The big date that wasn't!

Well, it was, just not quite like we planned it.

A couple of weeks ago Kelly asked me to accompany her on this boat cruise that was hosted by AIDS Rochester to benefit "Helping People With AIDS". Sure, I said! Tickets weren't cheap and it was a big homo event, so I planned on dressing to the nines. So lemme just tell you people: I tweezed. I shaved. I Naired. I waxed. I clipped. I trimmed. I showered. I brushed all my teeth. I even went shoe shopping.

So I'm all a-primping for two hours, like any good femme, and I'm all ready and shit. Even wearing earrings, people! I'm talking girdles, stockings and slips. You get the picture?

So we get to the launch location of the ship (The Harbor Belle), and "Joyce", the docent of the Harbor Belle greets us, wearing this lime green dress from 1964, complete with stains all over the front. She's half in the bag. "The ride will be delayed for an hour, as the Stutson St. bridge is stuck and the ship can't get under it to return to the dock." So there are some groans as we realize we will miss the beautiful sunset on the lake. But troopers that we are, we see this as a great opportunity to go drinking, which we do. Later we head back to the boat launch and nobody is there. Except Joyce. Who is now totally in the bag and lighting up a Marlboro. "The ride has been cancelled. The Coast Guard had to rescue the people off the boat and it's still stuck in the bay. But the party has been moved to 3028 East Ave." Then someone else says, "What's that address?" And she says "3208". And I say, what's that address again, because you just said something else. She says 3208. It's now a house party at some gay boy named Tim's house.

We head for the house, but decide we are damn hungry by now, and we roll through the Wendy's drive-thru for cheesburger's in our Saturday evening finest. Somehow I managed not to spill food on myself. We scarfed down the chow and headed for the party.

Now, I'm gonna make a long story short and skip to the part where dozens of lesbians are traveling up and down East Ave. for an hour looking for an address that doesn't exist. We try 3028, 3208, 3280, 3820. I call my brother, who works in the legal field, to do a skip trace. He can't find anything either. Now I do crap like this all the time as a process server, looking for addresses that don't exist and trying to guess the correct one. I think maybe it's 328? But we've had enough guessing and decide to go to a gay martini bar and drink some more. We get there and there are about 6 fags hanging there, so Kelly just says, anybody know Tim with HPA? Well, of course, someone does, and tells us "It's 328 East Ave." Never trust a drunk docent wearing dirty old clothes.

So we find the party, and it's 100 fagolas, 9 dykes, and one drag queen. And stale booze. And little finger foods that have been manhandled by little gay boys who are probably strippers at Muther's homo bar. But the booze is free, so we take advantage of that. We girls all chat, then decide we've had enough.

But I gotta say, it was still a fun adventure, we still had a nice evening, and we looked FABulous! See for yourself.

The Universe has a cruel sense of humor

So I always see the number 1111. And recently I heard that if you see it in time format, it's a blessing from the universe and everything is working in your favor and you have a whole minute to ask for what you want. So the other day I glance at the clock and it's 11:11 a.m. So I'm thinking I need money really bad. But I didn't want money with crap attached, like money from friends who then hold it over you, or borrowed money or credit card money, etc. I'm thinking the lottery would be nice, or a benefactress who loves my music. But I didn't specify that. I just asked for it like this: "I need easy money that has no strings attached".

So last night I'm logging a bunch of receipts into my ledger, and out of the blue this little piece of paper falls out among them. Here is that little piece of paper:



I suppose someone is laughing, but it ain't me.

Board shorts?

What the fuck are board shorts? Ya'll act like I know something about clothes and fashion styles.

Well, kayaking went well, anyway. It was really beautiful and peaceful going along these marshes. I saw a couple of painted turtles and swans and great blue herons. I looked like a loser but what can I say? Her friends couldn't come after all, so it was just us, and she seems to think I look good, but she wears glasses. Lust is blind, what can I say?

So, someone send me a photo of board shorts.

Kayaking.

She wants to go kayaking.

Now keep in mind that this body of mine is the result of years of cultivating the perfect musician's body: pasty and flabby. Years of greasy foods and beer; sleeping in the day and gigging at night. But now, this. Kayaking. With a couple of her friends. Oh, the humanity!

