The venue (the note) was really cool. Well, it looked exactly like this, actually.
And the weird thing about playing solo–other than the rather overwhelming revelation as you walk onto stage that every last note about to be heard has to come from YOURSELF and JUST YOURSELF–is that you generally arrive alone. And, since you have to sound check and stuff, you generally arrive early. Which means there is a lot of downtime to be had. Which means that there is plenty of time to read the various things people have written on the walls of the green room over the years. And gaze at the pictures.

Some of which are not so gaze-able. 

Trust me on that.

But, I think my favorite thing I read on the green room walls of The Note had to have been this:

There are two keys in life:

The turkey,

The monkey,

and sometimes the donkey.

I am not sure why, but it just struck me as so funny. And rather nonsensical in that the phrase actually lists three keys instead of just two. But who’s counting, right?

And–here’s something so nice–the producer of the show gave me more than we agreed upon. And it wasn’t a mistake, either. I reminded him of exactly how much we’d set and then he goes and meticulously counts out more than that and hands it to me like it ain’t no thang at all. But it is a thing; it’s quite a thing. And I am grateful for that thing.

Tomorrow morning I go back to NYC and then I have a fitting for another fashion show and then a rehearsal with some bamf brooklyn musicians who have warned me that they own both a waffle maker and a juicer and not to be alarmed if waffles and juice come into play. Of course, I would be shocked and appalled, but I suppose I would choke them down for the good of musical camaraderie and all that. The fact that I LOVE waffles and juice would have nothing to do with it. Nothing at all.

Ahem.

And then I want to go into the laundry room to record something I have in mind for Valentine’s Day. Which is vastly approaching, you know. And guess what? It’s gonna be good this year. No, really, it is. Cause I get to play more music at Sleep No More’s Manderley Bar, so happy Valentine’s Day, indeed.

Maybe I will even wear pink.

Maybe. 

The monsters your parents assure you do not exist.

But then they leave and you’re alone and you’re afraid.

Fast forward to now. You’re an adult. Or at least that’s what people refer to you as because you pay bills now. You eat noodles for dinner more often than not because you pay bills now. The monsters you were so afraid of as a child? Well, your parents were right.

Partly, I mean.

Because, true: they weren’t in your closet. God, you wish they were. And you wish they looked like monsters. You wouldn’t have gotten close to someone with fangs and talons and tufts of hair in odd places. Especially if he’d lived in your closet.

But the monsters did exist. DO. The monsters do exist. They are magicians of extraordinary skills. They dangle hope, you grasp it; they say abracadrabra! and you open your palms to ashes.

Those ashes can grow a whole garden, you’re told. Sprinkle them everywhere you go–you’ll see, they say. But you don’t want an effing garden. You want what the magician promised. And then you waste what is not even able to be bought, not with all the money and fine things in the world: time. You waste your precious time looking for this magician. He is the white rabbit and you are Alice; you follow him down a hole that widens your eyes, but no longer with innocence.

You are shocked.

And now you feel out of time. Now you feel lost, having followed that white rabbit down the hole and seen strange and terrifying things. But you still have the ashes.

And finally, you start to do it. You sprinkle the world with your ashes. You wonder what kind of garden a heart grows; you wonder if the earth knows that is what it’s receiving: tiny pieces of your heart. All the words he told you; the full ones before you knew; the empty ones after you found out. The vast and dead landscape of your life NOW. Now that he left. Now that he also left. Now that your dreams even left.

Oh, God.

You are Dorothy, but they got it wrong. Because, see, you started in Oz; you lived in color–you never imagined there were places that had none. Not until the tornado picked you up and dropped you squarely in the grainy black and white world of a 1950′s television. And there is your family, your friends, staring at you in that box. They don’t know how to get you out; but they mouth words to you about being strong. About scattering your ashes. About redemption and better things to come.

They are whispering secrets to the deaf. They are talking about Oz to someone who lives in Kansas. They are crazy; they are hope.

And you listen; you scatter your ashes. Even when some starts telling you the ashes are all gone now. Shhhh, don’t talk about it!  Shhhh, don’t sing about it! But they don’t know that you can still feel the ashes when you go to bed at night. You feel them on your palms; they dirty your cheeks as you wipe away your tears.

And now, there is a garden. And it’s beautiful, you must admit. You cannot believe how beautiful it is. And it’s made by a much kinder and truer Magician than the others that you have known. But every once in a while you still see traces of the ashes. You still sing about them. They still take your breath away while you’re doing nothing more emotionally taxing than waiting for the A train. The ashes come in a flash and you’re waiting for the A train, yes, but you’re also listening to him tell you that he’s leaving. You’re also being told no to this particular dream. You’re also waking up alone.

