wish you were here

What Is This “Blog” You Speak Of?

the girl who is not very — Tue, 14 Feb 2012 20:06:59 +0000

Hey blog, how are you? I haven’t really written in you – like for really real – in so long. Let’s try and fix that, yeah?

So let’s start with talking about blogging. We’ll ramble and see if this goes anywhere.

The first blog I ever had was at Diaryland that I’d started back in December of 1999. December 15th, in fact, now that I go back to the old archives (old entries that I copied and hand-coded – loooong before being able to export/import) and look. If you want an idea of what Diaryland looked like back then, check the Wayback Machine.

Oh crap! I found it (or what’s left of it)! Oh, Pickywitch. I had a lot of good times on AOL IM with that particular handle. Funny.

…Man, I can’t get caught up reading those old entries. Not right now, anyway.

Yes! I was at Diaryland for about a year and a half. I’d started writing there just to have something to do on the Web – I’d kinda had a version of a website that I’d started sometime in 2008ish on Geocities and AOL’s site building thing, and was looking for an outlet. Diaryland was great because it had a social element where you could join these rings where other people in that ring could click and read your diary. I’d made a couple of Diaryland friends, but nothing too hardcore. Glancing at the entries, other than the few moments where I talk about Mom who’d been gone 2 years in January of 2000, it was pretty basic college fodder – bitching about papers, pining over my ex, talking about playing in a band. 1999-2000 was my senior year, and so I was buckling down into my Independent Study about death as well as getting my Senior Contract in order. In between bitching about stuff, I posted entries that reflected my Independent Study, as well as talking about experiences that were happening around that time (I had a friend commit suicide as well as a close friend’s grandmother [who was like a surrogate grandma to me] pass from cancer).

The first half of 2000 was pretty intense, to say the least, now that I look back on it. I’d graduated and came back to a lot of employers telling me no to jobs even though I was fresh out of college and willing to learn. I was coming back to the poetry scene I’d been on the outside of for 4 years while I was in California for college. I was just starting to think about what I wanted to be. Jesus, I still am, now that I’m turning 34 this year.

Anyway, with the advancement of technology, being able to have an online diary was easier, and now they were being called blogs. Diaryland just wasn’t cutting it, so I copied all my old entries into a text file and decided it was time to move on and actually get real about a platform and domain. And in February of 2001, I’d started writing for Las Vegas CityLife, so having a Diaryland seemed a little… immature. So I moved over to the Blogger platform in June of 2001 after following Neil Gaiman around California during the American Gods tour.

At that point, the blog became part about writing about music, writing about my nights out in Vegas at that time (which were mostly about going to shows and drinking, mostly at the Boston), as well as Dad’s declining health. Between the move to Blogger in June of 2000 until December 2001, my writing mostly focused on those three things (as well as the occasional new poem, talking about my newish nephews, and making vague references to a local musician I was sorta-kinda involved with at the time).

About September 2003, after getting back from my first National Poetry Slam, I joined LiveJournal, since that’s where all the poets were, and it was a better social network that I’d dealt with before: all my friends’ posts were on one page, you could have private entries where you could edit your lists, and you could quietly stalk other poets that you had crushes on. That’s right, I used to do that. But the bad part with Blogger around 2003? No cross-posting. Man. I can’t begin to tell you how much that sucked. So I was on the lookout for something that would let me cross-post but was also free. It took a few years.

I tried all different kinds of things on my Blogger blog (other than moving servers, which was ulcer-inducing back in like 2004 or so): making my own audioblog, writing freestyle poems and pasting them, trying to do a photoblog. I changed the theme on whims.

2005 was the first writing gig where I got to be paid for blogging. Of course, I was writing about reality shows and gambling, so it was a little dubious, but it was kinda cool to say I was a semi-professional blogger. And writing almost daily content was a challenge, especially with the way the government was trying to change the laws as well as the whims of the online sportsbooks.

