That's What It's All About.

I was home for a week again after my romp in the woods with the Christians.

I broke up with Brian again, because apparently he thought I was kidding the first time? Whatever...

Max and I had an interesting evening at the Nationals game in DC; then again, I think interestingness follows Max wherever he goes. If I wanted to, I could probably write a whole book just on Shit That Happens To Max. After getting our seats upgraded thanks to his inside connections with a team that hasn’t even been around for a whole season, we watched the Nats win and then headed off into the DC night. Max and I and his friend Stephanie ended up at The Grog and Tankard in Georgetown, where we stumbled on a fabulous singer/songwriter. His name was Lizray and he was from South Africa. His voice was so soulful and sad; it seemed to fit perfectly with the atmosphere in the bar, as though someone was creating a soundtrack to the scene.

Looking around, I counted only seven people in the place besides us three and including the bar staff. A couple at the bar was one of those couples you hate to see because you know the guy doesn’t want to be there - his date was a little on the heavy side and perky, just personality everywhere, and he was looking around hoping no one would figure out they were together. He was obviously just waiting around for her to finish drinking so he could take her home and get his Tuesday night, back-of-the-rack booty call over with. I wanted to smack him and tell him what a good thing he was missing out on simply due to his own shallow soul. Three hard-life looking women lined the wall right in front of the stage. They were drunk and kept yelling, "Come on, baby!" to Lizray while he was singing. The bartender was a tall Middle Eastern man with sad eyes. The waitress, or barback, or whatever you want to call her, was a short, squat black lady with a gray afro and a mustache. A full-on mustache. And she spoke like Mush-Mouth from Fat Albert. Her name was Connie. She walked with a labored limp and I came to fall in love with her. I wanted to talk to her more, I wanted to know her story but Max and Steph volunteered me to be the supplemetary entertainment that night.
Lizray asked if anyone knew "Brown-Eyed Girl" and Max yelled out, "Jessica can sing it with you!" Thus began my night of sheer embarrassment.

Okay, for those of you who don’t know, I can sing decently. I had a few offers when I was in LA and even started recording an album. I’m okay at it. And I dabble in guitar. I’m just decent enough that when I’m with friends, they try to pass me off as a pro. And so I got up on stage to harmonize with Lizray on "Brown-Eyed Girl". It was actually really fun - I mean, who doesn’t love to sing, "Sha-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-ti-da"? But then came the moment where we tried to compare notes on what the other knew, and it turned out, not much. Still, he asked me to sing "I’ve Got You, Babe", which I’m embarrassed to say I don’t know, and it sucked. SUCKED.

However, despite the sucking, I still ended up doing 7 songs, four with him and three on my own while he took a break. It was frustrating because the neck of his guitar is smaller than mine and I couldn’t get the chords placed right. Still, everyone was very polite and didn’t boo me. I debuted a song I wrote that had never been played in public. Weird how it takes playing in front of others to make you realize how boring your songs are.... But, through all that, it was still so much fun. I adore that spontaneity. Each time I got up on stage was an exercise in "This is what life is all about."

Jen took me to the National Aquarium in Baltimore on Thursday. Watching all the different fish, the kids running through the exhibits going, "NEMO! DORY!", I thought about the "Evolution is Science Fiction" bumper sticker I had seen. Would God really have gone out of his way to make pirahna? Or electric eels? Or fish with no eyes that live in caves?

We watched the dolphins swim around - one swam upside down all around the tank and then came right up to me against the glass. We had an incredible time - there’s nothing like hanging out with one of your best friends to make you almost miss home.

That night we went to a bar called Cheesesteak Mike’s on the edge of DC. Brian was supposed to meet us there but, as usual, he flaked, leaving Jen and I to our own devices. We ended up deep in conversation with a Native American man at the bar. He had long hair tied into an intricate braid and a turquoise necklace. He looked a little out of place in Langley Park.

"When you toss in your sleep, that’s your spirit trying to escape, but your physical body won’t let it out. That’s them fighting," he said.
He also told us, "I have dreams. Dreams where I can see what will happen to the earth. The end has already begun, we just can’t see it yet." He had a slow, methodic way of speaking, but would interrupt himself with a deep laugh every now and then just to break the mood, since Jen and I were hanging on every word like it was a horrifying news break.
"What do you see?" I asked.
"A world once we run out of gasoline. Cars lined up as far as the eye can see. Can’t use ‘em anymore. HAHAHAHAHAHA. HA. Ha."
Jen and I gave him the ghost story wide eyes.
"Beachfront property in Nevada. California split off after an earthquake. Lots of people dead. HAHAHAHAHAHAHA.......ha."
Our jaws were on the bar.
"Yeah, pretty much just cars lined up all along the road and junked. Rusty. People livin’ in ‘em. Lots of poor people. ‘Cause when you think about it, that’s how every empire fell. Rome. Babylon. You remember. HAHAHAHAHA."
"When is this gonna happen?"
"The next thirty years or so."
I ordered another beer. Jen and I tried not to think about our unborn children.

A few days later, sitting at Denny’s at midnight on a Monday, trying not to think about that four-page letter I put in Brian’s mailbox outlining Why We Shouldn’t Be Together, Jen ordered an All-American Slam, but hold the eggs.
"Hold the eggs?" the waitress asked. "But that’s what it’s all about."
"Well, I don’t really want eggs," Jen said. "I just want everything else that comes with it."
"But that’s what it’s all about," was the waitress’ answer.
"Well, can I get it without...the... eggs?" Jen asked.
"But that’s what it’s all about."
"But I’m not going to eat them."
"Well, that’s what it’s all about," said the waitress.
"Fine! Fine, bring the eggs. Jess, will you eat the eggs?"
"That’s what it’s all about, apparently!" I said, shrugging.
The waitress walked away, leaving a very annoyed Jen.
"It’s not the f*cking hokey-pokey! I don’t know when eggs became what it’s all about!" she cried.
I tried to comfort her. "I’m sorry, it’s my fault. I stuck my right hand in and my right hand out when I was ordering. I also shook it all about. And turned myself around."
"Well, that’s what it’s all about!" we exclaimed together.

So I ate the eggs. With my mini-burgers. And fries. And cake. Hey, it was a break-up night. I think women are allowed to consume whatever they want on nights where they break up with their boyfriends and realize that they only have another ten years of child-bearing left in them but have never been able to maintain a relationship longer than a year so what makes them think they’ll be able to make a marriage work assuming they can find somebody they actually want to marry who wants to marry them back. Oh, I also had coffee.

A couple nights I was home I waited tables at Red Hot and Blue, for old time’s sake (read: cash) and had a family at Table 12 that cracked me up. I could tell right away that the father was from New York City, it turns out Bensonhurst, Brooklyn. My accent quickly coming back in the presence of a fellow New Yorker, I asked his pre-teen son what his favorite "pawt" of the city was. His answer?
"I like Rite-Aid a lot."
I looked at his dad. "Rite-Aid?"
The father smiled. "It’s Rite-Aid in Brooklyn."
‘Nuff said.