DAKONDA Pt. 4

So with the encouragement of my old man, I decide to chill at the DAKONDA'S OPEN MIC and sing a diddy.   But first, right after Tranny Houston, some woman got up - one of the poets.  I remember she recited an original poem called: "End O' The Road".   The only reason I remember this is because the line END O' THE ROAD was repeated incessantly within this 90-second poem.  Listening to it made me feel downright insane.  She bowed extravagantly when she was finished.  I do recall feeling pleased at her profound sense of self-satisfaction.  Ya sure don't see THAT every day.

And then I was up.  I played a song of mine called Warrior Of One.  It has a Celtic lilt, and its lyrics express courage and independence in the face of adversity.  I'd felt it a good choice, because I could play it on piano very well and I already knew (from our previous lunch-date with Dakonda) that I liked the piano in that room. 

So I sat down and played the intro and it felt good.  The keys sounded pretty - resonating sweetly, the piano was in tune and the acoustics were lovely - the room quiet and attentive. 

But then as soon as I sang the first line, ("I am just so angry... I am overcome...") I was astonished to feel my composure completely disintegrate.  And to my utter mortification, I found myself helplessly emotional:  I could barely get thru a syllable without bursting into tears.  Nothing like this had ever happened to me before.  I had always been a FEARLESS PERFORMER - shit - PRIDED myself on it!  But then, I had never performed for an audience in the state that I was in here, at this particular point in my life.  I hadn't taken into account how affected I actually was - had taken for granted that SINGING and PLAYING was something I could always fall back on.  Not so,  once your heart has been scraped raw and all illusions of safety and security ripped away:  Just not so anymore. 

By sheer force of will, I finish my song.  I am aware of Dakonda filming throughout, and I'm uncomfortable about it, but it's like a runaway train:  I'm in it for the long-haul, and what was I going to do?  Stop cry-singing mid-song and demand that he stop filming?  In any event, the room was gracious and they applauded generously and after my first song, I quickly segued into a cover of Tracey Ullman's "They Don't Know" - a luscious little pop number.  I'm able to sing and play it easily, get thru it quickly, receive some more nice applause and with a bow I head for my seat.    

I'm a little freaked out and to make matters worse, as I head over to my seat THERE'S TRANNY HOUSTON - sucking his/her teeth bitterly and glaring at me again.  WHAT THE FUCK!!!  I glare right back at ole' Trans, thinking loudly in my head: "Do not even THINK about fucking with me, bitch.  I am not having YOURS or ANYbody's shit right now.  "    

And as sure as hell, Tranny Houston stands up - a little unsteady, but determined - grabs his/her bag of nasty-ass rotting sneakers, and lurches for the door - whoomp - slam - gone.  Out into the night. 

Okay!  Open mic night! 

WHO'S NEXT?

TO BE CONTINUED…