Why do you show up in my dreams?
You’re an employee at my local supermarket. I discover pounds of cocaine in the ice cream section. We, together, call the police and await their arrival. They show up and we go off on a date. There we see one of your male friends. He’s likable enough, not threatening to my one hope and dream; to love you. You tell me the great lengths you went through to make him happy when he was sad. You took him to Vegas, you took him to a movie once, etc. But nothing sexual happened. And you and I start making plans together.
And then you hug me. It’s a good one. The hug of the ages. No fucking back-patting. I hate that. None of that one-arm bullshit. This is a whole-body hug. Warm and welcoming. Like our new lives together are as important to you as they are to me. What a feeling.
Stop showing up in my dreams, Maria Thayer.
Oh, and you like my music, too.
I’ve been trying to get a gig, any gig, at Duke Coffeehouse here in Durham. I’ve found the best way to get responses after (I’m not exaggerating) years of attempts to elicit a response is to post on their Facebook page. This worked! Hooray! After all that trying, a response!
“Hi Gilbert. We aren’t currently booking new artists for the year.”
I hate this scene. I hate it. So insular and inbred.