I don't even own a pair of shorts.

What I do have are those skin tight athletic shorts that you wear to work out in and jeans. Can't kayak in jeans. So I have to do the fat girl thing: Wear those athletic shorts, which hug every dimple, and put on a big ol' t-shirt to cover the fat ass and love handles. And lemme just say there's a reason why I cover these legs of mine all the time. It ain't pretty on any day of the week.

I've finally reached the point where people say "She has such a pretty face".

Perhaps I can keep my dignity by drowning.

Cyber Menopause

I have no period

This is to say, in the punctuation sense

Remember the beer incident of yesterday, whereby my little Puddy's tail knocked over my beer onto my computer keyboard while I was picking her up?

Today the keys are a little sticky, except for the period

It is stuck completely

Hence, no period

So where do I begin?

Well, I guess I'll take it one topic at a time.

Never DID make it to NYC, thank the good lord jesus about that. But you already read that posting. So the next night I'm in Worcester, MA playing at the Java Hut. May I say in my best Bette Davis voice "Wh-at a dump!" And what a waste of a gig. They let people smoke in public in MA. What a concept. But here's the brilliant part of it: Massachusetts, who surpasses NY in it's ability to tax its citizens up the ass and back again, has figured out a way to make MONEY off smokers, unlike NY, who just across the board said "BAD children! You can't smoke anywhere anymore because we say it's bad for you!". But MA has brilliantly decided that if you want to allow smoking in your establishment, you must now get a license to be considered a "smoking emporium" which costs lotso money. Kind of like a liquor license. So Java Hut had smokers blowing in my face and all.

I got there soooo early, like by 2:00, and the gig wasn't until 9. So after I set up my sound system, I just hung around forever, wasting time and being bored. I checked out the two town newspapers to see if they'd listed my gig. One listed it on the wrong night. And there weren't too many people there, but there were 3 people who totally loved me, yay. One of them was this really nice young woman who made a collage (while I was performing) that related to my performance and music and me in general, even though she didn't know me. And let me say how kind of psychic she was! She gave me the collage and when I scan it I'm gonna put it up at my website - maybe here too. I got $11.00 in tips. That's it. Oh, and they fed me up to $8.00 worth of food. Never mind that the coffees are like 5 bucks. Whatever.

Anyway, I tore down my system so friggin fast and loaded up. It was about midnight and I just hit the road, headed back to Ra-cha-cha. I drove until 3:00 a.m., high on the Mocha Mudslide Smoothie with the double hit of espresso until I had to stop. I pulled into a roadside station along the thruway and slept in the back seat of the car. I felt like that Dixie Chicks song where she says "Living out of tip jars, sleeping in my car". At 7:00 a.m. I was back on the road and got home around 11:00 a.m.

I hit the sack for a couple of hours, then went to my gramma's for dinner. Then I met up with Kelly (the vet...) and we hung out for awhile. She graciously offered for me to bring my cats to her clinic the next day for boarding. I was supposed to take them to a boarder who lives an hour away. Her clinic is around the damn block. Wasn't that nice? Ya see, my mommy is on vacation and I was heading to Canada the next day to work on the CD, so these high maintenance sicko kitties needed some help, ya know?

Then I went to Canada the next day and we put the keyboards down and it was fabulous, and that's all I need to say about that. Because I just spilled beer all over my computer keyboard and now I have to clean it up. Beer at 3:00 in the afternoon? Why not? It's Friday. And it's beer-thirty!

See ya!

Sorry, Everybody!

It's my fault. I caused the blackout.

Well, not caused it, per se, rather manifested it. Because I SO did not want to go to NYC. I was totally neurotic about it. I'm sorry, but I just don't think NYC is the great city everyone thinks it is. What? Paying 2K a month to live in a shoebox surrounded by 10 gazillion people? Spending a quarter of your life waiting in line or in traffic? Not being able to get from point A to point B in under 15 minutes? See, everyone thinks NYC is soooo great because there's Broadway and great food and diversity and great shopping, blah blah blah. But to me, what makes a city great is its quality of life, not what you can buy. I can get great food of any kind here. I can shop at Nordstrums or Macy's in White Plains. I can see excellent theater when the National Tours come to my hometown. I could own a mansion for 2K a month.

