While applying make-up last night, I heard that tonight's 9:30 performance of Hedwig and the Angry Inch is FREE. Ticket sales must be slow for that show.

Weekend shows are filling up though and this is the last weekend of the show.

The first Hedwig show in front of a live audience was fun. It's hard to believe I get to do this eighteen more times this month. It's going to feel very weird returning to normal life after this show is done, but at least I'll be able to keep up with all the dirty dishes in our sink.

Aside from the several microphones dying and the puddle of beer blessing my feet, I feel the show went well. It could have been worse. My electric piano could have fallen out of tune. Three days before the show, the piano wouldn't turn on. The power button was busted from too much abuse over the decade plus years I've used this keyboard. We had emergency service done at Stacy's music, where the switch was rebuilt. The next day, I turn the piano on and start playing. My Electric piano started falling out of tune like a bad acoustic instrument! We plugged a guitar tuner into it and watched as the signal wobbled all over, unable to maintain a consistent note. Somewhere, somehow, the rear of the instrument got banged, smashing a tiny tuning knob that can adjust a half step up or down. It did enough damage to make the knob useless and render the internal parts broken enough destroy the proper playback of the piano tone samples. So, I rushed it back to Stacy's music where they fixed it free of charge, no questions asked.

LiveArts should be reimbursing me for the cost of the first repair. So, I'm glad it broke during this show.

Last Saturday, I played my final show with Silent Muse for the foreseeable future. I had a fantastic time. The on-stage sound was great. I was confident and comfortable with what I was playing. I got to sing a little bit. We played with Bella Morte, a great bunch of guys, who put on a good show (with a bonus appearance of Lauren Hoffman doing guest vocals). I got to see Synthetic Division play one song! Fate has thwarted any chance for me to see his show for years and this time was no different. I had a holiday party scheduled elsewhere the same night, which I attended in between sound check and the Silent Muse performance. I returned in time to hear the last Synthetic Division song, but I don't know if that counts. Overall, a great time.

That was just how I wanted to end things. I would rather it be hard to walk away from something, rather than easy. Many thanks to solieri and nothingoth for the opportunity to rock out with them on stage these past 2.5 years. One way or another, I doubt last Saturday will be the final time we share a stage. However, for now, I'm not ready to settle down. I feel like my exploration of live music performance has only begun and I have so little time to do it. I have to choose carefully. So, as everyone probably knows by now, Hedwig is calling.

We are two weeks into rehearsal for Hedwig and the Angry Inch. We this week off, which hopefully won't hurt us in the long run. We haven't learned all the songs yet. We probably can't afford to take a break, but it's welcome nonetheless. After the new year, we'll be doing a solid 4 nights a week of rehearsal, every week until the show starts in February. I feel confident about myself. I think the rest of the band will come together well, especially since they already practice regularly together outside of rehearsal anyway. The Hedwig role intimidates me though, and I'm not even playing the part. Our Hedwig has A LOT of monologue to remember on top of learning the songs on top of doing it all in character. Also, I hope the theater knows what it got itself into technically. So far, we're just rehearsing without a house PA system and without a full drum kit. When I brought up the subject of what I would be plugging into (since one of my keyboards doesn't have a built-in amp and the other one only has a built-in amp that will probably explode if I try to play it loud enough to be heard above real drums) the answer was more or less, "That's a good question..." I'm sure it will come together, but I'm just impatient to be rehearsing in a dedicated space with all the elements in place.

While Hedwig has put a little more rock n roll in my soul I apparently had to lose a little rock n roll to make room for this show. Please have a moment of silence for the Rock n Roll Trashcan.

He started out like many trashcans do, just a faceless plastic barrel among many others like himself on a Wal-Mart shelf. I bought him when we moved to Virginia, where he led a quiet life on the back porch of a farm house we rented in the middle of nowhere. Poor Trashcan never sat on a curb out there, because we always removed the trash bags every week and hauled them ourselves to a dumpster on the main farm. Trashcan led a lonely existence with only the birds and bugs for friends. However, the sun set beautifully behind our house every day, with a dazzling array of pinks and purples and reds and blues. Trashcan watched that sunset every evening and longed for a life rich in such color, but he knew he'd never travel as far as the horizon. He'd never get to bathe in those lush colors.

