I got your ulcer gulch right here, baby

(December 03, 2002)

A minute ago, I asked Casey, "What the fucking fuck happened to November?" He sniffed in my general direction and blinked helpfully. "Gone," Hub answered from the next room not-at-all helpfully.

Gone. It's December now. Jesus H. Tap-dancing Christ. ("On a popsicle stick," Joe would say.)

I am in such a bad mood I can't even tell you. I feel like I've been scraping and sanding and priming and painting for a year. But I'm done. I've got just my desk, two bookshelves, my clothes, a table, and the sofa to move over to the new place, and I'm in. Well, plus little things, like the room divider and some big huge pillows and stuff like that. And Elvis the cat. I get the hunka hunka burnin' kitty.

EXCEPT...I can't do all that until probably Sunday or so, because when the Bentmen called to say, "Hey, can you and Hub do lights for Ulcer Gulch?" I said, "SURE!" and that's this whole week gone. It'll be fun though. Those guys are seriously bent. But not all men, as it were. Their fog machine is in my living room at the moment. The Bentmen ALWAYS use too much fog, so much that you can't see the damn band. This time I'm controlling the freakin' fog, dammit.

Ulcer Gulch will rock, but I just kinda wanna be totally done moving now.

I have also started a thing where I offically book rock shows, and it's called Low Budget Superhero. As in, presented by Low Budget Superhero. I think it's funny. Think of the tag lines. And the domain name was available. I have six shows lined up in January and February as though I actually know what I'm doing, and that makes me barf. Four at the Lizard Lounge, one at TT's, and one, tentative because we didn't actually pick a date yet, at the Linwood. I don't know who I think I am with this.

I've been so crazy-go-nuts (prize of your choice to he who gets THAT reference) that I didn't even write about (drum roll, please)...last Thursday. Last Thursday, a Thursday we have virtually ignored for the past ten years but which I understand you people call Thanksgiving, Hub and I joined eleventy-bazillion other idiots who deliberately got into a car and inched it towards a turkey that's been quietly baking in another state. "Lexi, how long does it take you to get to your parents' place in Connecticut?" "Oh, about 2 1/2 hours." Except on Thanksgiving. Then it's nearly five hours. I love my family (believe it or not) but I am never doing that again. Turkey schmurkey. That's right, I said schmurkey. I mean seriously, what were we THINKING. In the middle of all we're doing -- me moving, and Hub helping me move, and out of necessity, moving his entire life around in preparation for a new roomate-- we take a long ass day trip to the nutmeg state? As they say around here, "WICKED smaht."

The marathon car ride ended with my wild-eyed mother at the door. "Maggie's here. She's been here since ELEVEN. She's driving me CRAZY." Fuck. Tired, disheveled, feeling hippopotoman, and now, Grandma. "She keeps asking and asking when you're going to get here, are you EVER going to get here," warned my mother, "I said, 'When she gets here don't you DARE give her a hard time!'"

Thanks for trying, mom.

It didn't work.

There's more, but you know what? It's 3:38am. I have to go to bed, because I'd like to move that table in the morning, I have to go pick up the rented lights and dimmer board with Hub in the afternoon, and by 5pm I have to be at the ICA theatre. (Yep, Ulcer Gulch will be in the same theatre as Hedwig).

You should come.