So, the thought of going into NYC with my gear and having to drive through Manhattan traffic, hoping I find a place somewhat nearby to park, having to pay 20 bucks to park, walking how many blocks several times to get my gear loaded in, then praying to god neither my car nor my gear gets stolen or vandalized was just too much for my nerves to take. And for weeks I've just kept saying, God, I wish I didn't have to do this gig. Man I hate gigging in NYC, I wish I didn't have to do it. So...then this little blackout thing.

Now the positive way to have manifested not having to do this gig would have been to, oh, say, get a call to open up for the Indigo Girls or something like that. But, no, Miss Negativity has to be all dramatic and take half the East Coast with her. Well, so, like I said: Sorry.

But on the bright side, I was staying with my friend Melinda in New Paltz, and she had a gig tonight, and when I got the call that the gig was cancelled, she dragged me along on her gig, a little campfire thing at this beyond-swanky castle resort called Mohonk. La-di-friggin-da! And we sang campfire songs and ate s'mores and I made 50 bucks, which was more than I would have made at this NYC gig.

So, sorry about the blackout, but it all worked out for me! And you all wanted a long weekend, anyway.

I have so much to say...

But I won't.

SEE-YA

Gone for a few days, then back for half a minute, then off to NYC and Worcester. Then home for a whole minute, then back to Canada. Gonna be a rough 10 days for this old lady.

In the meantime, here's a place I'D like to go! Who's with me????

A new blog for you all....

Hi Everyone! Just wanted to let you know about a new blog by a friend of mine. She's a theater-mama who is also undergoing chemo treatments and may I say, she is kicking ass. Never met anyone with resolve like hers. Anyway, her blog is called Cancerggrl (she's born under the sign of cancer, too...). Go read and offer her some lovin'.

You can also see this cool website I designed for her....The Ellen Fund. We used it to raise funds for her from the theater community in Buffalo.

See youse!

I pick the strangest things to be optimistic about

It's this whole music scene that makes me so bitter in the first place. But every time I go do a gig I expect it to be all rosy and perfect, like everyone has promised, and I never cease to be disappointed. So why do I always expect the best? I don't get it.

I'm talking about this NYC gig this weekend called Est Fest. It was three days of chick rockers, blah blah. And of course I wasn't being paid because it was for charity, and I'd been told the following: It was sponsored by Women Who Rock magazine and they'd be there; WLIR (big radio station) was going to be broadcasting all about it and would have representatives at the show; there was going to be all kinds of press on it; a couple of indie radio programs would spin my CD and promote all the singers and the event. And it was all for charity. I was told to send CD's to get to the radio stations and to send posters and they'd hang them at the venue, which I did, immediately.

So a few days before I leave I get the playlists from the two indie radio stations. One doesn't mention Est Fest at all, let alone play my CD. The other plays only two of the singers on his show and mentions they'd be at Est Fest. No mention of me.

The show starts at 8:00, so I get there at 6:30. Not a single one of my posters is to be found, let alone any poster about Est Fest. In the lobby are about 5 different arts magazines. I grab one of each to look for press material. Nothing. Not a single, stinking article or ad save for the single ad the venue itself took out, advertising the "ESP Festival". No psychics here. No brain surgeons, either. Not even a mention of the performers.

So the show starts late. An hour late. The sound guy is a fucking deaf moron who clearly believes that all chick singers don't know dick about sound and should be completely ignored. I didn't bother to tell him who my father was. Dick. That is, my father. His name was Dick. Back in the days when the perfectly acceptable diminutive form of "Richard" was "Dick". But I digress.

The show starts late. Act one goes on. Then me. There are 20 people in the audience who care, but they're all part of the festival. The other 50 are drunk Long Island bimbos trying to get laid by dumbass boys who have had too many happy meals. Whatever. They could give a shit about the...singers? Oh, there are singers? Anyway, it's almost my turn and the emcee tells me, well, we're running late so I have to be a bad girl about the clock and try to get us back on track with the time. And I say, "I've been here since 6:30. I was here on time, and I'm not cutting my set".