Personal blogging on Blogger just wasn’t doing it for me, and technology was catching up, so I finally moved over to WordPress in 2006, and have been with it ever since. It lets me cross-post everywhere, and I imported all my old Blogger posts, which has been weird to read.

How do I feel about blogging? Mixed, and I mean that.

In one sense, I can say I’ve been blogging for a very long time – 13 years is a long time, especially in Internet years. I feel like an old maid that way. But at the same time, it’s not like I’ve had a large following, or got any kind of recognition for being on the Internet or blogging for over a decade. It honestly feels like it sounds good to prospective employers and maybe old fogies who would know about the days of Ye Olde Internet. Even now that I’m back to being paid to write blogs and articles, it’s a blessing to be able to say that I’ve been able to get to know platforms and be able to write for that long. It’s okay to be an old fogey that way.

In another sense, it’s actually nice to be able to go back and feel like I have a sense of history about my life, even if in these little snippets that I don’t recall that often. I have somewhere to go that lets me remember, and that’s a good thing.

And I know, I know… every year I keep saying I’m going to write more. But then work gets in the way, or life gets in the way, and it’s easier to update on Facebook or Twitter… and this collects dust again. So maybe this year I’ll actually go out of my way to blog more, actually go out and search ideas to write about. We’ll see. I’m iffy on personal deadlines.

But I’ve got some writing to do.

precious

the girl who is not very — Wed, 18 Jan 2012 06:58:40 +0000

I used to love the water, you know.
You think I loved fish before,
but let me tell you something
about how a face looks
as it stares at you from the lake bottom,
as if waiting for you to revive him.
My cousin’s face is perfect surprise;
his hands sway in the water
as the death kicks in.
Déagol, cherished cousin,
he has my mother’s eyes,
that pale fishscale blue.
We fished on my birthday,
and he stole my present.
When something is shown to you,
so beautiful
that even the mighty Eagles flee from it,
the thing feels like a gift,
bound in a bow of fire, forever.
And then he fell
silent in the water.
And now he’s in the way
of my bait and my fish –
and the fish will not bite
unless I grab them first.
You see, fish flesh
melts in your mouth like magma food.
They squish and squirm
like worms in the dirt.
The fish are slippery, and fast,
and they dart around in the darkness
quicker than shooting stars, or fireworks.
There is a shine down there somewhere,
brighter than fish eyes
staring at me from the deep.
He won’t get it. It’s mine.
I dive into cold Autumn water
as my fishing rod goes overboard.
I will love this shine
until it becomes a part of me.
I will –
I almost drown in the shafted light of the stinging water,
and my present shines like a polished sword,
cutting through the muck and mud.
And
I surface, almost screaming in watery delight.
I feel my fist on fire.
Where is the shore?
Where can I take this thing, this ring, build a fire,
catch a brace of conies
and look at the fire inside the fire?
I must find the earth,
I must find a place amongst
the drought and the dust.
There –
the softest bank of grass against my cheek.
Who watches me now?
Whisper the power to the bugs if you must,
to the tiniest fingers grasping for
invisibility.
I don’t need the boat.
I don’t need the river.
I don’t need my cousin’s hand
waving at me from the deep.
I will disappear into a family
of ghostly shadows.
I will become more.
I will become.
I will.
I will.

.

the girl who is not very — Tue, 10 Jan 2012 19:15:54 +0000

A Year and Its Soundtrack, 2011.

the girl who is not very — Sat, 31 Dec 2011 22:50:04 +0000

My 30s have been really, really strange. 30 and 31 were really great years. 32, not so much. But 33 has been… well, even-keeled, I guess? Perhaps this year was about moments and staying present, as opposed to blowing up about the bigger picture. This year had some really just dead cool moments with the occasional bout of frustration and admittance of stuff I didn’t want to learn about myself. But that’s what living is, right?

I didn’t read a whole lot this year. But you can see mini-reviews of the books I did read over at Delicious (yay for resurrection!)

