and the beat goes on

Well, Nashville...  I don't know.
I know that I try to encourage friends, associates, fellow musicians, pets and every other breathing creature to attend my shows.  I also know it just doesn't happen.  People have jobs, kids, tv, and Titans tickets and they can't be bothered.  It's a bit of a nightmare, and I'm not really sure how to navigate it.  I am far too sensitive to just play to the bartenders time and time again.  Against all advice not to, I take it personally.  This happened tonight.  Again.

People with kids are always telling you about their little ones; this kid said this, and the other one did that.  We're expected to respond with matched amounts of excitement and interest every time, even if we ourselves have no frame of reference for what that's about.  I don't have children, and though I have some nieces and nephews that I love dearly, it certainly doesn't compare to how a parent must actually feel about every milestone, no matter how small.  Yet, society tells us that we have to "ooooh" and "aaaah" about all of these things alongside these people, as it's just what we do.  But, I have a question: what about the rest of us?  What if we don't feel like having kids?  What if we have a 1969 SG and a handful of songs that we're ready share?  Do we get to talk about that and have the expectation that The Others will be equally as amped about it?  Because I think it's only fair.  If I have to look at your kid while he does whatever it is he's gonna do, then I think you need to pay your dues over here too.

I know that I'm upset about more than the show tonight.  That was just the salt in the proverbial coffee.  I'm getting married in six days, and it's a wonderful thing.  Strange thing is, only about six people in my life are acting as if that's the case.  Those six people are my heart, and I'm so thankful to them for sharing in my joy, but the rest of my people...  Hi there.  I'm Buick Audra.  I'm doing something important.  It would be great if you acted as though you knew it was happening.  I've thrown six baby showers.  Six.  I've made twelve baby quilts.  I've knit ten pair of baby booties.  And you know what?  It was my choice and pleasure to do those things.  But, I guess I'm tangled up in the expectation for reciprocity.  It gets me into trouble every time.

Mind you, I'm having a tantrum and have already been reprimanded by loved ones and professional colleagues alike for doing so.  It isn't advisable to get so dark, it would seem.  But I am dark, and that's sort of always been the truth.  Some days I'm just better at hiding it than others.  If I were perfectly balanced and healthy, I'd be piping in with how grateful I am about this and that person, and that the lesson in it all is.... Blah blah blah.  I'm sick of the lessons, y'all.  I'm just trying to play some shows here, and have an audience that isn't being paid to be there.   I know I'm putting negative vibes out and they'll probably swallow me whole at some point, but I just can't help it.  Normally when I want to start fires, I force myself to make a gratitude list, and once in a while it works.  The alphabet comes in handy until you get to those B.S. letters like "x" and "q".  (Who cares about xylophones and xerox machines?)  When my list of grievances is longer than my list of things I'm grateful for, I'm officially nuts.  Such is the case tonight.   In the spirit of aiming for sanity, here's tonight's gratitude list, as it's only fair:

A.  Amos the cat (it's always Amos the cat).
B.  Brother Bo and Brett Rosenberg.  Bo, always.  Brett saved my soul a little tonight.  Thanks.
C.  Chad Riter.  Source of endless love and support.
D.  Dave Walsh.  Pal unlimited.
E.  Eliza Wheeler.  Lovely friend who walks every line with me.
F.   Family Wash crew.  Thanks for the root beer, love... And for making me get up there.
G.  Greg Hagan.  His absence made me revisit electric guitar.  So glad.
H.  Humility.
I.  Iris Robert.  Claims me as family.  Love.
J.  Jerry Roe and Josh Fuson.  Jerry, sweetheart.  Josh, diehard friend who spent all day with me hanging shutters.
K.  Kathy and Ann.  Thanks for listening and caring.
L.  Levi Fuller.  Oldest and dearest bud, coming to Nash this Thursday.
M.  My family.  That one went down like a jagged pill.
N.  Nancy Huebsch.  Magical aunt.
O.  Otis Redding III.  Inspired my imagination and confidence.
P.  Paul Griffith.  Plays drums with me.  Rules.
Q.  (who cares)
R.  Reeves Gabrels.  Makes me laugh, always.  Smells amazing, no matter what.
S.  Sarah Tyson, Sara Liebmann, Seth Bodie.  Ruling friends and support system.
T.  Tim Marks.  Crazy awesome bassist who plays with me.  Makes me sound better than I am.
U.  Unwavering love for music.
V.  Value system, modified as needed.
W.  Walsh Family.  Love.
X.  (also who cares)
Y.  You.
Z.  (oh yeah, I hate this one too)

Not too bad.  I do feel a bit better.  And I do really smell like Mr. Gabrels, after having hugged him only twice.  (It's some magic potion that he totally mixes with a wand in his bathroom sink.  I'll never believe anything else.)  Anyway, maybe I'll feel better tomorrow, maybe not.  Maybe my expectations will be in check and I'll just be stoked beyond measure.  I don't know, Nashville.  I still don't know.

I'm getting married and I play music.  Those things are pretty awesome. Tonight's show was disappointing for me, there are no two ways around it, but I'll live, I suppose.  But for real, breeders... I may not be having any babies, but I have a vintage analog delay pedal that would love a hand-knit cozy.  And no, I'm not kidding.

Nuts, tired, slightly hateful,
buick audra