Cash and Carry

Over and over again, I am reminded how very NOT alone we are here on this vast earth. This life, despite the hundreds of thousands of buzzing bodies that seem to swarm around an uncertain center, can just feel so isolatory sometimes. And then the natural courses of our lives bring us to junctures, points of choice. Do I raise my hand? To say help me? Or do I go quietly to the darkest corners of the cave to lick my wounds?

Both choices are valid. Both are necessary. But there are certain wounds we cannot self-heal. There are certain wounds that take the tribe to attend to. Bringing on the medicines. The prayer. The passionate asking for relief and expression of true grief, should things not go as hoped.

I'm struck by the nature of the human heart that makes tragedy such a unifying force. It is hard-wired in us. Whether you see it as a little programming gift from God or the universe or just a happy accident of evolution: our natural network kicks in when the need becomes apparent and it carries us to a safer place.

I have been asked to emcee a fundraiser by a mother and father who lost their tiny son in the spring of last year to a genetic disease called spinal muscular atrophy (SMA). They're working to raise the funding for a small little pocket of trees and garden sitting area on the Children's Hospital campus -- a lack of which they noticed when they were searching for a quiet space to spend stolen moments with their baby son during his last weeks at the hospital.

To talk to them is to remember how helpless we are in determining what harm befalls our families, but how very in control we are about how we deal afterward. They are inspirational to say the least. Among the many life-seizing ways they've dealt with the loss of their son (Visit their blog to read more, but be prepared to stay a while. It's unbelievably moving.), these folks have also become regular attendees of Freak Train within the last year. It's their opinion that Freak Train is free therapy, where they can connect to a larger spirit of goofiness, human kindness, and entertainment. And that's where they stumbled on to the idea of asking me to help their special night along in January.

I am honored to have been asked to contribute to this event and, if you are in Denver, I hope you'll come out for it:

Cash's Garden Benefit Concert

featuring

The Railbenders

with

Long Road Home

The Oriental Theater
4335 West 44th Ave.

tickets $20

silent auction

All proceeds go toward Cash's Garden
at the The Children's Hospital

Multimedia Macbeth

I should've put this link up a while back, but I've been off my blogger. So, now that this is about ME, how appropo that I should remember to blog, yes? (Jeez.)

Denver Post critic John Moore conducted several interviews with the cast of Macbeth before it opened. A different one has launched weekly during the weeks just prior to and all during the run. I'm featured in this week's:

http://www.denverpost.com/theater

in an attempt to sleep...

It has been four weeks of a grueling schedule. Of very long hours that began at 5 and 6 am on weekday mornings and often did not end until after eleven -- or later, if I went to the Breakfast King to work on lines afterward. (Big shout out to all the waitresses there who were patient with me as I muttered to myself, drank a few cups of coffee and always ordered a fried egg sandwich with a to-go box so I wouldn't eat the whole thing.)

And every day of it, I felt like I was a part of something so big that I couldn't afford NOT to wake as early as I did, get to work, make sure I did what I needed to do there, ensuring I had a job to return to when my focus did. K, M, and G have assembled a family of designers, actors and crew who are each so devoted, one has been compelled to give all he or she has to offer.

And I did. And although I play each of my own scenes from Saturday over and over in my head, noticing the flubs, wincing at the gaps I left and the line I dropped (sorry, W!), I feel like I did all I could do. And I look forward to the next four weeks to do more. To continue to explore the edges of my performance, where I dive and play in waves of ego, risk, fear, consciousness, choice, impulse, instinct, and desire -- that devil that can quickly dissolve any actor's sandcastle. They all roll in, lapping at the shores of my abilities to be or not to be....

It's a crazy thing to be an actor. I noticed us, one night last week, as we all swarmed around our little hive backstage, each of us tracing through the patterns of movement, text, and emotions that make up our characters. Some stared in the mirrors, some read over director's notes, some dressed in clothes only recently made to look old and worn. I felt so understood. So of a mind.

We actors are something other than. We're a part of that tribe of artists who tell stories through their various media; but we are something other than even that, for we inhabit a story for the purposes of its telling. We are both paint and canvas. The human race needs its stories to remind us all what it means to live and die and love and conquer and lose and fade so it will not be quite so frightening or unfamiliar when these things happen in reality. And we actors try it on for size. We button ourselves up in joy and fear, devotion and treachery and walk out onstage to be with you in this incarnation. We believe it from the inside so you can experience it from the outside and be drawn in. So you can then walk out of our theater to live this life, having just been reminded it's yours to live.