It’s a powerful thing that these ashes do.

And now I see that the ashes and the garden are so inextricably connected, it’s hard to know where one ends and the other begins. And maybe I will never forget the ashes; and maybe that’s how it should be. The ashes are real; the garden is real; somehow I live in a world where they coexist.

The ashes and the garden.

Together.

Anyway.

Today was an interesting, sunny day.

Lots of people out and about.

I mean, it is New York City. The place is jam-packed with people. That’s partly why I love it. Humans are fascinating, I think. Never boring. Especially not today.

First, there is the guy outside Penn Station. He comes out of nowhere and envelopes me in a huge hug. My sense of boundaries are pushed and prodded with that one, I have to admit. But he is nice enough. Says something about my smile and the angels. But then he mentions football, so I am confused. Maybe he is still high on the super bowl win or something, I don’t know.

Then, there is the guy in midtown, on seventh avenue. Looks to be somewhere in his fifties. A business man, dressed up and stuff.

He slowly walks up to me. “You are so exotic,” he tells me, making this Pennsylvania born and bred girl laugh a little. “I just love your sense of style, too,” he mentions, and I thank him. “You’re from here?” he asks, and I nod my head, not wanting to delve into where I’m from with him, so here suits me just fine. Sure, I’m from seventh avenue today. 

“Well,” he continues, “You probably want some young guy–with muscles and all that–but that’s overrated.”

I just listen.

“Would you do me a favor?” he asks, before saying, “If I give you my number and promise you that I will be the best white b*tch you’ve ever had, will you call me?”

Is this happening? I wonder and then realize he’s actually waiting for an answer.

Waiting for me to either accept or refute his offer to be the BEST WHITE B*TCH I’VE EVER HAD. I am not sure there’s any competition; I am not sure, in fact, that I’ve ever even had one, to be honest.

I quickly mumble something about how my *boyfriend* would not like that.

The guy leans in and lowers his voice, “But he wouldn’t have to know,” he tells me, like we two could share the best secret known to man.

Oh, what fun.

“That wouldn’t work for me,” I tell him. “I’m honest.”

He looks disappointed and starts to walk away, but before he does, he asks, “Your boyfriend–how old is he?

“Twenty-seven,” I say, pulling a number out of the air.

He shakes his head. “You shoulda been with a twenty-seven year old when you were in high school,” he mutters as he makes his exit.

I don’t think my parents would agree with that sentiment.

And that might have been the weirdest exchange I’ve had with a stranger to date. Or at least, it’s in the top three, I’d say.

Gosh, best white b*tch I’ve ever had. 

And I walked away, folks; just walked away.

THANK GOD.

The music stuff. That’s official. The advice on my love-life? Well, that’s a bonus.

And he’s not the only wonderful guy handing out advice to me lately.

“Are you working on any new songs, Jess?” my pop asks, nonchalantly.

“Yep.”

“Are they sad songs about heartache?” he says, still playing at nonchalance.

“Uh…I guess…kinda…”

“Well, you better find another guy to break your heart soon…I mean, that gives you quite a lot of material,” he says, laughing now. And I am, too, cause we joke about everything in my family. You have to. Otherwise you’d be crying too much, I think.

But I wouldn’t mind a guy who doesn’t break my heart, if it’s all the same to you. 

I visited Rosa’s today with some friends. Rosa’s is a wonderful little Italian restaurant around the corner from my parents’ house. It has the best barbecue chicken pizza I’ve ever had. I am a little obsessed with it. Seriously. My friend Christian gets a little frustrated with me about it, because, I have literally arrived back from Japan and he’s all, “Let’s get lunch! On me! I’ll take you anywhere you’d like to go–ANYWHERE.”

I’m all, “Great. Rosa’s, then,” without missing a beat.

And he sighs. Because I think he is expecting me to say something a little fancier or a little less around the corner from where he works. every. day (of the week), or a little–well, not Rosa’s.

But, anyway, I have gained a reputation there for my taste in their pizza. So much so, that they haven’t bothered learning my name. No need, because they have their own for me. Something I realized when I was singing at a bar and the guys from Rosa’s happened to be there, too. They were like, “Barbecue Chicken? We had no idea you could sing like that!”

I was all, Barbecue Chicken? I had no idea you called me that! 

Anyway, today I get a facebook message from Andre, who works at Rosa’s. It says: ‘Barbecue Chicken! Someone posted a video on my wall last week of a girl playing and rapping and singing on the subway–I thought it was great, but only just realized it was you, after you came into the shop today! Way to go, Barbecue Chicken!’