While I can’t really say this year’s been really good or really bad, I can say I’m still optimistic about what the next year will bring, because I’ve learned a lot about myself, I’ve improved on my craft, and there are cool things lined up for next year. (Warning: Gerunds abound!)

Working On Myself
For most of this year, I felt like I wasn’t ready for a relationship. Slowly but surely I got back onto online dating sites, so it’s a process. The hardest thing about working from home and being so involved in the poetry scene is that it’s difficult to just meet new people around Vegas. After dipping my toe in the poet pool, I’ll never do that again. And it’s not like writing affords you a whole lot of social interaction, ’cause let’s face it – being head down and headphones on in a laptop screen at a coffeehouse isn’t exactly begging for conversation. But over the year there have been times of internal work on myself, writing out thoughts in my journal, and – what I think is the most important thing – just trying to read and write poetry that’s putting out good vibes into the world. I’ve made a conscious effort to just write in a more positive direction. That’s not to say I haven’t written depressing stuff – it has to go somewhere, so the page is the best place for it – but my overall outlook on creating art is to try to stay in an uplifting and good place. Keep the negativity to yourself, yo.

I’ve still got a love-hate relationship with running, but there’s not a day that goes by that I don’t think about it.

Learning More About Writing
Earlier this year I started writing for Established Online, going back to writing for deadlines and eventually learning some of the ins and outs of SEO writing. It’s been a nice change from the usual stuff I was doing for other jobs. There was a little of this summer that was hard for me, but I got through it and am learning about working from home.

And working from home? It’s been mostly a good thing, though it’s difficult when you have a cute wiener dog, and the rest of the Internet, and… yeah. It’s a learning curve, but I’m learning.

Unfortunately, doing a weekly serial ended up failing on me about halfway through the year. I’m thinking that going back to a monthly project will be better for my sanity.

Reclaiming “Poet” Status
This has been one of the best years for me as far as poetry, and it’s pretty much because the Las Vegas Poetry Slam has been doing really well over the past year and a half. And the Las Vegas poetry scene has been blowing up with the best feeling of community I’ve felt anywhere (and even after being on tour, that’s saying a lot!) Here’s the tooting of the horn about the cool stuff I’ve done this year:

• Won the Susan G. Komen Race For The Cure Poetry Contest, and read on a stage in front of hundreds of people in Downtown Las Vegas
• Sold out the first run of the newest chapbook
• Appeared on KNPR
• Read poetry to high school students
• Won a poetry slam
• Had a poem of mine covered in Kingman, AZ
• Made awesome friends
• Was part of the Poetry Bus as part of the Vegas Valley Book Festival (and was the highest paying poetry gig I’ve ever done)
• Wrote and performed new stuff that people liked
• Performed in the Ovation Room at Green Valley Ranch

The downside is that I haven’t really been writing fiction, so I’m thinking of doing another “12 Stories/12 Months” project, but this time with a twist: I’m going to write about my Dad moving to Vegas from Pittsburgh, but it’ll be 12 random days in his life (but fictionalized to an extent). And I’m going to try a Tumblr experiment and do a project that marries my writing with music called “Stuck In My Head,” where I’ll post about songs that are stuck in my head, and look for information and history on those songs (you know, what Google will find for me anyway).

And I’m collaborating with one of my best friends, Roz Anderson, on a piece that’s going to be shown in her feature show on the first floor of Emergency Arts in February of next year. We have some dynamite features coming to town, and a youth slam coming up in April. Good good things coming up.

Playing Music Again
The end of this year has been great as far as getting to know my guitar again. Playing out with Katie a couple of times has re-lit the fire under my ass as far as playing music again. I realized how much I missed it. (And it was actually very amusing to have friends come up to me and say “I had no idea you played guitar!”)