Then we go have a drink.

I am so grateful for this vocation.

Rocktober.

Holy crap.

I'm not even going to pretend that I'm some diehard Rockies fan who's "earned" the right to cheer, but I've gone to my fair share of Rockies games. I've enjoyed the beer and the atmosphere. I love a good day at the ballpark.

Even if 80% of the time I went, they lost - no matter. Sunshine, peanuts, friends. Lee. All good.

But, BOOYAH.

Sweet miracle of baseball fairytales.

Hallelujah, Holliday and hooray, Helton!

Off you go to the big game.

hear that? that's the sound of me. sucking.

Oh, wow.
I really, really outdid myself tonight.
Like, I could not get a foothold to save my life.
Imprecise, scatterbrained, unmotivated, uncentered.

Awful.

So here I sit, with my pansy-ass pour of whiskey.

Sipping.
Sipping.

Hoping she will come back to me.

Banquo. Come back.

I'm sorry I started worrying about your belt and your vest and your stupid wineskin. And whether or not I looked cool holding your rifle. I'll stop that nonsense. And I'll make a place for you right here in my heart and I promise not to ever let you go again.

Just.
Come.
Back.

(NO, I'm not having an affair with some chick with a funny name. See here.)

I think I'll make a snappy new day. *snap-snap*

I woke up with the sound of Mr. Rogers singing to me. Not from the TV, mind you. In my head.

I don't mean that I woke up with a song in my head. I mean that I woke up with the distinct feeling that Mr. Rogers was singing to ME. Like, helping me get up. Encouraging me.


It's such a good feeling
To know you're alive
It's such a happy feeling
You're growing inside
And when you wake up, ready to say:
"I think I'll make a snappy new day!"
(Snap-Snap)


I can't tell you what that means in the grand scheme of things, that a long-dead man was serenading me this morning, but I can tell you how great it felt. I adore Mr. Rogers. He was my neighbor, you know.

And if he says today's gonna be a good day, if he's comfortable enough with me to dress down a bit, put on his zippy cardigan sweater and navy blue sneakers, if he's confident that I'm special, and if he's kind enough to reach out, beyond the grave, and sing to me to tell me so... well then I have no choice but to believe it, do I?

--RANT ALERT--

And to those of you who think Mr. Rogers did my generation a great "disservice" and turned us into entitlement junkies by telling us we were special: I'm 31, married, own a home, have a job with mucho responsibilities, juggle those with my passion for my art, have friendships and family that mean the world to me, enjoy a marriage that stuns me everyday with its hidden strengths and humor, AND manage a half-assed blog. Oh - AND, I wake up with dead men singing to me. So, there. How's that for special?

But seriously, academic slackers who get a shit grade and then try to negotiate for better are slackers because 1) we've insitutionalized -- in fact, standardized -- underachievement in our public schools. Students have learned how to suss out the least possible amount of work they have to do to get "passing" results, and 2) they've grown up exposed to the business world via the internet and credit cards and have learned early the art of of negotiation! Nothing's ever taken at face value. Bid for items on ebay. Shop for discounted books, shoes, electronics, services. Work with credit card companies to get a better APR, or take off a late fee, or raise your credit limit.

It's not Mr. Rogers' assertion that "You're special. Just by your being you," that's the problem. There's nothing wrong with identifying oneself as a uniquely special person. He never told me I was MORE special than someone else. In fact, he was rather interested in what was going on with everyone in his little world. If anything, he taught me that special people go around seeking out what's special in everyone else around them.

It's always easy to advise someone about a job I don't have, but teachers today have to realize that today's youth are just plain different. And if you want to reach them or teach them, you'd better ask yourself if you even understand what motivates them. They see grades almost as negotiable currency. That doesn't mean you have to lower your standards, it just means you have to make it clear to them that you're not the Capital One of grade-giving. You're American Express. And with you, the balance is due, in full, every month.

Period.

eggs in a basket

two pieces of bread,
two eggs,
a frying pan,
a knife,
and butter.

crispy fried
toasty love
broken yolks
spill yellow
spread joy.

conversation over coffee
with eggs in a basket.

Declined.

Don't you hate it when your debit card gets declined in front of people (or even not in front of people) and it's only because you made a transfer to another account that you should have been using instead?

Feh.