Perhaps, he was wrong. We moved into town and suddenly Trashcan found himself routinely dragged to the curb, full of garbage. That's when Trashcan began the transformation to Rock n Roll Trashcan. Obliging his desire to stand out from the pack, I began plastering stickers all over the trashcan. Nearly every band that passed through The Dawning had a sticker boldly displayed on the Rock n Roll Trashcan. While I myself was constantly trying to do the "right" thing, going to school, eating healthy. Rock n Roll Trashcan was living it up and, perhaps, I lived vicariously through him.

He hung out in the streets, consuming all manner of drink, drug, and food. Sometimes I found him passed out, tipped over on the ground, after having vomiting his contents across my yard. Sometimes he'd get into a tussle with a roaming bitch or some pussy cat tramp, often ending the relationship with a punk rock display of aggression--puking out more of his insides on himself and the little tease. It was never a party until Rock n Roll trashcan was full to the brim and tipsy with what he'd consumed. All the while, he displayed his colors. Reds, purples, blacks and blues, every rock n roll sticker from every rock n roll band, each of them stinking with the ancient dried curdles of some long forgotten leftover dinner.

Then, one day, Rock n Roll Trashcan was gone. Did he weaken himself through excess so much that a wind blew him down the street into a ravine? Did the city trash collectors finally find him so repulsive that they picked him up and dumped in their trash truck, trying to give me a not so subtle hint that I needed a new (nicer) trashcan? Or did some punks come and steal him off my curb? Are they beating him up? Or is he living with them in a squat now, huddled around a trash fire?

We may never know. I like to think he is finally running free. He's rolling toward that horizon where the sun sets in such a beautiful cacophony of color. Next time you watch the sunset, think of the Rock n Roll Trashcan. Close your eyes and smell the air. If ever the setting sun smells like shit and spoiled meat, you'll know that Rock n Roll Trashcan has finally made it home.

I auditioned for a local production of Hedwig and the Angry Inch. Twice. No, I haven't received a call back (yet). There were two audition nights. I showed up for the first night, dragging my Roland keyboard with me, to demonstrate my piano skills. There was a small, but entertaining turn-out. It was very informal. Everyone hung out in the same space, both the performers and the important people running the show. Community audition for community theater, I guess. It was a good, relaxing vibe. I did my thing on the piano, just winging it with two improvisation pieces (one of which did utilize a blues scale). I played well enough and with confidence, although I shyly turned down auditioning for the part of Hedwig. Keyboard player: easy. The primary actor in what's basically a one man...er woman...er something show with tons of monologue: intimidating, especially since I've never acted in anything but silly home movies.

So, I left the first night a little bummed out. I did my thing on the piano, but no one asked me to sing. I was not feeling very proactive and didn't offer to sing. Most of the other performers, whether auditioning for the part of Hedwig or the backup band, did some vocal performance. I think my turning down a specific audition for the lead role may have defused the director. I wasn't specifically asked to sing after that, so I didn't. Then I kicked myself all night afterward, realizing I should have been more forward about the skills I could demonstrate.

The following night (last night) I showed up at the audition again. My primary reason for doing so was to return a copy of the script that I had signed out a week before. I completely forgot about it when I was rushing to leave for the first audition. I wanted to return it when I knew people were going to be in the building, so I visited the second audition to drop it off. While I was there, I chatted with the director and offered to audition my voice, since I hadn't done that the night before. He was interested to hear it, because he wants to know as much as possible about the pool of talent from which he's casting.

There was one false start by a nervous bass player and I followed after him to begin the audition. How often do I have a chance to step up to a microphone and belt out Tenacious D's Fuck Her Gently to a room full of strangers? So far, not many. That's what I was thinking when I took the opportunity. I did well and the absurdity of the song seemed to break the ice in the room a bit. The next guy up thanked me for doing that.

I don't know if I'll get the part. I don't know if the extra voice audition was even necessary. However, it felt good to do it. This is the first time I auditioned for anything and that's really all I wanted to do, go through an audition and do my best showing what I can do. I wanted that experience. I got it.

