Chutes & Ladders
Last night turned into an early morning.
Past velvet ropes. In through doors marked 'Private'. Down long, dark, dank hallways. Through a restaurant's kitchen. Even descending a metal ladder into an underground bunker.
Which places me backstage with Josie and her Pussycats 'round 3 a.m. This isn't my usual scene, but I'm down for the ride.
Maybe it was the tequila or the funny smelling smoke wafting from the audience, however, I am quite certain I saw a glimpse of a nearly nude woman galloping across a dimly lit stage grinding an extra large loaf of French bread covered in shellac (the bread, not the girl). At the end of her performance, several pieces of bologna were hurled into the audience from a tattoed arm peeking out from behind a tattered blue velvet curtain.
Or maybe not.
No, I think I'm right. Am I?
Wait just a moment, dear friends. My head is thumping wildly. I do believe my heart wants to exit my cranium.
There we go.
Where was I?
Next up: a buxom brunette who gyrated on a step ladder wearing two plastic fish over her lady bits; two googly eyes from a muppet adorned her breasts. I don't remember her song.
After this, it's a bit of a blur.
So it is then.
I hereby mark my 200th with beautiful Josie tipping her refreshing post-perfomance, electrolyte-balancing beverage in celebration.