I need an accountant.

i'm not the only one

This girl has noticed the kissy face phenomenon as well. She calls them "K.F. makers." She seems to have strong feelings about it. But she's very clear that she's not hating on the actual girls in the pictures, just their durned KFs.

Maybe we'll reflect back on this time and the place that kissy face holds in society will be like the stoic face that people were forced to hold when they were getting their daguerreotype taken. Even as photograpic technology advanced and the exposure time decreased, people still made the "Being alive is very serious business," face, almost like it was the proper thing to do when you were getting your picture taken. Seriously, go here and click on the "Comedians" link and see all the serious faces on these guys and gals. Comedians. And, although you'll find some are standing there in RIDICULOUS costumes, they've got a look on their face like they're about to address the Senate. Which, is actually, quite funny. So... bully for them.

Anyhoo. Point is, it took a little while for people to catch on to the thought that, "Hey! I can show people that I'm actually having a good time in this photo!"

Which, in the end, is exactly what all the Facebook and MySpace photos are showing. Evidence of a good time. The KF is, for this generation, the proper thing to do when you know your face could end up on someone else's internet portal. It means, "I was having a great time. And no one can come back later and fault me or make fun of me for a face EVERYONE was making at the time." They're even doing it in Ireland.

correction: not speech. theatre arts.

Okay, so I could've sworn that when Angela switched from teaching high school to junior high, she had to switch from teaching theatre to speech.

I was wrong.

I was SO wrong, in fact, that I got an earful about it.

Believe me, Angela. I know that even IF you were a speech teacher, you would still be a theatre arts teacher deep down. But, as it turns out, you are a theatre arts teacher, both inside and out. (And a damn good one, at that.) Sorry for any confusion.

I stand corrected. My previous post is WRONG.

(But, tragically, I can't do anything about the lips.)

kissy face

So, as usual, we're wrapping up a trip and I'm looking at our photos and thinking, seriously? That's all I've taken? Quel disappointment.

But that's okay. I lived it.

On the night before our friends' wedding, we all went to this great Tiki bar in Portland called the Alibi. There's no website for it (!), but you can google it and get plenty of references to it. Here's a tiki connoisseur's take on the place, complete with a great picture of the sign outside (AWESOME.) It was karaoke night and it was warm and humid inside and we were getting saucy. Our friends Kathleen and Ryan on the eve of their nuptuals, sang, of all pukey-cute things, "Sweet Caroline."

They were adorable. Illegal cute. Having been friends with Kathleen since we were 16, I can honestly say that I've never seen her happier. I think this photo bodes well for their marriage

Anyhoo. While the entire bar is having a blast indulging in such guilty pleasures as "Copa Cabana," and "What a Fool Believes" (thanks, Jefe!), Angela and I could NOT stop obsessing about something I like to call "kissy face."

Now, I don't know if you have a 14-to-22-year-old girl in your family or social circle, but "kissy face" happens when this digital savvy lot take pictures of themselves -- either solo or with a friend wherever they go, on any occasion, day or night, for their MySpace and Facebook pages. They purse their lips. It's sort of like an 80's Cosmo covergirl meets Britney Spears. I don't know why it is the way it is, but this face is EVERYWHERE. My sister (22) does it. All her friends do it. And when she was visiting me in August, she was doing it in pictures with me, but I could not imitate it to save my life.

I mentioned this phenomenon to Angela and she said, "Yes! I've totally noticed my kids do that in their pictures, too!" (She's a junior high school speech teacher.) So, Ang and I decided to try it ourselves.

Over.

And over.

And over again.

(And yes, that's a lei on top of my head.)

We COULD NOT do it.

Is it our age?? We became desperate. We tried psyching ourselves out, giving each other motivation like, "Okay. Don't think about making a kissy face. Just think, 'Oh yeah. I'm 21 and I'm totally sexy.'" We broke out on our own, thinking maybe we could muster the face if we weren't always about to laugh trying to do it next to each other:

Nope...

...aaaaaand... nope:

I mean, you can laugh at how hopelessly Angela's lips seem to be pressing together like they've been melted in a hot sandwich press as seen on TV. But it wasn't just her inability to perform, it was clearly mine, too. In the end, this is the closest I got and it's still just not it:

This is NOT kissy face. This is sweaty 31-year-old face.

Basically, it all boils down to this: We are 30-somethings and we have no business making faces that don't come naturally to us. You can't imitate kissy face. You must be kissy face. And to do that, you need to have been born after 1983. It's that simple.

This is who we are:

Yay. The Northwest.

