, unfailingly polite people � how DO they do it??), sick or not. I think a few good tuberculosis-sounding coughs with a little sprayage on the back of the neck might have done the trick very nicely. Either that, or a gentle tap and �put that sign up one more time while he�s singing and it will be going to the place other than hell where the sun don�t shine� warning. After the show, RH informed me that it appeared they felt the sign was a direct conduit from God to The Son and the signal couldn�t be interrupted under any circumstances. The really frightening thing is that they told folks afterwards that they had FRONT SEATS IN RALEIGH. And people think Jerome is protecting Clay from overzealous females who want his body � these two would beat out a horny woman stalker on the fear factor scale with no problem.

Lyn also informed me that she met some Meet & Greet participants and that Clay was all better and feeling perky or some such thing. Personally, that left me a) thrilled to death and all kinds of happy that Baby was better, and b) wanting to beat the crap out of the idiots who made him go to the Meet & Greet after he�d been so sick the day before.

The Concert � Part I

Thankfully for my nerves, the concert began on time. I was edgy, light-headed and a just a tad impatient with all the unending opening acts. Everyone who sang (and I use the term loosely for some of these folks) before KLo got on my nerves a mere 10 seconds into their respective numbers. Carmen was the focal point of our group�s collective disgust. Her (WARNING! Oxymoron follows) �singing voice� is utterly atrocious. She freaking YODELED at one point; I half expected her to break into The Lonely Goatherd from The Sound of Music. I leaned over to Patti and despite my illness, got out a really good plaintive bleat The Goatress accompanied this astonishing lack of talent with an outfit that showed off a butt that JLo would envy, paired with a baby doll maternity top, and moves that explain where Clay picked up his pole dancing skills on the tour. My only other memories of the opening acts were thinking of telling Trenyce that Wilma Flintstone called and wanted her dress back, and that the song Beautiful (sung by Julia � I think?) so speaks to how I feel about Clay � �for you are beautiful in every single way; words can�t bring you down�. Each performer asked the age-old �are you enjoying yourself/having fun yet?� question, which is normally annoying at the best of times, but was so ironically inappropriate to me at this point that it made me want to SCREAM. (I had to laugh when Patti leaned over to me about 10 seconds into Charlie�s song � first singer, first song � and said �this is the longest song ever written, isn�t it?�)

Finally, KLo came out and I started to go batsh*t. Suddenly the train was about to pull into the station and I didn�t know if I�d remain conscious. KLo finished; she started the intro, the video clip montage started, the place erupted as much as it was ever going to (which was not much, unfortunately). My friend Advil allowed me to bay like a rabid wolf, much to my delight (I am a natural screamer at all �scream appropriate� events, such as concerts and baseball games). The smoke started, and I went into a full-on out-of-body experience. As I zeroed in on Clay�s entire presence (sans binoculars) and started to methodically etch his visage on the canvas of my memory, the highly revved and hypersensitive emotional chunk of my brain started screaming out random observations of note:

1) By the grace of whatever deity you hold highest, I hope to NEVER have to endure the agony again of having to wait for Clay to be on stage during a concert because he is �JUST� PART OF AN ENSEMBLE.

As soon as Clay opened his mouth, it put the exclamation point for me to the complete and total INJUSTICE of his not only not being the solo headliner, but worse yet, a member of a glorified dog and pony show. It is just plain WRONG in so many ways, and my guts went into a twist. I realize that when this ludicrous situation is resolved with his first-of-a-gazillion S-O-L-O T-O-U-R-S (um, I can repeat that in case RCA didn�t catch it), there may actually come a time when somebody will be allowed to duet with him onstage (IF he wants them to, that is). I can stomach, and possibly even enjoy this if it is done in a respectful, fitting manner - i.e., don�t get in his way, don�t get in my line of sight, and for God�s sake, don�t even think about trying to match up with The Voice, as you�ll want to spend the majority of your energies on praying you don�t get your aural a**, not to mention your reputation, royally kicked. (For a vivid example, see any TGIM �duet� and check out the first solo line Clay sings; a quick, subtle knee bend and That Other Guy is vocal toast). However, there is no way, no how, that this man is going to be second fiddle onstage to anyone, anywhere, ever again. At this point, it should be glaringly apparent to anyone with any intelligence whatsoever that the universe of The Correct Order of Things cannot handle being tilted that way ever again. (By the way, RH commented later that when he had to share his singing with the group she would think �oh, what a waste.� You go, gurrrl!)

