this monday at the hideout
How much do I have to do for you people? I've jumped into standing pools of water, knocked teeth out, broken noses with flying shoes, held high F# for 20 seconds, rapped freestyle, taken off my pants, fiddled, memorized dozens of pages of single-spaced text for a one-time-only performance, picked up and down as fast as possible, and turned my private affairs into jokes at the risk of permanently alienating everyone I love just to get a chuckle from you. Now I'm cooking food on stage to put into your mouth, reading fine literature in a plummy Cambridge accent, and singing trashy 1980s popular music like it's the last thing I'll ever sing. All while looking like a dazed slob next to the always-composed and fashionably attired Freda Love Smith. It would be horribly unfair of you not to come, for there is manifestly nothing I would not do for you, 90 of you.