Perhaps they should have called it the "Mediocre performers with undeserved big attitudes" Fest. Can I just tell you about this one band that was soooo fucking bad? Not gonna mention their name, but this band sucked so hard, the chick couldn't carry a tune, and her drummer couldn't keep time, and the guitarists were awful. One of them was so bad it looked as though he'd been playing for like 3 months. Even his body was stiff as a board, nothing musical in there. He couldn't tune his guitar, he couldn't keep time, his solos were beyond abyssmal, and these people are getting gigs. Wanna know why???? SAY IT WITH ME PEOPLE!! The lead chick singer is hot. So who listens? Music, a listening art? Don't be silly. She's all with her combo Natalie Merchant/Mary Ramsey wannabe style, her skinny body, her short skirt and fishnet stockings, all writhing on the floor and being all sexified. Well, apparently they all think she's sexy, ergo, talented. To me, a girl who can sing in tune is sexy, no matter what she looks like.

The only light in the night was Nicola. She is so fucking phenomenal. Go check her out. Even my set was mediocre. Guitar wouldn't stay in tune, again. Screwed up my patches on my processor. Sang the songs too fast and never found the groove. Whatever.

And not once in the evening did the emcee mention any charity. Not once. But at least Women Who Rock magazine showed up, and the woman representing them was very nice. And the owner of the venue was nice. That's a rarity. Didn't sell a single CD.

And I get to do it all again next weekend.

I dodged a big bullet

Thank you, Jesus. Thank you, God. Thank you, Angels.

And thanks to all of you for your sweet words and hugs and empathy. I am humbled.

Anticipation...

You ever notice how when you have something special coming up, and you have a certain feeling about it, and the closer you get to the date, the more intense that feeling gets? Like if you're nervous about a job interview, you get more nervous as the interview date nears. Or if you're excited because you're getting a new car or dog or house, and the closer you get to the date the more excited you get. You know that feeling?

Well, it's the same with sex.

Farris is a new man

Don't know if being away from home gave him a new perspective, or he just knows that my neurotic ass was so worried that he's milking it for all he's worth, but he has been such a love-pig since he got home. He sleeps with me cradled in the crook of my arm, sits on my lap as much as possible, and looks like a little kitten again. His spirits are definitely better, like the weight of the world has lifted off him. This morning he cradled into my arm, then stretched out his paw and laid it on my chin, then fell asleep like that. How cute is he?

But the big change: all his life he has been petrified of the ceiling fans when they're turned on. Takes off like a rocket and hides in the basement, and won't come up even to eat. Well yesterday I came home and he's sitting in an archway that puts him in direct view of not 1, not 2, but 3 ceiling fans, all going full speed. And he's just sitting there. Then he came over to say hi to me, looked up at the fan for a second, then continued to love me up. Then my mom and I were in her room sending some faxes, and he jumped up on the bed, right under the fan, and lay down. Later I was sitting in the chair and he sat on my lap and I loved him up, and he'd look up at the spinning fan, then back at me, then he'd smush up his face and squint his eyes, the way cats do when you're petting them just the right way.

He's my little kitty again.

Nothing like a date to make you scrutinize your hygiene habits.

Not for nothing, but I've been on the road for a month, and ya just don't think about these things, but for god's sake, did I need some work! I have the uni-brow thing going, don't know when I bleached my 'stache last. My toenails were like half an inch long, and I hadn't shaved the essential parts in a week. Those non-essentials parts (you girls know this: the upper thighs/bikini/back of the legs ) had been neglected much longer than that. I'm not going into too much detail here, but suffice to say aliens could have made little crop circles in my bush.

Well there ya go. Killed the mystery for all of you.

These cats are going to be the death of me.

Now PUDDY decides she's not to be outdone and has a UTI of her very own! Okay, so there was 70 more bucks today.

But on the bright side, Farris is doing better. He's still not 100%, but he's doing okay. He's skinny, too. Lost weight while in the hospital.

And the SUDS fucking shit bad karma is still whacking at me, but I don't even have the strength to bitch about it.

Jesus Christ!

I just made a date for tomorrow, brunch. What was I thinking? I have NOTHING to wear. I fit into nothing. I'm a cow. But I guess that's okay, because she's a vet. Does that answer your question, Mary Rose?