After realizing I was planning an excursion to a holiday event on the heels of five other social engagements in a row this past week, I decided to stop resisting the urge to lie dormant tonight and fully accept a quiet evening at home this Halloween. The wife had already declared an early retirement tonight and I figured I'd stay in with her (it is our sixth wedding anniversary, after all). A handful of trick-or-treaters (not nearly enough), a big poodle, the wife, a nice dinner together, and some quiet reading time. Nice.

My Halloween reading consists of Sophocles, which turns out to be rather appropriate. The scene in which Oedipus returns to the stage after having torn out his own eyes ranks as possibly one of the most horrifying moments I have ever read in a play. Bravo!

Also, it makes me thankful that my dear wife, krasota, is not also my mother, requiring me to have killed my own father to marry her. I can rest easy knowing I have no reason to poke out my eyes. Although, that could make a good costume for next year.

For my next trick, I am considering auditioning to be the keyboard player for a local production of Hedwig and the Angry Inch. I know Hedwig is no Rolling Stones or Led Zeppelin, but the roots of that show's music still extend deeper into the blues than any of my previous musical ventures. Consequently, this month I'm spending time brushing up on my improvisation skills in the blues scales, preparing to audition for a rock n' roll show.

Something just ain't right. I'm growing comfortable with the technical aspects of the blues, but something is missing. While I have played in a gothic rock band, that isn't enough. Goths are only pretending to be sad without a true sense of genuine loss. I need to up the ante. So, I said to my wife, "Babe, you gotta leave me. I'm trying to learn the blues and I can't do it. You gotta leave me. Take the dog, too. And make sure he piddles in my shoes on the way out the door." But she won't do it. She says she loves me. But baby! I'm too happy! I considered beating her, but I think that would only improve my industrial music skills. She's gotta go at the height of my love for her. But she's staying and she's even washed the dishes a few times over the past week.

Maybe I can look back on hardtimes in my past. I was a country music singer, once upon a time. My fame was cut short when the industry put me on the black list. I had my first big show at the Grand Ole Opry and figured I better make a bigger splash than Johnny Cash. So, instead of kicking out the foot-lights on the stage, I toured with Stevie Starr. While I performed, Stevie unscrewed all the foot-lights and swallowed them whole, before moving on to eating all the big fluffy hair-dos of the ladies in the front row. By the end of the show Stevie had regurgitate the light-bulbs with the hair inside, but my career as a country singer was over. Hard times. Here, some lyrics from that time:

Well my truck left me
and my dog's been cheatin' on me...
with another woman
my wife she's got a flat tire
but I...
I've still got my cow...

Oh *sob* I can't go on. It hurts too much. You know, I think I've got the blues now. I better go get back to the piano and practice those scales before my wife does something nice for me again.

The other day, driving home from a brief vacation, I decided I wanted to be a truck driver. Maybe it was the call of the open road. Maybe it was inhaling too many exhaust fumes. I fantasized about me, my girl, and a dog, cruising the highways in a big rig, racing for a horizon to which we can never catch up. I've always wanted to take one of those runaway truck ramps you often see on mountain roads. When I go for the commercial driver's license, do they teach you how to roll the truck like a kayak? Or how to cook a burger on the engine block? The open road calls. Now if only they made electric hybrid big rigs. And I'd probably have to haul for Whole Foods or some other organic grocery store to make sure I had regular stops for non-road-food. I wonder if I'd get bored. Maybe I could do it for a summer job. I wish adults could take summer jobs instead of their usual jobs, to break up the monotony.

In doggy news, I'm still coping with some allergy problems. After the initial panic and a visit to a doctor to put a plan in place, the problem seemed to calm down along with my nerves (typical of asthma). I get along rather well with only a hit or two off the alburterol bong a week, but all is not perfect. I still feel something is not quite right in the lungs. So, I'll give singulair a try and see if that clears up what's left. I have never spent this many consecutive days around a dog before and I'm surprised at how well I actually am. Maybe I will acclimate. Ideally, I want to be symptom free. At the very least, I need to make sure I won't suffer any long term damage. So, I'm not out of the woods yet, but it's not as bad as I had originally feared.