Oh man.

Barbecue Chicken.

I’m kind of honored.

And it could be worse.

My favorite pizza could be extra cheese.

The time goes so quickly; the stars shine with this polished brilliance, like the sky has no wish for any traveler to be turned away, and it burns every last lamp to prove it.

“It’s good to have you home,” my mom tells me.

And then she asks me if the clothes on the pool table are mine. “I don’t think so,” I reply, really hoping it’s so–since I don’t have enough space for the clothes I have that are already accounted for.

“Well, they must be,” she reasons. “The jeans are skinnier than my arms and the underwear is very small and strange.”

My mom has a way with words. 

And so I take the ‘very small and strange’ underwear she hands me; I find a place for the super skinny jeans and realize that I guess I did leave some clothes on the pool table, after all.

And, oh! Did I tell you how, the other night, I dreamt (not once, but TWICE!) that I sang on the Ellen Show?

Because I did.

And I don’t normally remember my dreams so viscerally, but this one, I do.

I was right about to walk onto that stage where the couch and the coffee table sit . And there is Ellen, looking adorable in her tailored trousers and cute button down shirt, when I hear this announcement:

AND THIS IS JESSICA LATSHAW. SHE GOES AROUND SINGING, “BABY, YOU AIN’T MY FRIEND.” SHE MUST BE VERY ISOLATED AND HAVE NO FRIENDS.

It sounded like the announcer felt sorry for me, and, honestly, I did, too, once I heard what he said.

But the good news is that I have many friends and don’t feel isolated at all. In fact, I love a little bit of alone time now and then–it’s akin to breathing–meaning, I find it absolutely necessary. And who knows? Maybe I will sing on the Ellen Show at some point. I mean, as my friend John says: miracles happen, so why not to me? That would certainly make my sister pretty excited. And, who am I kidding, it’d make me pretty excited, too.

Speaking of my sister, isn’t she beautiful?

Yes, I think so, too.

“It’s a recording present…and it has a ukulele on it!”

And look at that–isn’t it so adorable? I am one very lucky girl.

And WE DID IT!

We recorded FOUR SONGS in just under TWO DAYS. And, I must say, I am so excited about these tracks. I keep listening to them. In fact, I went to the gym tonight (yes, I’m the girl who goes to the gym on a Friday night. Romantic, I know)–but, I was in the weight room and listening to this one part of my song that breaks down into a rap. And there’s this rolling snare drum that just makes me SO EXCITED (that’s why I used caps, guys, cause caps are EXCITING!), I cannot help but dance when I hear it. So, I am standing there with one weight in my hand while the rest of me is sort of dancing, when one of the trainers walks up to me.

“What are you listening to that’s making you dance?” he asks.

And for a second, I can’t even hear him, my music is blasting so loud through my earphones. I see that he’s not going to stop asking me whatever it is he’s asking, so I regrettably stop the music and listen to his question.

And am instantly embarrassed and evasive.

“Oh…” I say, scrambling to think of something–ANYTHING!–other than: “Myself. I am listening to myself and it’s making me dance. And, oh yeah. I don’t go on dates on Friday nights–I go to the gym. At least you’re here because you’re getting paid to be here; I cannot say the same about myself…”

Right, so I don’t want to say that, so I say, “Oh…it’s nobody you would know…” and just kind of hope he goes away.

But he keeps standing right in front of me, staring, muscles bulging through his polo shirt, looking like he’s ready to talk to me about whatever it is that’s making me dance —even if it takes all night. Or at least until ten, when the Y closes.

“What kind of answer is that?!” he says, “Come on, what are you listening to?!”

“Uh…myself? I am listening to myself…” I finally admit. “I didn’t want to tell you that I was dancing to my music. That’s kind of embarrassing to be caught doing. I mean, I never thought anyone would ever ask me what was making me dance…”

And then that led to a whole conversation about me being a musician and then another guy came over and, having talked to me at my parents’ Y last time I was in town, asked me if I’ve cut some weight. Cut some weight. Not lost it. Huge body building men have their own language, guys. So I admitted that I might have. “But not on purpose–I’ve just been so busy lately, that I keep forgetting to eat.”

Which, once these guys got over the shock and incredulity of anyone EVER forgetting to eat, of all things, led to us talking about what’s happened since youtube happened to me.