And speaking of music, it was a good year for good music. I finally got to see Elbow in concert, which was one of the best concert experiences ever for me. Outside during a really nice October evening with a musician friend, DeVotchKa opened up, the stars were out, my seat neighbors were really friendly, smiled a lot, had a little cry, and came away feeling awesome. I wish they’d come to the States more often. This was one of the songs that made me feel awesome from that show (and I’m happy the whole show is on YouTube so I can go back and relive it):

Here are some other songs that I had on repeat this year:

Active Child, “Hanging On”

Synkro, “Viewpoint”

Ellie Goulding, “Lights (Bassnectar Remix)”

Detroit CYDI, “Yeah Bitch”

DeVotchKa, “New World”

Childish Gambino, “The Longest Text Message”

Robyn, “Dancing On My Own”

The Great Book Of John, “Never Tear Us Apart (INXS Cover)”

Junip, “Without You”

Freelance Whales, “Girl U Want (Devo Cover)”

Oscar + Martin, “Chaine Maile”

Bjork, “Crystalline”

Clams Casino, “I’m Official”

Claire Maguire, “The Last Dance (Chase & Status Remix)”

Araabmuzik, “Streets Tonight”

AWOLNATION, “Sail (LED Remix)”

Lykke Li, “I Follow Rivers”

Ki: Theory, “Holiday Heart”

Gotye, “Somebody That I Used To Know (Neon Stereo Remix)”

James Vincent McMorrow, “Higher Love (Steve Winwood Cover)”

Little Dragon, “Ritual Union”

George Harrison, “Run Of The Mill”

T.I. (f. Christina Aguilera), “Castle Walls (fAux Dubstep Remix)”

The Weeknd, “Initiation”

Young Galaxy, “Firestruck”

.

the girl who is not very — Fri, 23 Dec 2011 19:54:08 +0000

ashes

the girl who is not very — Sat, 17 Sep 2011 01:37:23 +0000

I got a box of Mom’s ashes on my nightstand.
The first day of college
she didn’t want to leave my dorm room.
On the last day of college,
her ashes were there when I woke,
packed up with the memories of trees and pollution
and long nights on the freeway,
listening to mix CDs,
hoping I’d eventually find you
somewhere between the streetlights,
a runaway
from the life that seemed
to drain the light in you.
See Mom taught me how to use words,
what they meant,
where to put them in case of emergency,
and there are times
when I break the glass
and there’s nothing there.
Mom kept a Gideon bible
from the first place she stayed in Vegas
in her book closet,
and when I was 15
I took a highlighter to Ecclesiastes:
“To everything there is a season,”
and Mom, you died in winter.
When you’re 19 and naïve,
Death brings not a scythe, or a parasol,
but a sledgehammer,
slamming holes in your dreams
that are shaped like prophecy,
or memory,
or a stain in the carpet
that won’t ever come out,
and I wanted to tell you
that I ran out of words,
that the I-10 is just a fucking road
that goes absolutely nowhere,
that every year I lose one more syllable of your voice.
“No man can find out the work that God maketh
from the beginning to the end;
I know that there is no good in them, but for a man to rejoice, and to do good in this life.”
And I want to tell you, Mom,
that you did good.
That even though I’m fucked up
I remind people of the good memories of you,
that there is a love
that even god gets jealous of,
that even I get jealous of that 19 year old
who believed in fucked up, old gods,
mean gods that broke my heart
just as easily as they broke your blood vessels,
just as easily
as I dismiss myself in the world.
I stumble through my dreams these days,
asking questions of the ghosts in my brain,
waiting for you to come home to my subconscious,
looking at your eyes in the mirror
and remembering, and forgetting.
“A fool is full of words,” Ecclesiastes said,
and words are all I have,
the foul things that leave my lips
that you’ll never hear.
I have seen amazing things,
but the most amazing thing is
I’ll never hear your voice vibrate
through the shared air of this earth
ever again.
I have up long ago on the idea that you listened
even though I still talk to myself,
stumbling though the world
with this incomplete memory inside of me,
saying “I wish you were here”
as if those 5 words would cure the world,
as if your ashes would reform
as a beautiful golem
meant to protect me from sorrow.
All I have are words on the air,
heard by birds carrying echoes
to the ends of the earth.
“A bird of the air shall carry the voice,
and that which hath wings shall tell the matter.”
And I used to believe
you went to tell god that she made a mistake,
that you were never meant for entropy,
that you still had words to give me.
“If the clouds be full of rain,
they empty themselves on the earth.”
And if your love is in me, Mom,
then I will empty it upon the earth at every chance I get,
lighting the eyes of the brokenhearted,
and I swear
I will carry your snorted laughter
to whoever needs that smile.
Mom, my heart is broken.
And I know you can’t fix that.
I look at the box of your ashes
and remember the last syllables that are left,
using your words like the fool that I am.