Now, the above point comes first only because I was already feeling sick to my stomach over the �waiting for Clay� concept and its inherent offensiveness even before TITN; as I stated above, the start of TITN only served to emphasize it. However, once he opened his mouth, my brain veered on to the next indelible thought:

2) I will pay money � good money, lots of money, money I probably can�t really afford to spend � to hear this man sing - A-N-Y-T-H-I-N-G. The Barney song? Check. Muskrat Love? Count me in. Having My Baby? I�m there. The Friskies jingle? Get outta my way. The theme song from The Love Boat? First in line, Baby. Achy Breaky Heart? Just try and hold me back. That Voice can pull the stars down from the heavens, lure the birds out of the trees, glean the sunlight out of the breaking waves, yank the breath right out of my body like it�s a physical entity. It is the very purest personification of rapture. It must never be stilled or shackled. If he ever quits singing, no matter how noble the reason, I will have to be restrained from throwing myself off of a cliff.

I did not use my binoculars for the duration of TITN, as I was concentrating on remaining conscious and taking my mental transcription of every visual aspect of his presence. I did not notice the tie (someone kindly shared photos and it was the dark purple � THANK YOU HONEY!) � I did not notice the lapel pin � I did not notice much of anything detailed, I was simply drinking in his essence. I felt a sense of suffocation, as the stage seemed barely large enough to contain his persona (note I use a $20 word stolen straight from Baby�s mouth). Utter, blithering, quaking idiot throughout TITN. Utter. Song over, he spoke briefly. His speaking voice was fine, singing voice just a tad congested. He was walking fine and looked healthy. He introduced What�s-His-Name and then, OH SH*T, HE WAS GONE! And The Other Guy sang. And the crowd was subdued. And I was royally pi**ed (see #1 above). Claytus Interruptus indeed. I collapsed into my seat, trying not to hyperventilate over what I had just experienced.

Intermission

Notable comments (paraphrased) made during this time by RH: Clay can SING. He sounds formally trained (RH was in choir for quite awhile). He knows the mechanics. His technique is amazing. And. . . (drum roll, please) . . . he�s pretty damned cute. RH was smiling. She was enjoying this. She was liking Clay. I was liking her. I was still coherent and conscious. We were on a roll.

A little background on our crown (which some saintly person did get a picture of and sent to me � oh, life is good again!) We had made up a series of signs that referred to the �HRH� designation and the crown was supposed to tie into that � har har. We ended up sitting in Sign Land AND had to deal with the Satellite Dish for God covering up what we were holding. So there was no apparent rhyme or reason for a crown to appear on stage. Tied onto the crown with a red ribbon was a small microphone clip-on watch that you can record a message on, some tasteful, lacy red boy cut panties, a �hope you feel better� card with a cartoon CAT on the front (purchased unknowingly by RH as I was prone in the hotel room pre-concert � I cleverly doctored the front of the card, indicating that Clay should pretend that the offending feline was actually �a dawg�, while RH vociferously protested that she �thought it was a bear� when she picked it out). The crown was chosen carefully � lightweight, definitely a masculine version (no tiaras, please) and lined with comfy foam should Clay actually feel so inclined as to don it (I was particularly concerned about it being gentle to his sickly brow). All items were chosen to be lightweight and have no sharp edges, so as to insure there would be no chance of injury to his abused and overworked body during the tossing process. During intermission, I went down to locate a likely suspect to do crown-tossing duty. After a trio of women who CLAIMED to be Clay fans gave me a collective raised eyebrow look with a group nervous giggle and �oh no, I don�t think so� comments, a lady in the front kindly offered up her brother in the second row. Much to his bemusement, I gave him strict instructions, and repeated them to be sure he understood the urgency � �these are for Clay; they are lightweight and don�t have sharp edges, but please be sure that you DO NOT HIT HIM WITH THEM�. I shudder to think what ran through this young man�s mind at that point, but I was shameless in my pleading � and it worked. Perhaps he realized that were he to wantonly disobey my pleas or, worse yet, simply screw up, that I was going to be all over him like white on rice.