And then I came home and played the tracks for my parents and one of their dogs. Strider seemed to enjoy it. Well, he slept through it, but he seemed to enjoy whenever I scratched his ears–and my tracks were playing when I was doing it–so there’s that. My parents listened to it in a kind of reverie, smiling or moving a little or closing their eyes (but unlike Strider, I am pretty sure they didn’t fall asleep).

My nephew and brother are geniuses in the studio. Their help is immeasurable and I could not do this without them.

Like I said, I am one lucky girl.

That happened today, in fact.

And what a dance it did.

It was so very beguiling, actually, that I left my apartment with bare legs underneath my dress. Which was a good idea for about five minutes. Then, I realized it was kind of still too cold for that kind of nonsense. Luckily, I had grabbed a pair of leggings and shoved them in my bag, anticipating this kind of wardrobe regret.

I was on my way to meet with a lawyer.

(yes, I am suing SO MANY PEOPLE; in fact, I stopped at McDonald’s on the way and intentionally burnt my tongue on their coffee. Cause I am smart and crafty. I am also totally joking. I am not suing a soul, promise; it’s music stuff. I am suing music. For being so awesome. I am still kidding. And still in this parenthetical statement. Until now)

But I was meeting with a lawyer, and I didn’t want to show up looking stupid in my short dress without anything on my legs. Plus: I was cold. So, there I was on 8th Ave, having just come up from the subway, and looking for a place to quickly put my leggings on under my dress.

I didn’t find anything that screamed, COME CHANGE HERE! NOBODY WILL SEE!, so I just decided to slip into those pants as fast as I could on the sidewalk. I am used to such things–quick changes and trying clothes on in the aisles of the Salvation Army, since it has no dressing rooms.

I get it done so fast. Nobody sees a thing. Nobody sees anything inappropriate, anyway. They might see a person putting on pants, but beyond that, it was an innocuous moment that ended with me much warmer and my legs much happier.

I need to get to 5th Avenue, so I ask the first guy I see which direction that is.

“Were you just…changing?” he asks, completely side-stepping my question.

“Uh…yeah, I guess I was,” I answer.

“Cause I just said to myself, ‘There’s a beautiful woman. Changing. On 8th Avenue,” he says, laughing a little.

“Um, thanks for calling me beautiful, and my legs were cold, and I didn’t really change, per se, just added a layer–but do you know which way 5th Avenue is?” I say, ending in my initial question, cause I still don’t know.

“Yeah, I’ll walk you in that direction,” he says, crossing the street with me and pointing me towards 5th Avenue.

He hesitates before he leaves, so I stop, too. “Look,” he says, “I gotta do this–” and he hands me his card. “I’m a fan of you now and I’d really like to have coffee sometime. Call me?”

I laugh as I walk towards 5th Avenue. I realize that I do really strange things sometimes, like (sort of ) change on 8th avenue. Someday I will be closer to normal, I promise. Oh, who am I kidding, no I won’t. Probably not ever.

Because it doesn’t exist.

And it looked like this:

(that’s Wayne Tucker, Biet Simkin, me, and Tom Larsen, from left to right–they are incredible musicians; such a privilege to collaborate with them)

I also met with my publicist today. Yes, this means I have a publicist, which is quite new for me. She took one look at my safety pinned-together purse and was quite taken a back. “We need to correct this situation,” she said. “You cannot just walk around looking like…”

“…a homeless person?” I supplied.

She nodded and I made a mental note to drop my purse off at the leather shop this weekend while I am recording.

I wore three inch heels last night. This makes me 5’11. “You are sooooooooo tall,” said someone in the audience as I walked by them. What’s interesting about that kind of statement is that it’s hard to know how to respond, exactly. You can’t say ‘thank you,’ because it isn’t a compliment. You can’t say ‘so are you,’ because it’s generally a short person who makes that kind of observation. You could say that you are not so tall when compared to most trees, but that would start a conversation that you might not want to have. Plus, there are always bonsai trees–and they totally trump your argument.

I usually just end up agreeing and then trying to move the conversation on.

Oh, and here is a video someone took of us covering ‘I Need a Doctor’ from last night at Sleep No More, if you care to watch.

And that, my friends, concludes this blog post.

I am meeting a new friend who’s visiting from Britain tomorrow morning. We met because she interviewed me for a radio program, and now we’re hanging out. The internet is a crazy and wonderful place sometimes.