Here I am. Up in my father-in-law's tiny "office," in a little farmhouse in Sedro-Woolley, WA. The birds are tweeting outside, the cows, newly separated from their calves are bellowing, "Hey, asshole! You left my baby on the wrong side of the fence," and my husband is huffing up the staircase with our luggage...

Ahhh....

We're home.

There's just something about being here. It makes me want to write. It makes me want to have children. It makes me want to grow things. I truly believe there are right places for people at different times in their lives. I wouldn't have wanted to grow up any place other than Fort Worth. And I'm so very glad I landed in Colorado for my twenties. And now, the Northwest calls to me.

This does not come without some hesitation on my part. I really, and I mean totally, do not like the idea that I would no longer be within reasonable driving distance from my Texas family. And I definitely don't like the idea that I would leave a fully-formed network of friends and colleagues in Denver. But something is right about raising kids in this place. (Not that we have any to raise yet.) Where water and mountains surround us. And the rain falls, but, yes, the sun does shine, despite the gloomy reports you always hear.

We're not doing this tomorrow, mind you. But since I first set foot in this part of the country in December of 2003 -- and on every visit since -- I have known that this is my next home.

Someday.

Vegan. No way.

Here's the deal.

I skimmed a book in the bookstore earlier today called Skinny Bitch. And, apart from being funny and frank (which I like) it also promotes a vegan diet (which I don't like.)

Not because I believe veganism is wrong. How could one argue that? But because I LOVE MEAT. I love eating it. And I don't want to be told I'm a fool to like it. Or eggs. Or dairy.

I know, I know. I've been raised with the propaganda slogan "Beef. It's what's for dinner." And I've bought it, hoof, line and sinker. But MAN. Meat is goooooood. It's tasty. And so is cheese. And so are fresh eggs from my friend Shelly's chickens. Scrambled with a dab of butter. Mmmmm...

I think the whole thing - veganism - makes sense. Don't get me wrong. I just don't want to be right.

It makes sense that meat should not be a part of every meal, every day. If we were still hunter-gatherers, we would not have the luxury of freshly killed (or even sun-dried) buffalo, or venison, or what have you. That makes sense. But sometimes, right? Sometimes, you would eat meat.

As I try to foster better eating habits for myself overall, I make sure not to over-indulge in red meat, and I try to keep any portions of any meat I do have right-sized. But I will have meat. Chicken. pork, beef, buffalo, venison, turkey, rabbit. I will eat that stuff right up. And even though so many people have "seen the light" I honestly cannot imagine that being me. If you are a vegan or vegetarian who has found happiness in your meatlessness, I truly am happy for you. And I will prepare vegetarian selections to enjoy right along with you (don't have a handle on vegan dishes, but I can learn.) But, when you come to my house, be prepared. Meat is in full effect on the premises. And it gets ett up.

I have a bible bump.

For the last week or so, I'd been noticing a weird sort of irritation around the back of my left wrist. Then, on Tuesday, I just happened to look down at it and was shocked to find I have a weird lump on it.

I called the doctor to make an appointment. Well, I called the appointment lady (Kaiser patients call the appointment line. No talky to your doctor's office.) And she said he wasn't available until next week but that she could have them call me. To try to give me one of the slots reserved for "urgent" cases. I said, all brave and stoic, "Oh, no, no. This thing doesn't hurt, really. It's just sort of agitating. Let's just do it next week. Monday will be fine."

How I've suffered. The wait. The anxiety. The WTF?? of it all....

It's so weird to see a lump on your body. And it's sad but true that "lump" is synonymous with "cancer" in my mind. So, I've just been staring at it for three days, thinking, what if I've got a rare wrist cancer? Cancer of the wrist. That'd be so lame.

Today, it finally occurred to me to Google "lump on wrist." And wouldn't you know it? From the looks of things, I have something called a ganglion cyst, a.k.a "bible bump," a.k.a. "Gideon's disease." It's a fluid-filled sac that builds up (different theories on why) and appears mostly on the backs of wrists. Mine isn't as big as the one pictured in the wikipedia entry, but it's totally noticeable. In the not-so-distant past, a common remedy for these cysts was to slam a heavy book down on them to pop them. So, people thought, "Hmmmm... I need a heavy book. Nooo... not the 'Joy of Cooking'... no, not the L-M volume of the encyclopedia... Oh! Here we go. The Word of God. Perfect." Not only is that insane, it's also creepy to think this thing could pop. Gross.

