Saturday, August 8, 2009

File Under "Parade, Rained Upon"

So, you remember that way I've been feeling lately?

At this point, all I can figure is that (and you should pardon the language) the gods must be fucking with me.

Barbra, new album of standards, tiny invitation/lottery-only concert at the Vanguard, right down the street from my old place and exactly but exactly the kind of thing I used to be genius at getting myself into. And here I sit at the edge of the desert, dreading the start of Ramadan.

I know it's not a problem in the scheme of things in the great wide world, but geez...


  1. Yes, but remember we usually miss most of the richness going on around us, even when it's just down the street. Put on a Babs CD, your favorite velvet smoking jacket, fill up a snifter with something fragrant, and have your own invitiation-only concert!

  2. Yeah, but I'm that "how dare you try to cheer me up" pity-part kind of mood, you know? All I can think is that next Bette Midler and Cher are going to team up for a Mame revival and I'll be left with no choice but drinking myself to death...

  3. I'm not a fan, but I entered in hopes of winning for my Ed.

  4. I entered, but on the long shot that I actually win, I'm secretly dreading the crowd: I'm guessing a 50/50 mix of obnoxious rich straight people who bought their way in just to say that they did it, and screaming Barbra queens who can give you the catalog numbers of every single and album she ever made.

    Jaded? Me? Nah.