It’s moments like these when one wishes they had a typewriter. Preferably by a window. One with wainscoting. I don’t know why wainscoting came to mind, but it did, so I wrote it down. I’ve learned to do that. Write things down that come to mind. The mind is a breeding ground. Little, baby, innocent enough thoughts are born there; they grow up to be Mozart and Martha Graham and Tennyson–shedding so much light on the beauty that already exists here, but now the rest of the world can see it, too; we step out of our present darkness for a brief transcendent moment and we think, It’s so lovely here. So achingly lovely–maybe I’ll stay here forever…But then a bill that is larger than our meager bank account becomes due or a parent makes us feel very small indeed and we forget the call to think higher, to see beauty, to be free.

We forget who we are.

Until the next transcendent moment shakes us from existing within the confines of our regrets and our fears, that is.

But, right, the mind is a breeding ground.

Those little thoughts.

Those harmless thoughts; they are the tiniest grey-blue puppy pit bull with matching grey-blue eyes that I saw chained to a parking meter the other day, while walking to the gym. He was one of the prettiest things I’d ever seen and I wanted to take him with me just about everywhere. ‘Oh, there is that tall and thin girl with the puppy the color of the ocean at dawn,’ is what people would say when they saw us.

But a puppy the color of the ocean at dawn soon becomes a dog who can bite, no matter what color he is. And there is a lot of responsibility that comes with handling that potentially dangerous and lovely creature. You don’t let a dog do whatever he wants, no matter how pretty or innocent he looks; because, eventually, the dog will ruin the world–or at least the fabric of your best drapes.

Drapes and wainscoting; I must have dreamt pure Jane Eyre last night.

I did perform at Sleep No More, which was not a dream, but was so dreamy, it might as well have been. All smoky and speak-easy-like, dimly lit with lots of sparkling pieces of jewelry hanging around the throats and wrists and fingers of women who looked to have stepped right out of 1939.

But back to the mind and how it’s a breeding ground.

The puppy and how it’s innocent until it’s not.

Our thoughts and how they can grow into grace, if we let them.

Unless we don’t.

So, here’s to our thoughts growing up to be Martha Graham, Mozart, and Tennyson. Or maybe even a simple, kind farmer in South Africa that neither of us will ever know, but whose life consistently makes the world a stronger, better, safer place.

And here’s to writing our thoughts down.

Even if we still haven’t opened up both eyes. Because the morning came quickly.  Just as quickly as the night flew by while you spent it singing and rapping and talking and eating and platonically sitting on the laps of a couple of friends you’ve not been lucky enough to see for a while now. Not until last night, and on into this morning, that is.

He had told me that he played the organ and something about the vowel sounds in organ made me think of the word accordion, and so, when I ran into him a little bit later by happenstance, I asked, “Oh! is THAT your accordion, then?”

Looking at the black, rectangular speaker that he was rolling around via dolly, he quietly answered, “It’s actually a speaker.”

I know that. I KNOW that. I know the difference between a speaker and an accordion. Oh, man.

But, that’s not nearly as bad as last night, when I asked a sweet lady the question that I know nobody should ask. Not unless you actually SEE a baby crowning, do you assume a woman is pregnant.

But, what did I do last night? After I played at the Cake Shop, I met a couple who just missed my performance because a cab driver had gotten them lost (and they aren’t from the city). Often, I try to talk to people about themselves; I don’t like all the attention on me, so I will include their lives in the conversation. So I said, “Oh my gosh! And you’re pregnant?!”

“No…I just had a baby…”

What do you say then? JUST KIDDING? You can’t. I ran right on ahead to the congratulations part of the conversation, but still.

I KNOW NOT TO ASSUME THAT.

Just like I KNOW THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN A SPEAKER AND AN ACCORDION.

Now to actually act like I know these things, I suppose.

Oh well, the good (and random) news is that my sheets are clean. And so are my clothes at the moment.

Tomorrow is one of those days that is a bit of a doozy. A good doozy, don’t get me wrong, but a doozy, nonetheless. I have a rehearsal for an industrial gig for TDBank from 6-10 pm (which I am in charge of! Hello, my name is Jessica and I hardly like to be in charge of anything. Except maybe decorating my family’s Christmas tree. And, okay, some baking projects)–and right after that, I have to run on over to Sleep No More’s Story Telling concert in which I am getting all fancified up for in a vintage dress, some fishnets, and heels (thanks for the kicks, Bets!). While there, I will sing some songs–one of them being an eminem song on the ukulele. Another one being Sweet Child of Mine on the uke. And then another in which I get to play the piano (thank goodness!) and am just singing some background vocals (thank goodness again!).

I am actually really excited for it. Collaborating with other musicians–super talented musicians–is like getting to share the wealth. Wealth being music, in this case.

Hopefully, during this doozy of a day I will not say anything extraordinarily ignorant, rude, or stupid.

Here’s hoping.