I'm so totally grossed out by my bible bump.

el debarge is NOT gloria estefan

So, I had to write about this even though I should be writing about software. Today at work we had our usual status meeting. And, I have to say, even though status meetings are supposed to be boring, I really like the people I work with, so our meetings always have a kookiness to them that keep them from being completely mind-numbing. We always get off the subject at some point and today was no different. Ultimately, we ended up talking about DeBarge and, specifically, "The Rhythm of the Night." I sang a little of it, we all giggled, then suddenly, a terrible thing happened.

Someone asked, "Wait. I thought that was that Miami Cuban band?"

I gasped.

"Do you mean Miami Sound Machine? Are you talking about "Conga?"

I was heartbroken. How, oh how, do you confuse the two songs? One involves the Motown rhythms we all know and love, teeny-bopified as all things seemed to have been in the 80's, while the other practically single-handedly placed the montuno flair squarely into the top of the American pop charts for perhaps the first time ever. Oh, no. These are not the same songs.

Okay, perhaps the very subject matter is enough for listeners to get them mixed up, seeing as how they're both songs about infectious rhythms you cannot deny. Sure, I can see that. If you're a totally PASSIVE listener. But come on! One begins with a bass line and, like, Jamaican steel drums, with a very ballady intro, "When it feels like/the world is on your shoulders/and all of the madness/has got you goin' crazy." Then you find out about a place where you can dance the whole night away and shake your blues right away, and finally, at the end, there's a very Lionel Richie-esque call and response with a chorus of voices: "Naaa na na nah!" indicative of people everywhere pouring into the streets, succumbing to the rhythm of the night. This is a story, people. This is a story of triumph over the blues with a top-down cadillac and your brothers and sisters, some rhinestone sparkle, a little hairspray, and all the people in your neighborhood. It's like, Sesame Street meets... Well. It's like Sesame Street. For 80's discotheques.

The other song, "Conga," is a command. There's no story. This is a fast, undeniable spell you are put under from the word go. There is no exposition. Bam. The horn section starts and you're on. "Come, shake your body, baby, do the conga, I know you can't control yourself any longer!" says Gloria Estefan - twice, just so you know she's serious - and then, boom. A piano furiously syncopates the Din Din din-din-din Din Din, as you slide down the chromatic montuno scale into a pool of rhythmic escape. The rest of the song is all about the beat and the dance. And at the end? No denouement. There's no fading out of party Na-na-nahs. Nope. The song WAS the party, and if you missed it, too bad. It is over. You'll have to remember not wait around so long next time the Miami Sound Machine comes for you.

These are not remotely the same songs.

Want to refresh your memory? YouTube videos here:

DeBarge: "The Rhythm of the Night"

Miami Sound Machine: "Conga"

Back to software.

elaborate dream

I had an elaborate dream last night, and when I awoke, I felt as if I'd slept for days. In a good way.

Can't verbalize all of it, but one part I can retell is this: My friend and her daughter (real life people, not dream life people) played a duet. The little girl played the drums and the mom played the piano. (I don't think either of them play an instrument in real life, but I could be wrong.) And the little girl had this simple rhythm she was keeping. It wasn't just rat tat tat tat, though. It involved a roll, so it was more like: rat-a-tat tat, rat-a-tat tat. And I was very impressed by her consistency. And the mom played sort of a jazzy, slightly avant-garde melody. They were playing for me. To show me what the little girl could do. And I was beaming. Partly because I wanted to encourage the little girl, but partly because it was thrilling how consistent she was. It wasn't robotic. It really was musical. And then, the mom began to slow the melody she played on the piano, in a ritard, signifying the end of the song was near. She raised her eyes to her child, as if to say, "Remember? Here's the way we end together." And the little girl dutifully slowed, letting her mom lead the new rhythm, but complementing it perfectly. And they reached their end together, with the mom hitting one last piano key. And it was so beautiful.

I woke up ready to walk the dogs.

Um. It's happening.

That thing where I fight a little against getting older.

I just spent ten minutes fishing through the hair on my temples for silver hairs and then carefully separating them from the darker herd and mercilessly plucking them out of my scalp.

I used to say to people complaining about their grey hairs, "I think I'm going to like when my hair starts to go grey. I'll finally have some character. I hate that I have such a babyface." How did I not get slapped?? I was delusional and smarmy. Seriously. How do I have any friends at all?

