On the Underside of Silver Linings

...and there will be nights where there is no profundity to be discovered, no poetry to cull from the absurd. There will be a night of straight ahead "this sucks". I lost money. I can't do this anymore or else I'll have to go back to having a day job and I won't do it I won't do it I won't do it...

And so -- after the night in the awesome club of very few people and the post-show drive of insecure inner-ramblings only to discover a greater truth and meaning in the Awkward -- and so -- after that night, comes the next night. Which, if this were a Tale or a Movie starring that newly popular and ubiquitous wide-eyed blonde 20 something who looks like the daughter of the high forheaded blonde from that late beloved but truly annoying show "30 Something" -- and not the true tale (or, in my case, probably a movie starring Snark Queens Janeane Garafalo or Lily Taylor as me) of the night that followed, if this were that Fairytale night, I'd end up at Town Hall in NYC or The Ryman Auditorium in Nashville, backed by a band that included Buddy Miller on guitar, Emmylou and Patty Griffin on backup vocals and it would have been sold out and filmed for a PBS Special or for Austin City Limits.

But this is the real tale. Where it was just not worth the drive. And if you know me, I have never said that. I've thought it. But never said it. Not an appropriate venue for me. Of the crowd (and there was a crowd but they were either loudly talking, seemingly used to background musicians, or they were outside scoping each other out), 2 guys were listening very kindly. Which was nice. But there was a crowd that included the booker. Who was barely listening. I'm sure tons of folks love playing this place and god bless them. It doesn't make the place a bad place. Its just inappropriate for me and what I do. There's no lining here that's silver. Its just the wrong piece of fabric.

And, as my therapist says, learning boundaries isn't just about our personal relationships, its about our work and our definition of ourselves.

However: I didn't need an $11 gig to teach me a boundary. I knew the boundary. I just ignored it.

So I'm sorry hacky-sack-trustafarian-rockclimbing-hemp-wearing-proust-reading-not-quite-a-mountain-town-student-hippies. I know you love your hang. Have at it. I think I'll head to Decatur. But thank you to the nice man who sat there at the empty table and bought me a beer and bought my CD. And thank you to the man who sat at the bar listening. And thank you to the blonde guy who came in late and sat next to the man at the bar and loudly said, "Hey, she's really good" in a way that was clear he was surprised, and he seemed to like my yodel.

See, now, in the end, this night doesn't really bug me. I'm back at the motel happily watching reruns of "The Housewives of New York City" because crap like that makes me really happy about my own life. But I think I wanted to write this because someone needs to stand up against this and for -- not me, but the girl or the guy who's playing tomorrow night. You might not like their music and that's cool. But if there's live music in a room and there's a tip jar, how about a few bucks for them? And hey, owner, how about setting an example?

Shhhhhhhhhhh

Or just get a jukebox. And fill it with Jack Johnson.