Fall

the girl who is not very — Thu, 07 Jul 2011 01:28:17 +0000

I wake up in the sea,
and I don’t know if I’m dreaming or drowning.
The sky moves greenish-blue,
ad I float above the black,
and I’m not sure how to feel.
Where are the streets we walked,
sidewalks of sure-footedness
where we’d stand to hold hands?
where are the miles we’d drive
to look at each and every descending star,
not knowing anything of the fall?
Where are the petals who escaped their flowers
only to be trapped between pages?
I’m building these things inside me,
creating these memories of mirrors,
sculpting the slow smile of myself,
bigger than the cities I loved you in.
I want to stop closing in on myself
and open out into the world
as if the sea would swallow the lands
where sadness covered me like dust.
And so I swim, because where would limbo lead me
but to a place populated with nothing
but these things that can’t let go?
The sky, the sky, where is the sky
where we wished the clouds away?
I am made now of stormclouds,
salt rain the blood that moves me,
I glow from the lightning internal,
eternal,
I will become phosphorus if I stay here long enough.
But I don’t want to stay here long enough,
and so I swim.
I swim to the shores of home,
familiar sun and solid sky,
I want to open my arms
to the wild wind of the world,
take the sweet smell of myself,
touch the dust that made me.
I will not care that you’re not here,
because I am enough.
I wake up in the sea,
lying in the waves that blanket me,
I am tucked in by the tide,
sedated by the sway of the water.
This time I will be the totem.
This time I close my eyes to the sunrise.
I will not wait for you,
because I have waited for myself long enough.
And I will take my time.
I will make for myself 10,000 years until I stand,
I will make for myself a home where I want,
I will love these hands as they shatter the mirrors
of the memories of you,
I will build these mirrors back up
to reflect the smile I’d forgotten.
I look out over the ocean
to find the color of my eyes again.
That’s when the voice comes,
some muffled echo from a clearing sky,
a heart beat lost and found again,
a slow crescendo of sound.
Will I dream or will I drown?
I wake up on the other side
of a city in which I love myself,
where the streets fold out like arms,
where the sky is blue
and the stars know where to fall.
I am standing on a dusty sidewalk,
toes covered in sand,
I still feel myself sway in the heartbeats,
in the rhythm of the silent sky,
when the voice comes,
when I recognize the sounds of myself
like gentle waves,
I walk to the sunrise
as if I would wait 10,000 years before it broke.
I open my arms to the wind
that once would carry me off.
I touch a mirror of a girl I once loved.
It will not break.
I wake up on the other side of the world,
where the sun is rising
and the sea is far away.
My voice is right here.
I rise to look in the mirror
of a girl who rebuilt herself from the inside,
cradled by the waves
that carried off a memory not quite remembered,
who looks at a half smile
that finally looks like herself,
the one who will not fall
until she’s ready.

