Yesterday’s show was super fun.  Johnny sang multilayered vocoder backing vocals for the first time and people thought he had been doing it for years.  Johnny is just brilliant like that.  He makes everything look effortless.  He had a show of his own tonight but I missed it because I was sleeping off my hangover.  What’s wrong with music clubs?  They think musicians only deserve bottom shelf whiskey?  Ugh.  I had the worst hangover of my life today.  I experienced what it is like to be dumb.  I also remembered that last night I took my pants off onstage and said, "I've been told that this is what I have to do to sell records."

No wonder musicians die young.  We are offered the most dreadful poison to drink night after night.

While I was sleeping off my hangover, I had the most wonderful dream.  I was back at home in Georgia and walking through lush green foliage inside my parents’ house.  I found an old dresser which contained tightly packed rolls of money.  I stuffed my pockets full of money.  Then I went downstairs, where my mother was calling me.  She said I had to get ready to go see a concert.  She had bought me a ticket to see Marc Bolan with Antony and the Johnsons at the country ampitheatre on the 4th of July.  This was particularly odd because the ampitheatre was a place in the North Georgia rainforest where thousands of southern baptist rednecks were gathering for a patriotic holiday, and they all wanted to see Antony, a beautiful transgendered singer.  On my way to the show I started looking at all the money in my pockets.  It wasn’t normal.  There were bills of all kinds, $100s, $20s, $10s, $5s, $1s, and even a $2 and $6 and $777.  Instead of the normal presidents and masonic symbols, the money showed beautiful psychedelic nature scenes in vibrant colors and watercolor portraits of happy brown-skinned people and children and birds.  Each bill was actually a tiny canvas, intricately painted by hand.   I wondered if I could get away with spending it at a store.

I was getting closer to the ampitheatre, and I could hear someone sound-checking a piano.  A very genteel southern woman approached me and offered to lead me to my seat in the VIP section of the concert.  She brought me into a nice, clean, sunny room and made me wait.  I was very impatient because I didn’t want to miss Marc Bolan.  He has been dead for 32 years so he hasn’t performed in a while.  I was very excitedly listening to the distant sound-check now as the room was filling up with people, mostly homosexual men of the southern variety.

“Please,”  I said to the lady, very politely.

“Please let me go in there.”

She smiled at me gently and with a tinkling laugh she said,

“I am your jail warden.”

Then a huge thunderclap rang out and a massive tropical thunderstorm swept over the hills, drowning out the sound of the musicians preparing to play.  I woke up.