Missed loafing opportunities
What doesn't kill you is only just working on it.
I'd grown accustomed to my weekends consisting of doing laundry, grocery shopping, and not a whole lot else.
A shock to my system, a kick in my ass this weekend has been. Because I've needed it.
I am going to be cutting a solo number from the upcoming show. It's the least conceived and the most prop heavy; this in addition to being the furthest outside my onstage comfort level, puts it at the bottom of the priority list. And we all know what happens at the bottom of the prioriity list.
Where there's smoke there's Embers
When we showed up at Embers dressed to the eights and ready to perform, we were greeted with immediate accomodation, and then confusion, and then hostility, and then apathy.
Apparently nobody had any idea that we were coming. They ended up allowing us to perform (three numbers rather than our planned five). It felt like we were crashing their party. The audience, while not hostlie, just doesn't know what to do with us.
And I'll admit it was not Eva's finest moment. The thing about the magic of stage is that sometimes it just fails to show. And rather than a lucky blisslike state in which everything somehow works perfectly, sometimes somehow you lose all sense of balance, your costumes forget how to stay together, and the stage-daze works toward nothing better than combating the weight of a thousand blank stares.
They just don't know what to do with us.
And I spent three times as much on drinks than I made on tips. But fuck it.
My right hand is covered in bruises. I think the amount of damage I've inflicted on that hand is a direct indication that I will end up losing it at some point in life.
I don't know. Are we?
The sky dumped rain all weekend, and so when people called asking if the barbeque was still on, all we could say was "I don't know. Are you coming?"
The forces of stage presence may not have been with me on Saturday, but the forces of parties sure were on Sunday. The last rain fell around 6:30, just in time for the sky to clear up and stay that way for the whole perfect Portland evening.
And I was referring to the kinda-grey/kinda-sunny weather, but come to think of it, the perfection extended beyond just the sky.
Tasty corn, squash, and soy meat products grilled to perfection
In the grassy backyard
Drinking Pabst tall boys
And toking around the campfire lit in our yard firepit
In our flannels
With a closely knit group of amazing friends
Does it get more Perfect or more Portland than that?
I'd grown accustomed to my weekends consisting of doing laundry, grocery shopping, and not a whole lot else.
A shock to my system, a kick in my ass this weekend has been. Because I've needed it.
I am going to be cutting a solo number from the upcoming show. It's the least conceived and the most prop heavy; this in addition to being the furthest outside my onstage comfort level, puts it at the bottom of the priority list. And we all know what happens at the bottom of the prioriity list.
Where there's smoke there's Embers
When we showed up at Embers dressed to the eights and ready to perform, we were greeted with immediate accomodation, and then confusion, and then hostility, and then apathy.
Apparently nobody had any idea that we were coming. They ended up allowing us to perform (three numbers rather than our planned five). It felt like we were crashing their party. The audience, while not hostlie, just doesn't know what to do with us.
And I'll admit it was not Eva's finest moment. The thing about the magic of stage is that sometimes it just fails to show. And rather than a lucky blisslike state in which everything somehow works perfectly, sometimes somehow you lose all sense of balance, your costumes forget how to stay together, and the stage-daze works toward nothing better than combating the weight of a thousand blank stares.
They just don't know what to do with us.
And I spent three times as much on drinks than I made on tips. But fuck it.
My right hand is covered in bruises. I think the amount of damage I've inflicted on that hand is a direct indication that I will end up losing it at some point in life.
I don't know. Are we?
The sky dumped rain all weekend, and so when people called asking if the barbeque was still on, all we could say was "I don't know. Are you coming?"
The forces of stage presence may not have been with me on Saturday, but the forces of parties sure were on Sunday. The last rain fell around 6:30, just in time for the sky to clear up and stay that way for the whole perfect Portland evening.
And I was referring to the kinda-grey/kinda-sunny weather, but come to think of it, the perfection extended beyond just the sky.
Tasty corn, squash, and soy meat products grilled to perfection
In the grassy backyard
Drinking Pabst tall boys
And toking around the campfire lit in our yard firepit
In our flannels
With a closely knit group of amazing friends
Does it get more Perfect or more Portland than that?