The Concert, Part II

I have astonishingly little recall of the exact chronology of songs and sequences from here on out, so if you notice that I am getting things out of order based on your own concert attendance, then I pity you for actually giving a rip about such inconsequential things while the Center of the Known Universe is coalescing down to a 6�1� skinny white boy with big ears before your very eyes.

During this part of the concert I was coherent (read: smart) enough to break out my binoculars. I knew that Clay would not do a significant amount of singing till To Love Somebody, so I felt it was time to take my chances and begin to look directly into the Sun known as His Face. TLIAT begins and Clay is at the top of the stairs doing his oh-so-calculatedly-uncalculated �here I am� entrance with downcast eyes and subtle, smoky look and I start to watch. Once it stops ricocheting around my skull from the impact of my first close-up living & breathing sighting, my brain is screaming the following:

~ Clay Aiken is, quite simply, the most spectacularly, exquisitely, utterly, gloriously, breathtakingly beautiful male I have ever laid eyes on. I don�t know what it is in the genetic makeup of the female of the species, but whatever attraction receptors our brains are programmed with, his facial structure sets off every single possible neurotransmitter to fit those puppies like a key in a lock. Proportions? Perfect. Coloring? Perfect? Individual features? Perfect AND imperfectly perfect (i.e. crooky smile, crooky bottom teeth). And topping it all off like the ripest, most delicious cherry on the world�s most glorious dessert is the sparkle in his eyes. I honestly think his eyes must glow like a cat�s in the dark because no matter what angle you catch him at, it�s there; I find it hard to believe it�s not some amazing physical phenomena. I so badly wanted to check out his entire body from tip to toe, end to end, but I could never make a good stab at it because his face pulled me like a moth to a flame. (I think I did look to see if he actually had feet once.) You could just drink it in for hours and hours and hours. Those folks who use the term luminous to describe him really nail it. Quite simply, his face is a study in the limitations of photography for capturing reality. Astonishing. I think I may start taking pity on the photographers of these magazines, as they may well be throwing in the towel from the get-go rather than try to capture perfection.

TLS arrives and we get a deep knee bend with a Glory Note (sorry, Lyn, you must have missed it. Me, I just about tipped right over.). This, for me, is the big sister of the eye f*** and I think of it as nothing short of an �air f***�. You can feel the wave in the female population of the audience like a backwash coming off the stage as he takes those long limbs and goes down into the swoop; coupled with the Glory Note, it is a force of nature unto itself and for me is as erotic in it�s grace, strength, agility and spontaneity as anything he does (yes, it even rivals the Wooster/Tampa clutch �n grind, although I didn�t have a chance to do a direct comparison, more�s the pity).

During the group numbers, my binoculars were trained on his every move. I did not have a clear view of the Clarmen, as a dancer was blocking most of my view. Perhaps this was for the best, as I�m not sure in my heightened emotional state that I could have handled seeing that unobstructed. I do know one thing � say what you will about Carmen and her appalling lack of talent, grace or style; she is one smart b***h because the lower portion of her anatomy is all over Clay�s every show (be it the butt grind or the leg hump) and damned if I wouldn�t give up 10 years of my life to be her at that moment.