Eight little silver hairs met their deaths tonight. But the follicles will live to push new ones out into the world. I will either stop plucking or begin spending money on hair dye.

Which will it be? Only time will tell.

not singing many weddings these days

I feel kinda weird continuing a blog of this title, but I love it so much that I don't want to let it go. So, despite the fact that I don't sing with the wedding variety band anymore... I'm keepin' the blog. And I'll write about performances in general, which could be anything from singing the occasional wedding with my fabulous friends at AdHoc, or a play I'm in, like the upcoming MacB, or even Freak Train, although there's already a MySpace blog for general thoughts about FT.

And maybe. Just maybe. I'll start singing with other bands. Or start my own.

holy shit.

31 and I've never had a band of my own. That's kind of like a The 40-Year-Old Virgin meets Virgina Woolfe.

Reading thru the archives

Wow.

My friend Lisa and I have been talking about doing a little writing project together. Let's just say that we figured out that we have a collection of similar material and we think it might all add up to something good. So, I went tripping through my writing archives today and whooo boy.

I am SO glad I'm not dating any more. Why do women torture themselves over men they have no business being with? I have a few "letters" I wrote to someone who did not love me like I loved him. These letters were never meant to be be read by him. Just to keep me from calling him or saying things I couldn't take back. I'm glad I have them. It's a great foil to what I have now with Lee. Not because I think we live a bliss-a-minute existence, but because I've never felt the need to write him a letter full of things I can't tell him!

Also, I found an IM coversation I copied and pasted into a document* from someone I'd met when I had a profile on Nerve.com over four years ago. Literally, four pages of IM conversation later, we ended up meeting for coffee, closing the place, then going back to his apartment where we made out all night long and then I was stuck at his place when my old bessie blazer wouldn't start during the blizzard that had begun. (For Denverites, this was the 2003 blizzard, eclipsed only recently by last winter's snow frenzy.) We saw each other a couple other times but it really didn't go far. I've always wondered how he ended up - he was a bit unsettled here in D-town - and when I saw his handle again from the IM, I remembered how unique his name was and I looked him up.

I googled a past internet date. Does this qualify me as a stalker?? What will Lee think? (I've got a lot of embarrassing things on my husband so he'd best not make fun.) Anyway, I found this blast from the past pretty quickly as he has a blog. I intend to send him a note to say hello. From what I've read, he's back in Chicago and very happy indeed. Which really is good to see. Because, now that I've said how happy he seems, I'll also say that when I say he seemed "unsettled" what I really mean is he seemed borderline suicidal.

Anyway. There's nothing much to this, other than to say that I want to email him to say, yay you! Great blog! But, honestly, I don't remember how we left it. I don't think we had any kind of argument. I think we just stopped calling one another. Which is a mutual thing, so that's good terms, right?

Is finding someone's very public blog the modern-day equivalent to running in to someone at the grocery store?

*Please tell me I'm not the only one who saves IM conversations. Am I really weird and creepy?

The strange, strange world of the wedding fair...

Where can you go to eat free food, free cake, hear free music, and be truly annoyed despite all the goodies?

No! Not weddings. (Shame on you!)

Wedding fairs.

Listen. They're a necessary evil. Planning a wedding, very likely, is an exercise in extreme imagination for you because, chances are, you've never done it before. That's what makes wedding fairs so great. You can see, hear, and taste the things you're considering spending boo-koo bucks for - from catered goodies and photography, to harp players and yes, wedding bands.

But they're annoying.

Though, probably not for you. You're so excited about your event, you probably can't see straight. Heck, I'd played a ton of weddings by the time I was planning my own, and I still went to a wedding fair with a friend. Of course, she was a little more excited than me, but dude: FREE CAKE.

So, why are they so annoying for me? Because it's annoying to watch wedding vendors who take themselves too seriously vie for optimum viewing positions and eyeballing each others' displays like, "Hmmm... I see she's decided to go with a display of physical albums as opposed to my brilliant video presentation...." It's like any business convention you've ever been to, at which multiple vendors work hard to be seen. The health of these businesses depend greatly on whether people stop, pop an hors d'oeuvre in their mouths or pick up a pretzel and wave it through the cascade o' chocolate and then decide, I must have these guys in my fairy tale.

I guess it's not even fair for me to call wedding fairs "annoying," as much as they are comical. Only, just as I'm about to point and laugh, I realize: I'm a vendor. Or, to be more correct, I work for a vendor. Either way, it'd definitely smack of hypocrisy for me to point and laugh. So, back I go to "annoying."

