Dear Diary: Miss the Dear Diaries

The Post used to have a regular feature called Dear Diary every Saturday in which one us would imagine the journal entries of a newsmaker. I loved them. Not sure why we don’t do them anymore. But here are a few by our columnist Scott Stinson, followed by my diary for Madonna (July 2007).


Originally published in the National Post Jul 7 2007, As imagined by Melissa Leong


I had an epiphany during yoga today. I was in the middle of a sun salutation pose and Sting was on the mat beside me, screwing with my energy field with his constant humming of Roxanne, and it came to me. I was destined to close the Live Earth London concert. I am but a vessel and the planet’s powerful message flows through me. But how to grab everyone’s attention? Maybe that Corinne Bailey Rae girl will make out with me on stage.


My day was shot because I skipped my morning meditation after I thought I found a dimple on my perfect ass. Then I screamed at Guy at tea time. He hates it when I call him Mr. Madonna. That dimple turned out to be just an indent from unwittingly leaning against my bronzed cone bra. Thank God. But I’ll have to make it up to Guy with some baby talk. Only four days until the big show. Which means I can probably get 10,000 sit-ups in before Saturday. I’ll need every single crunch for the stunt that I have planned. They announced that ripe Justin Timberlake will make a surprise appearance. Oh, the two of us will shock them like never before.


This can’t get any worse. Justin said he already pulled a similar thing with Janet Jackson and that it didn’t go over too well. “The world is in pain and we need to do something that will rouse our global citizens from their collective coma,” I told him. He apologized. Then he called me, “Ma’am.” What a pussy. Now the news media is quoting some survey that labels me the “least green” artist in the show. That’s absurd. The whole family carpooled to The Wiggles concert in the Escalade last month. And I’m pretty sure the purple body suit I wear on stage is made of recycled spandex outfits from the ’80s. Today I saw the members of Genesis drive to rehearsals separately. No one ever picks on the old guys.


Some eco-hack actually calculated my carbon emissions for my 2006 Confessions tour. He said I spewed 444 tonnes of carbon dioxide, 40 times the average Briton’s annual output. Well, maybe he’s warming the Earth with all of his hot air! Guy just called him a “wanker.” He’s been crusty since his last movie flopped. (I told him I should have starred in it.) I’m feeling some unearthly rage here. I am the most successful female recording artist of all time. I put Malawi on the map. I write happy books for kids, for God’s sake. All I do is bring joy. Deep breaths, Madge. I’m just going to light some candles from my collection of Elton John Home Fragrances and take a bath.


I just had a two-hour meeting with Rabbi Yardeni at the Kabbalah Centre. He was a bit distracted with my bicep curls but he calmed me down. I’m feeling rejuvenated, reborn, like a virgin. Ha. I’m also confident that I’ll have everyone’s attention after the show. Especially with the part where I make out with Al Gore. He’s such a good sport. Anything, he said, to save the planet.


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