The group numbers finally came to an end (Note � the Lady/Booty �duet� is one of the single most ridiculous, tacky, appalling spectacles I have ever had the misfortune of seeing, and KLo looks like she�d rather have sharp sticks driven under her nails than be doing it. This was truly painful to watch. Fortunately, there is only a brief period in the sequence that is sans Clay and during which I was forced to actually watch the rest of the supporting acts for lack of a focal point). A variety of other numbers ensued, all of which reinforced observation #1 (above) to an almost unbearable degree. The need for The Golden-Throated Topaz to be culled from this coal pit grew ever more apparent.

TGIM � Clay did not get to see our sign, but the crown was tossed with immaculate aim and timing. He picked it up, looked at it with the �what the hell?� eyebrow crook and then ALMOST put it on. I do believe he didn�t want to muss his hair. I do believe I didn�t care because he had touched something that I had touched just mere minutes previously and something from my hand had entered his hand and I was just going all kinds of berserk over the enormity of this non-connection-that-somehow-seemed-like-a-connection in my fevered brain. There was TGIM banter, Clay told Ruben to get off of his feet and then informed him that �my leg is better, I can kick you now�, at which point I sincerely wished he would except that I knew he would hurt himself again. Ruben did the requisite play-pushing-Clay-around and I realized that I don�t ever want to see it again. At that point I was looking for Marie�s industrial-sized can of whoop ass to break open � one more shove, Big Man, and you were going down!

CYFTLT � this was amazing. Not that the song is anything great, but watching Clay perform it is wondrous. At this point I was able to pay real attention to his hands � those enormous hands with those long, tapered fingers, the veins apparent on the back � as he made that eloquent move of slowly resting his hand on his stomach, slowly splaying out his fingers. The audience was quiet and we basked in The Voice. He reached the end of the song, stopped before the final word, �best�, walked to the far right-hand side of the stage and let the adulation wash over him. I am reminded of what Babs said in her BEVR and it was incredible to witness. RH said afterwards that �he was standing there like he was soaking up the sun � he was playing the audience like a violin, not the audience playing him, and yet it never felt conceited or egotistical, it just felt RIGHT.� The pause ended and he sang the final word. It was a lovely, lovely moment for him and for the audience. It was the point when it was us making love to him from the crowd rather than the other way around; and it just felt so exquisitely, deservedly RIGHT, a validation of what he�s been through, who he is and how we feel about him.

There was, at some point, some more Ruben. I have no clue what the name of Ruben�s new song is; I only recall that he sings �go Ruben� over and over, there is a line about �I was a star before the show� and it was like a bucket of ice water on the enthusiasm of the audience. What WAS vivid was Ruben�s comment before this or some other song of his stating that he � Ruben � had been feeling under the weather lately and was worried about sounding good. As visions of IV�s and sore legs and allergy attacks and sinus infections danced in my head, I turned to Patti and said �That ##$$^^!! He can kiss my a** and when he�s done with that, he can kiss Clay�s!� Coupling that with his comment that he HAD NOT HEARD IMAGINE BEFORE AI2 (um, what rock did he live under all of his life?), I began to wonder just what insane and hellish alternate universe I was living in, having to watch him perform as the so-called headliner while Clay was relegated to his glorified comic foil.

At this point the band was introduced and I was treated to air instrumentation, et al. Along with the group dance numbers, it is a moment of sheer, blissful discovery for me:

~ Clay Aiken is quite possibly the goofiest, dorkiest guy on the planet and his goofy dorkiness is definitely one of the HOTTEST things I have ever experienced. Now this really got my brain in a twist. How can I possibly take actions that for anybody else would make me run screaming from the room, and experience them turning into something that pushes all my hot buttons Big-Time? I know this is a stupid question, but - have those of you who have gone really watched his face during the group dance numbers? (Where�s the tape of THAT, PEOPLE??) The contortions and the frantic concentration, the lip biting and the brow wiggling? The little O�s he makes with his mouth and the suppressed giggle fits? There�s even an occasional smug �hah! I did it!� look of goofy triumph. And, when it isn�t taking all of his apparent mental effort to keep his place, note the way all the parts of his face head in all sorts of other, completely unrelated, directions � the brows one way, the mouth another, from sh*t-eating grin to �oh yeah?� to complete smirk. Couple that with the band intro suite of goofing off, spinning around, dancing like an Arthur Murray reject, frantically gesticulating to the audience, occasional fits of giggles and you get� DORK 101A � 401A, condensed, and oh, yeah, MAMA LIKES! How does he DO that? How does he switch off all your internal anti-dork roadblocks and firewalls and turn them into mush? Perhaps the only explanation is that all previous conceptions are shattered by the sheer force of the beauty of The Overall Face. Whatever it is, I was dipped into the dorkdom waters and I mightily desire to do so again and again.