Freddie: Part 27

the girl who is not very — Tue, 05 Jul 2011 21:55:06 +0000

     When the KJ was packing up, almost everyone had left except for Freddie, Lucifer, and a few drunk stragglers waiting for a cab. Lucifer mercifully stopped at 3 shots of Jameson’s, causing Freddie to slow down on the beer consumption. He rode a heavy buzz throughout the evening in order not to say anything to Lucifer, who had been buying drinks for 3 barely-21 girls dressed in band t-shirts all night. None of them stayed behind to talk to either one of them.
     Freddie was going to finish his beer and go home. He looked up to see Lucifer having what looked like a in-depth conversation with the packing KJ. All he wanted to do was have a nice, warm sleep, uninterrupted by dreams or thoughts about wanting to punch the Devil in the balls.
     Having such a thought made Freddie shiver. He took a large swig of beer. The bartender knew better than to bother him anymore.
     Lucifer shook the KJ’s hand and walked over to Freddie, pulled out a chair next to him, sat down, and took his hat off. He looked like a brother of the being he met in Hell: just enough of a look-alike to get away with any plausibility. He wasn’t smiling.
     Neither was Freddie. “What the fuck, mate?”
     The Devil pursed his lips in frustration. “Did you honestly think it was going to be all fucking kittens and rainbows when you got back? You’re lucky you even got this far.”
     “After saving your arse? Seriously?”
     “Seriously.” When he said it, Freddie felt his buzz start to dissipate into an ambivalent soberness.
     “Why are you doing that?”
     “I need to talk to you sober, Freddie. You need a gameplan.”
     “Do I? After we’d already made one?”
     “We’d agreed on a framework, darling. Completely different from a gameplan.” Watching a fratty-looking guy say darling was a little off-putting. “Now that we’re here, we need to talk about how we’re going to make your new life work. We need to make you into a completely new rockstar with me as your manager, yeah?”
     Freddie looked him up and down in the seat. “Have you lost the plot? Looking like that? You look like you should be on a reality television show.” He pushed the beer away from him, disgusted.
     “Oh, I’ve been on them all already,” Lucifer said, full of himself. “I’ve won lots of money that went to funding porn and drug cartels. But that’s beside the point.”
     “You seriously want to have this discussion now?”
     “You’re sober, aren’t you?”
     “I was hoping to get at least somewhat pissed so I could just go home and sleep the whole day off my mind. Especially now after seeing you.”
     “Come now, Freddie. You knew this wasn’t going to be easy.”
     “Like I had a choice?”
     “You did. I would’ve gladly taken you on to work for me. Your punishments would have been greatly reduced, anyway.” He waved at the bartender.
     There was no use arguing with him. It was what it was.
     “Let’s freshen up some beers, sir,” Lucifer said. “We’ve got serious business to conduct.”