OK, so I'm still allergic to dogs, including poodles. This is probably compounding my other allergies, some of which are apparently very busy outside. Asthma is not cool. It upsets me to know that I wouldn't have tried this experiment if I had known my allergy would have reactivated after several days.

Well, I guess it wouldn't have been an experiment then. The dog is here, not absolutely to stay. However, I want it to stay, which goes against everything I typically believe when it comes to healthcare. Treat the source, not the symptom.

I'll try to treat the symptoms, if I can guarantee it will only be temporary. I'm seeing a doctor tomorrow with whom I'll probably discuss Singular and other management drugs. But I have my eye on allergy shots down the road. I don't want to be on drugs if there is another alternative. Immunotherapy would be another attack at the source and an emotionally easier one than returning Jericho.

I would like to tell you about the most painful cooking experience I've had since tripping and taking a header into a whirring blender.

We had a lot of fresh vegetables and some chicken. I decided on the fresh tomatoes and banana peppers. But wait...those aren't banana peppers. They are Hungarian wax peppers (a.k.a. hot banana peppers).

I should also mention that one of my hands is not quite right. I burned the pinky finger awhile ago and a lawn mower accident left me with a scrape on the palm. Neither wound has healed well and consists of very dry patches of slightly raw skin. Apparently, the skin there has enough room to allow a robust interaction between the pepper's active chemical capsaicin and the nerves in my hand. You see, capsaicin binds to a receptor called the vanilloid receptor subtype 1 (VR1). VR1, an ion channel-type receptor which can also be stimulated with heat and physical abrasion, permits positively-charged ions to pass through the cell membrane and into the cell from outside when activated. The resulting "depolarization" of the neuron stimulates it to signal the brain. By binding to the VR1 receptor, the capsaicin molecule produces the same effect that excessive heat or abrasive damage would cause.

In other words, shortly after cutting up the peppers my hands start stinging and burning. I try a quick soap and water wash in the sink, but I quickly stop as it feels like fire is shooting out of the faucet rather than water. My hands are on fire! I scream for help and my wife starts shouting out suggestions.

Milk! I douse my hand in milk. Only, it doesn't feel like milk. Now it feels like I plunged my hand into a fire ant nest. Flame-resistant fire ants. Now my hand is still on fire while red ants swarm all over, stinging, biting, the queen burrowing under my skin and laying eggs where they hatch and give birth to teething infant fire ants.

Rubbing alcohol! Rub off that chili pepper oil with alcohol! I run to the bathroom and start sponging down with alcohol. Only, the bathroom was already occupied. Do dragons piss gasoline? Because there was a dragon standing over the toilet who, angered by my intrusion, turns and pisses gasoline on my hand. He laughs. Snorting laughter that shoots flaming snot rockets on to my hand. The fire is burning bright as sun now.

I'm running around the house, screaming like a little girl, starting at my hand in disbelief, wondering why my skin is not melting off. It looks normal, utterly unharmed, but still feels like a flaming ant-infested, dragon-fired hunk of meat. I want to run around the house, dipping it in everything, seeking relief. Pudding. Laundry detergent. Syrup. A cat's ass. The mother fuckin garbage disposal.

Finally, I settle on a first generation anti-histamine with a shot of vodka while I submerge my hand in a bucket full of ice. The nervous system depressant combined with the extreme cold seem to make the burning bearable. At least enough to type.

So, was dinner worth it? I'll let you be the judge.

Recipe: Flaming Red Hand Chicken
2 lb boneless skinless chicken thigh pieces
1 large vidalia onion
a sprig of rosemary, two sprigs of thyme, several leaves of purple basil and thai basil
a few grinds of pepper
four banana peppers (or hot banana peppers, although the mouth heat is not nearly as bad as the wounded hand heat)
about a pound and a half of fresh, garden-ripe tomatoes (a couple low-acid meaty yellows, some meaty reds), coarsely chopped
fresh garlic cloves, sliced
one glass of marsala wine
olive oil

Brown the chicken in olive oil. Add onion, peppers, and garlic. Cook until onions are tender. Add everything else and lower the heat. Simmer forever. Or an hour or so.

Ouch.