After being bombarded with more cheesy choreography, overly loud biker chick songs from KimberMe, wailing and grandstanding from Trenyce, bleating from Carmen, I don�t even remember what from the other ones but it took too long, and the atrocity that is Ruben-as-Headliner, it finally boiled down to Invisible. Here is where my last observation really scares me � because now all the goofy dorkiness goes straight out the window like it never existed and you are presented with a full-fledged, sexually mature red-headed tiger prowling the stage with one intent in mind, and one only � to throw himself so utterly and completely into his performance both vocally and physically that it takes your breath away and practically knocks you senseless. He worked the length of the stage with sheer abandon, his voice and his body in a rising, falling ballet of lulls and thrilling crescendos. The chains are off, the restrictions are nil, the butterfly has burst from the chrysalis, the entire process that got him to this point is gone and he is his own man, his own artist, his own performer. There was no overt hip action, but it just didn�t matter � every pass across the stage was magnificent, every movement a celebration of his sheer physicality and passion for life. He is completely at ease in his own skin, both literally and figuratively. His actions are unconscious and from the gut. It was utterly beautiful to watch.

I spent the rest of the show just watching Clay interact with the others and the crowd, and letting myself come down mentally and yes, physically, from Invisible. One last chance to drink him in before he left for good.

Epilogue

Writing this four days after the fact, I find that none of the feelings have diminished for me OR for Patti. (Post-concert, RH informed us that she definitely �gets it�. We treated her to a smorgasbord of downloaded concert videos afterward and she was delivering commentary like a veteran Broad.) If anything, it has made our feelings for Clay more intense in all aspects � his voice, his heart, his personality, and oh yes, his physical beauty. I am extremely happy that the tour is now (as I write this) over; the first phase of HIS career is now underway. The next few months will be all too quiet for his fans, but I hope that this is the start of a more meaningful, focused and enjoyable period in Clay�s life and career.

Clayton, Honey, if you ever get a chance to read this � THANK YOU for the heart and effort and sweat and time you put into this tour. You raised the bar for everyone involved and I know that your fellow performers will never have such a wonderful experience again. They were lucky to have had this time with you. As for us, your fans, we are wishing you good health (sleep well and eat healthy, Hon!), happiness, and time for yourself and those you love. We are looking forward to the next part of the incredible ride that is your life and are grateful, so very grateful, to be invited along in some small way. Much love and a cascade of kisses from myself and all my fellow Broads!

-RainJane1960

-Note from Nelle: You, too, can participate in the LBFCA Summer Series, and have your Broad's Eye View Report, or, for any other Brude's out there, your Summary of Clay, about Clay's Summer Concert Tour on the LBFCA Main Page. Just send it to Nelle via email, and she'll post it ASAP. (If you are a lurker, or otherwise wish to remain anonymous, just let me know that in your email). Don't worry about your BEVR not being the same size or looking the same as anyone elses. Here at LBFCA we celebrate diversity. Every BEVR is unique. This is your personal experience of witnessing what Katynka so gloriously described as "a little hockey-jersey-clutchin,' white-leather-wearin,' DTTR revealin,' mic-flickin,' thigh-strokin,' eye-f***ing, smokin,' jokin,' singin,' hunk-o-burnin' libido."

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