But you must go. You simply must go to these things. Probably only one will fill you up just fine. And do not take your fiancé if he's already skittish about the "circus" factor - there are plenty of clowns at these things. If your fiancé's ever said anything like, "Honey, why do we need to take so many days off for our wedding?" or "What do you mean SIX bridesmaids?" or "Can't I just wear a suit?" or "Why get a DJ when I can just burn a comp cd?" LEAVE HIM AT HOME. Take a girlfriend or a mom. (If you have fun with your mom.)


A NOTE ABOUT FOOD:

When choosing your caterer, consider what it'll cost to feed the band, should you choose to be saintly and do so. I am on a high. Two gigs in a row, we have been fed so beautifully, I almost felt like a guest at the party. This doesn't always happen, and I'm not saying you HAVE to. But for points that really count toward good karma, feeding musicians is high on the list. Musicians, for the most part, are really good people. They do what they do, not because it makes money (SNORT!), but because they love to be loved and love even more to put beautiful sounds out in the world (even if you force us to perform "Milkshake" at your wedding, which is NOT beautiful.) So feeding the band is very kind. The boxed lunch option is certainly one way to go. But when we get to eat the exact food we've been smelling and watching you eat... oh, mama. That's noice.

Here's an example of a recent lovely meal:

Notice the headphones and iPod for last-minute studying of the requested first dance song, as we were eating during the toasts and soon I'd have to sing an obsucre song that meant a lot to the couple but that I'd never heard of until three days before. No pressure. Oh, by the way - good food greatly improves your band's performance! The couple at this wedding, as it turned out, were very pleased with their first dance.

Things I've seen go right, go wrong, or go too long

Weddings are fun. Or not. It's a combination of things that makes a wedding a good time: fun family and friends, a bride ready to roll with the punches, a good seating chart, booze, a decent band - ahem. Here's a few things I've noticed from the bandstand along the way:

1. Don't keep the guests waiting too long while you get your picture taken. I'm not saying you can't have all the pictures you want taken of you, and you and him, and you and her, and you and her and her, and him and him, and them and him, them and you, and them and him and you. I'm just saying that, once you've said "I do," the party has begun. And every posed picture sucks precious time you could be spending on soaking up the amazing, once-in-a-lifetime vibes of that roomful of people who love you. Band tip: Hire the band to be on the clock fifteen minutes before you've told your guests to arrive and ask them to be on the bandstand, ready to drop the downbeat when the first person not dressed as a caterer walks in. If that timing won't work out for you - budgetary or other reasons - make sure the band provides a CD of background music to fill the room in the earliest moments. It's so awkward for guests to walk in to a silent room. What about guests who arrive more than fifteen minutes early? Screw 'em. They probably wouldn't know an awkward situation if they arrived fifteen minutes early for one.

2. While a live band is a touch of class, don't hire one if your friends and family don't dance. It's a friggin' waste of money. Get a DJ instead. All wedding receptions should have music to dance to, but spending a fraction of what a band costs means you're much less disappointed if your guests just don't dance. That way, if they surprise you - awesome. The rare times we've played for non-dancing crowds, it was just LAME. And I remember thinking, "Oh, come on. These people didn't just suddenly grow inhibitions. These people are Amish!" (No offense to any dancing, Internet-surfing Amish out there.) As a wedding band, we're trained in the art of cheesy persuasion: "Hey, don't leave your bride and groom out here on the dancefloor all alone! Get up and dance with them!" So, imagine what it's like when no one answers to that? Over and over and over? (Because you've paid us to keep trying.) Band tip: If you just like live music (bless you!), that's cool. Just let the band know not to push too hard to get your leadfoot clan movin' and groovin'.

3. You should request some favorite songs from your hired band, but don't ask them to play really, really produced songs. What's produced, you ask? Think: certain Hip-Hop that requires the use of many samples and tons of background voices. Now, if you've hired a specialty band that's got the equipment to create those sounds, that's one thing. If you've hired a variety band, however, just trust me on this one. I've had to sing R. Kelly's "Ignition" and the song, "Milkshake," at a wedding before, and a guitar, bass, drum kit, saxophone, and keyboard do not in any way stand a chance of re-creating the magic, try as we may. And, if you see stuff on the band's songlist that seem to be in this vein, it's because they've found a way to play the song at least passably. Band tip: If you really have your heart set on a heavily produced song playing at your wedding, make that one of the songs that gets played at a band break on CD. (Bands have to take breaks.) Just ask them flat out during your planning call: "Will you guys sound good playing this one? Because I'm fine with a CD." Then you and the bridal party can work yourselves up into a frenzy, and before you know it, the band is back!