Freddie: Part 26

the girl who is not very — Thu, 30 Jun 2011 18:21:40 +0000

     “Buy this man a shot,” a voice said from across the bar. Freddie looked up from his beer – he was about halfway through number 3, and started to ramp up the drinking once the singing started – and saw a familiar face. Patriots cap cocked to one side with black hair sticking out of the bottom, bright blue polo with the collar turned up, bulgy khaki shorts, flip-flops.
     Bloody fucking Christ, he thought. Goddamn Lucifer.
     “This fuckin’ guy,” Lucifer said, walking down the bar toward him. “Where the fuck you been, brah?”
     There was a nice, light buzz flowing through Freddie before, but that cleared right up at the word “brah.” Lucifer was a fucking douchebag. Clearly.
     “Hey, what’s up, dude?” Freddie said, very softly. Ugh. Dude.
     “What shot do you want, brah?” the bartender asked, smiling widely. He seemed to be enjoying this too much.
     Freddie was about to say “fuck you” when Lucifer came over, big mug of beer in his right hand, smacking his left on Freddie’s back. “Let’s have some Jamie’s.”
     This was not going to end well.
     “What the fuck are you doing?” Freddie said under his breath.
     Lucifer leaned over and said, “Don’t worry about it. Just call me Luke. Close enough to calling me Lucifer, right?” He chuckled and toasted the bartender. “Yes! Here we go!”
     And that’s when he knew the night was going right out the window.
     Just after they took a shot of Jameson’s, another one appeared right after it. “I’m going to go find a song to sing,” Freddie said. In fact, he already knew what song he was going to sing: “Killer Queen.” He’d be able to pull it off in this body without it feeling too weird.
     When he returned, Lucifer had lined up 2 more shots on the bar. “Come on, brah! At least one more.”
     He wanted to punch the Devil in the face. But that wouldn’t have been the best idea, considering the circumstances. It made him think of those poor souls jumping out of Asmodeus’s tower, only to get back up and jump again. Then he thought about being one of Asmodeus’s lovers. It made him shiver. Lucifer was obviously trying to get a crowd gathered around (especially all the girls around them, many of them looking barely old enough to be there), but he just looked kind of lonely. Not too far off from what he looked like in Hell.
      Freddie knew that kind of loneliness. Douchebags couldn’t escape it. Even the Prince of Darkness couldn’t escape it. And then he realized: Jesus, did I just become friends with Lucifer? Fuck.
     He couldn’t be mad anymore. He was going to sing and get drunk, which was not exactly how he was expecting the night to go, but at least he wasn’t at home.
     “You’re a wanker,” he said to Lucifer. “Why don’t you fucking sing?”
     “Because then all these people would not stop following me,” he said in a low voice. “I mean, literally follow me.”

Freddie: Part 25

the girl who is not very — Tue, 21 Jun 2011 18:50:23 +0000

     Though he wanted to go to a proper pub, PT’s was the closest he was going to get to walking the dog for now. Eventually it would be slow enough to be quiet, where the graveyard bartender would make stupid small talk and leave him alone if Freddie asked him to. Right now in the late afternoon he wanted a burger and a cheap beer. Anything to help clear his mind.
     He walked in, just wet enough from the rain, and there were a couple of small groups at the pool tables and near the bar, but there was a corner opposite the door where he could sit relatively alone. He immediate ordered a large mug of Bud and the greasiest burger on the menu, stuff he’d never consume in his past life, but then again, when it came to emotionally eating, there was never a better time than the present to start a new hobby.
     When his burger and fries arrived, he was halfway done with his beer and somebody was setting up for karaoke. He smiled at that and the bartender said, “Ever done karaoke, Freddie?”
     “No, but I may have a better time than I did this afternoon.”
     “What happened?”
     “First gig, epic fail.”
     “Sorry to hear that, man.”
     “We all have to fall on our faces sometime. Might as well be in front of like 50 people at Sunset Park.”
     “Ouch. At least it wasn’t during Ren Faire. More people.”
     “Small miracles, mate. Small miracles.”
     Out of curiosity, Freddie picked up a songbook from the male KJ and flipped through it. He saw a bunch of hip hop songs that he curiously knew, but even in his previous carnation would he ever consider himself ever close to a rapper, as amusing as it would be. Some old R&B, perhaps? Cover his old friends in Led Zeppelin or Mott The Hoople? He always loved listening to “Thank You.”
     He glanced at Tori Amos. Lucifer told him she’d written a song about him, and played it for him. Why did it seem cruel to him to die first before others figured out what he’d meant all those years? He’d have played piano with her if they’d ever crossed paths.
     There were plenty of his own songs in there, plenty of old memories he could dig back up in a body that didn’t deserve them. His voice wasn’t as dynamic as it used to be, but he could probably outperform the other singers. If he wanted to. He put the book back without filling out a slip.
     He sat back down at the bar feeling strange. Him not wanting to perform at the drop of a hat was surprising. Then again, this whole new life was surprising. A life that he wanted but was still just tweaked enough from the Devil to make it frustrating. And where was that twat? Why wasn’t he at the park today?
     Drink more beer, he thought. Just drink some more fucking beer.