the christian wrong

I guess I oughta write a little something. I have a cold (or some sort of minor Biblical wrath) since Thursday night. It had been coming on for a couple of days before that, but it hit after the show.

I've started performing again in a big way. I bought a thrift store suit and tie (and shoes with holes in the souls) and had a toupee from my volunteer job at another thrift store. All of that cost me less than twenty bucks.

We sang at Flipnotics, old gospel songs, not like the kind you find in your Baptist hymnal, more the ones the country sangers and other backslider types were always recording: "Satan's Jewel Crown," "Everybody Wants To Go To Heaven But Nobody Wants To Die," "The Kneeling Drunkard's Plea," "It'll All Be Over But The Shoutin' When We Get Home," etc. G wore her Tammy Faye best and I was in my suit. We had a Nordic version of Jesus playing percussion and glockenspiel behind us. It was a glory-hallelujah jubilee. It was kind of anti-gospel. I think we should call ourselves The Christian Wrong, but G is hesitant for some reason. Maybe she thinks it'll scare off the crowd.

Those were my people on Thursday, 90% of 'em. The lesbians were across town at the monthly lesbian (etc.) talent show watching feminist videos. It don't matter. It was good. We gave them what they didn't know they wanted, but they wanted it -- including the "lesbian shakers" G made out of millet-filled plastic cups.

Second-to-the-last song was "Old Time Camp Meeting." We pushed the mics aside and walked through the crowded room singing our praises, tambourine for me, guitar for her (Jesus stayed onstage with the kick drum). Then when we got back onstage and I lost the suit, stripped it off, to reveal my underskin, an orange-and-white sequined (big girl's) one-piece -- which was a gift from a friend and which I have to basically dislocate my shoulders to get into -- grabbed a wooden dowel and did a spontaneous twirling routine. It was quite fantabulous.

I had borrowed a friend's boom box (to play Christian rock hits from the '70s before and during the show), and after, I asked if I could put it in her car so I didn't have to bring it over to her house the next day. She said yes. I took her keys. By this time I was somewhat redressed, but was feeling hot and itchy from the "sequined hair suit." G suggested I change in the bathroom, but I wasn't into the idea initially, thinking I was soon going home. But after I dropped the boom box off in the back seat of my friend's car, I changed my mind suddenly; several people were staying to watch the next performer and I thought I might as well.

I dislocated my shoulders and got out of the sequined number and back into the polyester pants and cotton dress shirt (which was itself very cool and comfortable; too cool, in fact, I started feeling cold and sickly almost immediately). When I came out of the bathroom G and company were on the patio (my friends were inside the coffeehouse waiting for the next performer to start), and I sat with G and them and chatted a bit. They were going to see the rest of the feminist videos. And I decided I didn't want to go in to listen to the performer after all; I wanted to go home and relax.

So I did. (Are you paying attention?)

I got home, found a pot of freshly-made lentil soup on the kitchen counter. I silenced my phone and put it bedside, had a bowl and a half and a beer, read some more of The World According To Garp, took a shower, got all comfy-cozy and ready to crawl into bed. I looked at my phone (my timepiece, as always, to see what time it was as I usually do so I know the next morning how many hours I've slept -- not realizing then that I would be sleeping for almost ten hours that night) and there was ONE MISSED CALL on the cellphone screen. It was from the friend who had loaned me the boom box. Oh, she's probably calling to tell me how much she loved the show -- she's so supportive and sweet--

NO!!! I didn't give her back her keys!!!

I paced the whole of my small bedroom, freaking out, as I called to listen to the message. I was right. "I'm assuming you gave me my keys back after you took the boom box to the car, but I can't find them and I don't know what to do..." Oh my god! I checked to see when she called -- it had been less than ten minutes (that was a minor relief), I did all that before I called back.

When I reached her, everything was fine, she was in her car on her way home; "a lady found the keys in the bathroom." (God bless that lady.) I felt like my apologies were inadequate, but they seemed unnecessary for her to hear. She just told me what a wonderful show it was (she's so supportive and sweet).

It took me forever to get to sleep after that! I almost got on my knees and said a little prayer. But that would be Wrong! I just breathed and let my heart race come to an end, and eventually I drifted off and now I've got a cold and hopefully it won't last too long because G and I (and Nordic Jesus) have been hired to play a private party on the 15th.