4. Choose a short but sweet song for your first dances, or make sure you've actually danced to the song prior to the wedding. This little oversight has stranded many a bride and groom, groom and mom, or dad and bride out on the dancefloor. Suddenly, they realize: Celine Dion songs are LONG! (Yeah, and schmaltzy thought they may be, they're hard to sing well, so if you haven't heard the singer in your band...) And, if you really like Nat King Cole's version of a song, or Allison Kraus' beautiful voice is what makes it so special: Don't be afraid to play the CD. You're not wasting the band. It's a special moment. It should sound exactly like you want it to. Band tip: Sometimes there are many recordings of the same song out there. If you decide you'd like the band to play a first dance song, tell the band which artist's version of the song you're attached to. ESPECIALLY if you're rehearsing dance steps to it. Nothing worse than realizing your band is playing the song at twice the speed you practiced it in your living room!

Why waste this material?

So, wedding singing is not, as it turns out, just something I'm doing for a few months to help a friend, or earn some Christmas cash, or tide me over until I start a "real" band.

Nope. I've been singing at weddings for over three years now.

Three years of watching brides and brides' mothers cry when I sing Celine Dion songs. Three years of watching people all but ignore Luke, our fantastic guitar player, until we do "Sweet Home Alabama" and then, suddenly, fingers and fists shoot up in the air pledging undying loyalty. And three years of watching drunk guys get that look in their eyes. Oh, yes. The look that brings them across the dance floor, trying to lock eyes with me, smiling like they've got the most naughty, brilliant idea I will have ever heard.

It's the Request Face.

"Hey, you guys got any AC/DC?", "Play some Hendrix, man!" or "Let's hear some crazy funk!" Drunk brothers and uncles and cousins of brides and grooms get this bizarre possessive attitude with the wedding band. I call it the Man-der-ella Syndrome. Like, suddenly, if he doesn't supervise our every song, choosing only selections that will keep the party rockin', the clock will strike 12, everyone will go home and he'll just be a drunk with a monkey suit on. No matter what we play, there's no escaping the end of the night that someone else's money has bought. And I find it ironic that the bride and groom, the parents of the bride - whoever has actually shelled out the dough for us - with few exceptions, NEVER bug us. Just the fuckin' sawed off little men who, for some reason, seize the final two hours of the whole event to finally contribute in some meaningful way.

I used to think I had to talk to these clowns. Now I can see the look building two and three songs ahead of time. They're rockin' out to some dance music with a bridesmaid. The bottom lip goes under the top teeth, they start hearing our truly standout musicians (because being drunk can make you notice stuff) and suddenly, they see the band. For the first time, they realize there are human beings up there. Humans who can hear ideas. Good ones.

Matt, our band leader/keyboard player/male vocalist is usually safe behind the keyboards. But me - I just have a thin little mic stand to hide behind, so they always come to me. Like I said, used to, I thought I needed to acknoweldge these Drunky McStumblies out of respect for the family. But now, I realize, their families don't even like these dudes! How could they? They're obnoxious! So now, when I see the look brewing, I'm ready. And when it finally comes to critical mass - when the big idea for the song that will send the wedding party into a frenzy crosses their mind and they march right up to me about to open their mouths... I simply turn around. I show my back to them. I just pretend that, suddenly, I need to talk to Jimmie, our bass player, Jeremy, our horn player, or make some faces at Andy, our drummer.

No, I don't think I'm Jim Morrison. But all it takes is a few seconds of this, and the drunk guy loses his train of thought. His mouth stays open for a few moments longer, but believe me, his brain has already lost the grip. The song title's not coming back. Plus, he can suddenly feel that all the eyes of the people on the dance floor are upon him, and he doesn't want to stand there for long looking like the ignored idiot that he is, so he gives up, puts his bottom lip back under his top teeth, and bites down, nodding his head to the beat, scooting back to his bridesmaid with a jut of his chin.

And the band plays on...

So, the way I figure it, the stories are piling up and it's time to start recording them. Despite the fact that I never, ever wanted to be a wedding singer, I am. And while I am, I might as well reveal the absurd underbelly of the All-American wedding, from the unique perspective of the bandstand.

A view unlike any other.