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17 september 2000
fuck fame, i don't need Sometimes it's hard to be a woman... Yesterday morning, "bubbling brook" woke me at 10:30 and I headed straight from bed to our company picnic, a mere three miles up the road at Paradise Cove. The "Cove" is a small and private beach, and most famous as the place where they filmed "The Rockford Files" and "Lethal Weapon," since both Jim Rockford and Martin Riggs lived on the beach at Paradise Cove. It was a beautiful day, if a bit hot, and I lost my sandals and propped myself under an umbrella, drinking tropical concoctions and realizing how foreign the concept of relaxation has become to me of late. I played with the sand in between my toes, ate barbequed shrimp and lobster tails, and watched the enormous waves attack the shore less than twenty feet away. It was a shame when I had to go home and start getting ready for our gig. Home, I shaved my skin to painful rawness. I opened up The Bag, given to me by Angel, containing my "stage attire" for the evening. Freaky, to say the least. I delayed the inevitable by hopping into the bathroom for a nice cold shower. Naked and towel-dried, I contemplated the clothes in front of me. Finally, I shrugged and started dressing. The white tights were first. Smaller than my fist as packaged, they expanded to enshroud my entire lower body. It felt quite strange, like an encroaching cloth body-condom, but I ignored it. Next was the bra. 34-C, it said. Ten minutes later I still couldn't get it clasped, and the straps were a tangled mess. I debated asking the nice old woman next door for help, but I didn't want to give her the wrong idea, or a heart-attack, for that matter. Finally, I just clasped the thing while it was off my body and slid it on like a t-shirt. Quite constricting. I was having trouble breathing. Angel said I'd get used to it within a couple of hours... Over the bra, a tight white shirt made of long-underwear material. A quick appraisal in the mirror and I looked like a reject from an alien ballet company. The dress was easy to get on. A Marcia Brady-ish sleeveless jumper miniskirted thingie, white with lots of blue sunflowers on it. A quick glance in the mirror frightened me. I have way too good of a body -- for a woman, that is. I grabbed the rest of the clothes off the bed. My black martial arts gi pants slid up nicely over the tights and skirt. I buttoned my black short-sleeved "Dodgers" shirt over my upper body, rolled up the long sleeves of the white shirt, and slid on my Converse (tm) Chuck Taylor (tm) high-tops. Another look in the mirror. Me. Male. No problemo. Time to go. I twisted my ankle on the way to the car and felt my testicles shift. Spandex is a very strange thing, even moreso when it forms a second skin from your toes to your waist. I stopped at a gas station on PCH and got no funny looks, although the bra was killing me and I was increasingly paranoid that someone would somehow figure out what was concealed beneath my black male outergarments. At the club, no-one gave me a second glance. We soundchecked and I shaved, once again, for good measure. Wrapped a red bandanna around my head and took the stage. After the first song, the "theme" of our show was revealed: By the end of the night, one band member would be voted out by the others (sound familiar? -- believe it or not, I never watched that show). Meanwhile, Mojo's mail order bride Jojo is getting into increasing trouble with keyboardist amaebi, who annoys her to no end. The band plays some more, the ballots are handed out, Jojo gets into a skirmish with amaebi, the band votes, plays some more, Jojo flirts with the ballot-box tallyer and stuffs the ballot box. amaebi is voted out of the band, gets dejected, and exits stage left... ... into a small hallway, where I have less than a minute to transform myself into the band's new keyboard player. Shoes off. Pants off. Shirt off. Wig on. Straighten wig. Socks in the bra. Straighten breasts. No time for makeup. Enter stage left... A new female keyboard player has shown up to audition -- IceDog hands "her" sheet music. She plays the next tune without a hitch. Jojo comes up on stage and suggests that the band keep the new keyboard player, but the band is hesitant. New keyboard player flirts with Jojo, Jojo compliments new keyboard player on her lovely hair... "Thanks," I say. "Wanna borrow it?" And I ripped the wig off and there were lots of screams and Jojo was thrown off the stage and we played our last song and the audience cheered and the first thing I did was rip that damned dress and bra off in one motion, right over my head. The tights were next. It never felt so good to get back into my own clothes. To all of you females out there, I don't know how you do it ... cheers. I don't envy you. As for me, I'll stick to t-shirts and boxers, thanks... ~~~ The magazine came out on Friday as planned, and they liked the cover so much that they put our band on their San Diego edition as well. That's another 100,000 magazine covers were on now. A piece of the cover is today's picture, for a much larger, full size image (if you're on the notify list, it's the same link you got on friday) can be found here. Or if you simply want to read the article alongside a thumbnail of the cover, go to the Entertainment Today website. They say the publicity effect of this cover won't be felt for another month or so. Strange, the band's already gotten three emails from San Diego asking when we're coming down. ~~~ Today was simultaneously strange and representative of my unenviable existence. "Bubbling brook" tried to wake me at 10, but I slammed the alarm clock across the room and slept til noon. I spent the next three hours on the couch finishing the new Clive Cussler book, the ending of which was a bit of a letdown. Dirk Pitt is getting old, in more ways than one. So am I, come to think of it... At three I headed into town, to Bristol Farms in Brentwood. There I grabbed a basket and picked up a variety of handmade sausages to barbeque with Wamba. The food was a friendly bribe in exchange for his help in running the MIDI mixer for "Shake," my new tune. Musically, I finished it tonight. As far as instrumentation and vocals, I've still got a long way to go. Why do I always write songs that are so hard for me to sing? Fritz called me on the cell, so I left Wamba's and met him at the Cinema Bar for a beer, a strange vodka concoction, and a shot of Wild Turkey. I just love mixing alcoholic beverages. I really do. And I'm home and sober now, uneagerly anticipating Monday Morning and all the shit that it will bring. I'm wishing life would move so much faster than it's moving; yet at the same time, I want everything to slow down a bit so I can take stock, evaluate, and set in motion some kind of plan to make it better. And all my friends say I just need to get laid ... go figure. As for me, my upper body is still hurtin' from those too-tight brastraps. 17 september 1999: : didn't write 17 september 1998: shutdown : I need to take some stock in my life without the added burden of performing it. 17 september 1997: talking to the ocean : New York has a low, deeply resonant, very rumbling hum. LA's hum is more high pitched and steady, like white noise. [ swim back | email me | swim ahead ] |
