I just found this photo on my work desktop. This was probably one of the top-five most magical, perfect days of my life.

My girl Kenya and I at the Boston Pavilion last summer watching the Sugar Water Festival: Floetry, Queen Latifah, Jill Scott and Eryka Badu. Ridiculous.

At one point, I do believe we were standing on our chairs with arms raised, singing harmonies into each others faces, and taking breaks to chug giant gulps of delicious cold beer.

It was a perfect summer day, breezy and warm. Sometimes I can still feel the vibrations of the day. The power that these women brought to that stage, and the energy that filled the tent was absolutely palpable.

Sigh.

Meanwhile, it's winter in Maine. My boyfriend and I are leaving tonight for Boston. Staying with my brother and then flying out of Logan at 6 in the morning. By 8pm tomorrow night, I'll be in Mexico with my family for a week of laughter and good food and drink.

Still, the return to gray slush is inevitable. January and February are always rough in ye old tiny Portland, Maine. But there's lots to look forward to - the completion of the CD, the CD release party, more performances, and a new job.

A job where I don't have to write scripts about how to identify produce in a grocery store.

"Hubbard squash is large and round with pointed ends. The skin is green-gray and very bumpy."

It's harder than it sounds to describe the appearance of a vegetable in language that's palatable to all audiences.

Last night I dared Sean to describe asparagus:

Sean: "It's a green, long shaft..."
Me: "No! You have to say it like you would write it for a training manual."
Sean: "Asparagus is a long, green shaft with a pointy tip."
Me: "Yeah, but you didn't say how big it is."
Sean: "Asparagus is a long green shaft approximately half and inch wide in diameter and 6 to 8 inches tall..."
Me: "Now it sounds like you're teaching math..."
Sean: "They look like fucking green drum sticks."

Green drum sticks. El tiene razon.

In three days, I will enjoy this view of San Miguel de Allende, Mexico in person. Gracias a Dios. Adventures abound. By adventures I mean:
sleeping
reading
eating frijoles negros
drinking Sol con limas
sleeping
playing guitar
cracking up with boyfriend
Sudoku
Sequencia
Scopa
reading
sweating in hot sun
stopping into a cafe for a light lunch and beer
bailando al rancho
bebiendo demasiado tequila
dormiendo mas
wearing sandals
people watching in el Jardin
buying little boxes of gum for 5 cents
giggling with sister
cracking up with brother
speaking spanish with Victor
y los hombres guapos del Limerik's Pub
sleeping
feeling lucky

In the mean time, I'm off to a four hour meeting about the technology requirements for a redesigned company intranet, where I will do my best to create the most vivid day dreams I've ever had.

-m

"Butter." We call him Butter. The man with whom I have played guitar since fifth grade.

He's the one holding the CD. Yeah, the one titled, "I enjoy felching!"

He won it at Bingo. When I asked Butter if he knew what felching was, he said (quote) "Yeah...isn't that when you suck a fart out of a dead seagull's ass?"

No, I am not kidding.

You'll find examples of his musical artistry on my upcoming CD.

Winter is here, B. Let's make some music.

I am a successful musician. You can tell because I have a website and a blog. I also have a CD coming out soon ... If you don't know what that means, it stands for Compact Disc.

I'm kind of a big deal.

Gag. Gack.

I thought I'd start my first blog with a photo from a memorable performance at Bull Feeney's, one of 56 Irish Pubs in Portland, Maine.

I signed up for this musical gathering without much thought. The hosts were members of a musicians support group of sorts called Just Plain Folks (tag line, "We're all in this together!"), and the rules were simple: One night, one song, no tuning on stage. A chance to network and see what else is goin' on out there in the rural Maine music scene!!!

Maybe it was the generic, yellow, smiley faces that were plastered all over the website, or the lengthy essays about 'the music biz' that were pouring into my inbox, but the judge in me knew that this was going to be a bar full of rookies.


My boyfriend and I showed up a couple of hours before I was slotted to go on. We began pounding beers, and quietly mocking the performers with their cliché lyrics, guitar-pick earrings and Birkenstocks. Some people were singing along with karaoke tracks, eyes closed, heads thrown back, hips swaying in tight white jeans.

I ordered another round and checked in with the host. Two more performers and I was on. As I said, the rules to this gig were clear: One song and one song only. With about 35 people on the list, it was critical that the transition between performers was tight. The most important rule to follow was to AVOID TUNING ON STAGE. I cannot tell you how many times this message was reinforced. Multitudes of emails, friendly reminders, and posters around the bar said, "Don't forget to tune before you get one stage!"

I unwrapped my guitar from the case and put my ear to the strings. Above the din of "The Cookie Cutter Girl," I could barely hear my guitar, but I knew it would be just fine.

I swaggered to the stage, plugged in and strummed the open strings of my new guitar. The unusual and self-invented open tuning is a strange one. Discordant. Evocative. Intense. Because the song is built from the foundation of this unusual open tuning, it is critical that it is precise.

What I heard was not precise. Look at the photo again. What am I, the practiced, experienced, and talented musician doing in this action shot? Can you almost hear me laughing nervously as I whisper into the mic with just the touch of a slur that 'I'll get it in juuuust a second?' Can you hear the sweat dripping down my back? Can you see the looks of sympathy and disgust and encouragement from all the other musicians in the crowd?

Not one "rookie" before me had taken the time to tune their guitars on stage. They took care of it before hand. Like professionals. Like successful musicians who respect the opportunity to perform to a live crowd.

This was the worst performance of my life. It was so unbearable that one friend, and president of the Maine Songwriter's Association, said "I'm so sorry," when I got off stage. What a gift. What a humbling, wonderful gift. When is that judge in me going to learn to shut the fuck up?

Thanks, Just Plain Folks. Not a G.D. one of you would I describe as "plain" but I guess we really are all in this together.

So, here's to failure! And to music. And to my adorable, perfect little website, and to my new blog, and to my brilliant boyfriend for making it fun and easy (for me). Narcissismm really is useful if you want to share your art. And art lives.

Hasta luego,
Megan

P.S. - I made the t-shirt myself. The back says, "Move it."