ericboy's Diaryland
Diary
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\"Why are you so petrified of silence? / Here; can you handle this? __________\" - Alanis Morrissette
The gig last night went splendidly. I wore a suit; black jacket, black shirt, brown tie, black slacks, shiny black shoes. I won't mince words: I looked good. Foolishly, I thought I'd play the whole set in the suit, looking like a lounge lizard and screaming like a dying one.
What I fool I was!
By the chorus of the first song, I was loosening my tie and unbuttoning the top button of the shirt. Three songs into the set, I was naked from the waist up. As it turns out, I had fifteen people who attended the show just to see me, in addition to the scores of people in the venue for various other reasons. The place was packed as a lazy rain drizzled down on perplexed San Diego streets. As we took the stage, I stared into a sea of people, who immediately began to nod and undulate as soon as the drums kicked in. It was awe-inspiring. After my first exclamation, a wordless rebel yell of inspiration, I felt winded. I knew it was a long night ahead of me. I had come to the venue directly from the theater where I acted in a show about vampires to an audience of five. No kidding. Five people! To address this astounding audience gathered in a small watering hole in a normally quiet burrough of SD was both humbling and invigorating. I made it through the entire eight-song set without passing out, and the songs were all well-received by the crowd. Countless photographs were snapping constantly and a friend took video footage of the entire gig. The guitar cut out at one point and I inadvertently unplugged my microphone at another, but we pressed on and pulled it off. All in all, it was a great moment.
When we finished playing, I braced the wave of handshakes and hugs and congratulatory pats. I resolved myself to the strenuous task of drinking myself stupid, which I did expertly. The band after us was utterly fucking amazing, and I told them, like, thirty times in a drunken stupor. They really were great. And I'm not just saying this because they dedicated their first song to me, which I thought was pretty awesome. I stayed at the bar until it closed at two and my bassist drove me home. On the ride, we talked about jazz and the accessibility of Dave Brubek despite the technicality of his music. Then, as quickly as it began, it was over.
I don't know how many people can relate to this, but there is a great sense of emptiness in the wake of flashes of infamy. I had just performed as an actor and a singer in one night in two different venues. For five hours, I was the man of the hour, each hour. I felt on top of the world. Then, far too abruptly, I was a lonely man with unkempt facial hair in a matchbox-sized apartment with flip-flops on, three floors up in a neon filing cabinet. I was alone and small and unknown, and it hurt. Having tasted all that excess, all that wonderment, all that love and energy one receives from adoration, I felt hollow, helpless, and useless.
Tonight, I saw a cat get hit by an SUV while waiting for my show to begin at the theater. I was outside, talking to Robby, staring listlessly into the street, when I heard the tiniest of bumps in the night. I looked out and saw a black shape in the rain-slickened street. At first, I thought it might be a scrap of tire. But then I saw the eyes reflecting the light behind me and I saw the tail make a pained arc in the air. It whipped its little head back and forth. It was black, beautiful, and dying. Deb, Matriarch of the Faultline, came out of the theater at that time and I called her attention to it. She asked, "Is it dead?" I responded, "It's damn close." As she stepped out to get a better look, another car came by and finished the job. Deb immediately began to cry, and I ran to the 7-11 to get a plastic bag. The clerk, a none-too-pleasant fellow who seems to think I'm some sort of trouble maker despite the fact that I frequent his store ad nauseum and am always nothing but polite and courteous, obliged me by giving me the smallest piece of plastic he could find. I walked out into the street and picked up the cat. Blood poured from its mouth like milk from an overturned jug. Its body was soft and malleable beneath my fingers. I carried it to the nearest trash can, which was far too full and capped by a rudimentary bum-proof cover. So I ventured further to another trash receptacle and placed it gently inside. While crossing the street, I could swear that I heard it meow sadly, twice. I'm certain that it was just my over-active and highly masochistic imagination. At least, I hope. I felt bad about putting it in a trash can, but I didn't have a whole lot of choice.
I washed my hands, stood on stage and played a cold, unfeeling, blood-sucking vampire. Then I had two beers, fended off an aggressive stalker, and came here. Now, I'm looking forward to the notoriety of nothingness, and sleep sounds fantastic.
11:20 p.m. - 2005-01-08
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