Step One

Today is Thursday. I will wake up again to almost darkness. This shouldn't be such a big deal to me.

Hump day is over (what a day it was for old J Lady, ;)

My dad comes into town. I will be making some music for myself while people watch and listen. The nerves may drive me to a bottle, a touch of tobacco or some other such rock star indulgence I have yet to experience or understand.

Setlist ideas have been in my head and suggested by dear friends, and some feeling comes over me regarding preparedness. A question appears in my soul that my head tries to sayd 'f*ck you' to. What am I, a boyscout?

I plan to go into this in the same way as I spend every 'performance.' Imagine them in their underwear? Hell no. Imagine them around the campfire in your backyard. Imagine them in their own world, with their own dramas and conversations and revelations, swaying in and out with your words and your rhythms. Maybe they are intellectualizing your lyrics, maybe they are missing their boyfriends, maybe they are ignoring you entirely (in their conscious minds) and simply feel some haze of the atmosphere that you've contributed to without so much as a thought about who you are and what you are doing there. Maybe they are falling in love with you all over again. Maybe they never fell out of love.

In any case, I will go up there with no forethought, because that kind of thing belongs to somebody else. Ms. Lady doesn't gel with the concept of forethought. How can you know anything about yourself until the moment is upon you? This leads into my experience in killing a man with my bare hands in self-defence.

Kidding.

But you wondered, didn't you?

So will I slay this audience tonight in the west end? The trip alone from my little nestling spot in the east makes it feel removed from me. I don't know how it will end. But I intend on watching Almost Famous to prepare myself for sheer embarrassment and inspiration.  When Jason Lee's character says "I look for the one guy who's NOT getting off, and I MAKE him get off, and actually, THAT you can print' I strongly want to cream my jeans at his intensity. At his conviction. His goal is simple, his eyes are clear (maybe save for the cloudyness of a room that one Ms. Mary Jane is likely gracing her presence with.)

But his intention is akin to my own. I will go in there, I will do what I feel, and I will walk out with the love of my family. My friends. Maybe a few unsuspecting listeners who feel something. Who knows? I can't decide for them. I can resolve to just grow a pair and get right in there. Like a dirty shirt, as my good friend Ed would say. In fact, he'd tell me all this thinking and typing is bullshit anyways. I know he'd be in the crowd if he could. But even from across the world he really is ehre anyway.

And now that it's gotten predictably syrupy and emotional, I should end this. For the sake of balance though, I also want to proclaim that while half of me is doing this for the glory and pride in conquering this first fear, part of me also knows that, if nothing else, it WILL get me super laid. Thanks T. Fighter.

Wish me luck, break my legs, do what you want, have a beer and a laugh and come on out if you're diggin it. Aspetta Cafe. Kensington. 8ish. No dress code I know of.