Tickets are selling like hotcakes baby! Hot flap apple jack cakes! Act now, while supplies last!

The lovely and talented Andra Mitrovich is moving back to Texas the day after her performance in Country vs. Rock n' Roll. So don't miss her last New York gig before she heads south!

Dramedys

After a Tex in the City staged reading, I left the room for a bathroom break and returned to discover the conversation was about how serious Will & Grace has become as of late. Greg insisted, "It's a sitcom!" I don't watch the show, but I empathized with the angst by chiming in, "It's like when little Arnold Drummond was molested, you knew things were downhill from there."

Indeed, midway through the 5th season, the writers of Different Strokes decided this might be funny:
The Bicycle Man (Part 1) (02/05/83 - #516)
Unaware that he's being lured into the carefully crafted trap of a child molester, Arnold eagerly agrees to perform a simple task in return for an overly generous reward from a "friendly" neighborhood merchant.

The Bicycle Man (Part 2) (02/12/83 - #517)
Arnold and Dudley's "friendship" with a local merchant reaches a dangerous turning point when, unbeknownst to the boys, the man, who is actually a child molester, is about to make his move.What we have here, is a failure to communicate!

Before the reading I was talking about Texans and Texan musicians living in NY with "Lisa". This is a brief outline of our exchange:

Lisa: Do you know Charlie? He's a singer.
Me: Does he have a Texas tattoo?
Lisa: Hmmm no, don't think so...Charlie Smith?
Me: Dunno his last name, but he's a singer named Charlie, has Texas tattoo and is married to a pretty blonde girl.
Lisa: Is his name Bruce?
Me: Uhhh...No. Charlie?

Then a few moments later the conversation segued into this summarized chat:

Lisa: We got married in Vegas.
Me: Oh, in a chapel or casino?
Lisa: Chapel.
Me: Marc's best friend lives there.
Lisa: In Texas?
Me: Uhhh...No. Vegas?

I must learn to communicate better.

Ugly Naked Guy

Friends had an ugly naked guy that the cast all stared at with inquisitive disgust. I thought, "How absurd!" Then I moved to New York and thought, "Hmm, it could happen." But I had still been denied the sheer marvel of seeing a nude human in plain sight. That was until Sunday. While working at Greg's apartment, Scott, Greg & I were distracted by the sounds of a seemingly large group shouting in approximate unison. We made our way out on to the balcony (Yes, Greg has a balcony. Yes, I secretly hate him for it.) and witnessed a large demonstration of Islams marching in protest of the negative protayal of Islams in the media. Allah bless them for it, but it still a bit scary to be an unintentional witness to someone else's passionate protest.

Greg's remark "Nobody ever marches crosstown," struck me funny for some reason. He also commented on what a stodgy neighborhood his is and that things like this never happen by his place. Hordes of inquisitive neighbors were gaping out of their windows and that's when we saw him. In all his glory, my first Ugly Naked Guy was standing full monty with legs spread shoulder length. Greg saw him first and pointed him out to me. I stared for a few moments then shrieked, "I've got to get my camera!" He moved away before I could snap a pic of him. I would have loved sharing him with the world.

Tis Just a Flesh Wound!

On the way to the Tex in the City party last night, I was in a rush and anxious to get to Serena as it was drizzling and humid and I had plenty of pre-party business awaiting my arrival. Umbrella in one hand and cell phone in the other, I was the classic picture of a New York entrepreneur. Then, woosh! Down I went. "SHIT!" I screamed without even thinking. My right hand, still clutching my cell phone, landed in a potted plant filled with damp, fresh soil. It's what saved me from real disaster. Instantly I hopped up, unfazed, dusted off my phone and resumed talking, "You there? Sorry, just fell. Anyway, I'm on my to Serena..."It wasn't until I recounted the story later that I thought how ridiculous I must have looked to the dozen or so witnesses to my spill. They all looked quite concerned for my well-being, but I couldn't be bothered or slowed down in the least. 'Tis just a flesh wound!Just where was I going in such a hurry? To a party, of course!

Tequila was free flowing from 6:00-7:00, so the crowd came early. These three party guests (left) live in Austin and were here in NYC for a long weekend. They heard about our party and came to check it out. Excellent! Jason promised me some CDs compiled with all Texas music and even taught me how to two-step. For the record: I'm the world's worst dancer. Oh, I can shake my groove thang alright, but when it comes to having a partner and moving in step with another human, well, that human had better be wearing some steel-toed boots.

Prior to my dance with Jason, I had only one two-stepping experience to reference.
Flashback to 1987 when I was a 15 year old sophomore dating football player and senior, Brad Booth. As my escort to the annual football banquet, Brad gave me the first and only corsage ever which I still possess. Dead, dried, petrified, pressed between two pages of a scrapbook, packed in a box, stuffed in various closets for 15 years, the once pink and pretty thing takes me back.


Richland High School alumn Gary Morris was the surprise guest banquet speaker. At the time, he was Country Music's Artist of the Year, was set to star in the Broadway version of Les Miserables and had scores of my teenage classmates drooling at his feet that were decked with the gawdiest high top sneakers. Not that I was a trendy fashionista. Oh no. No, no, no.

So, to cap the evening off right, the announcer informed us that Gary was to select a *lucky* girl to dance with him to the sounds of his current #1 hit to which everyone present in that Texas banquet hall knew the lyrics except me. While all the beautiful, rich cheerleaders held their breath in anticipation of being picked, I was praying, "Please, please, please, not me, not me, not me."By now, you know who Gary picked. Ah, yes, he chose me. Headbanging, big haired, Ozzy loving me.And I have never two-stepped since.

(Note the orange streaks in my hair that were painted on with a color stick and Gary's high tops. Very avant garde. Very chic. Oh, and, umm...yeah that's my mother's dress. Lord knows I couldn't have gotten a new one for my first real high school dance. There's those wacky mutton sleeves making their zillionth comeback. P.S. This is a photo circa 1987 which is not to be used for press as noted in my August 18th entry. Thank you.)