So. Spain. It looks like I’m really going to get to go, though my tactic is to expect it all to fall through — right up until my toes touch Spanish soil. I think this is one of those times where the disappointment of Something Going Wrong would be far too horrible to contemplate.
Today I added a minute or two to my fifteen minutes. So far, I think I’m up to about nine minutes. There was the time when I was seven-years-old that I was on the front page of the local (Richardson, TX) daily news. I think it was some sort of puppet show thing at my after school care. My buddy Kevin was in the photo with me, so we each get two and a half minutes for that. (That newspaper may be in my mom’s photo drawer. . . I’m not sure.)
Nearly ten years later, I passed out while in the very front and center row of a Howard Jones concert. I was carried by the bouncer guy high up in the air in front of the whole Concord Pavillion. I totally made eye contact with Mr. Jones, and then passed out again. Later we waited by his tour bus and got to meet him. That’s all worth thirty seconds.
On second thought, take away fifteen seconds for the stupid scrubs. I have so many, many cringeworthy memories.
I racked up a few minutes as a go-go dancer. That was forever ago, too. Proof:
I danced with a band called A Western Front. They played shows all over the place. This one time, I danced by myself in a cage made of PVC pipes in a college bar in San Luis Obispo. I had a little riding crop kind of whip thing with raw hot dogs tied to the end that I whipped into the audience.
I know! But there was a good reason. Really. Have you ever been to the mall and seen a place called Hot Dog On A Stick? Take a closer look at my go-go outfit, and you’ll see that it’s an interpretation of that uniform. The reason for that has to do with one of the band’s songs, a wholly inappropriate number about the (very young) girls who work at Hot Dog On A Stick entitled, Pump the Lemon Barrel. My friend BB on the left, she and I were lemon barrel girls. We were in one of their videos that was *this close* to getting airplay on MTv. Anyhow, hot dog on a whip was f u n n y at the time.
Oh, and this one time, we opened for (or more accurately, shared a gig with) the Gin Blossoms. (Hey Jealousy. . . ring any early 90’s bells for you?) They thought we were awesome (we totally were, by the way) and asked me and BB (probably, it was all about BB — she’s got those freaky supermodel genes) to dance with them. We said no. We were too loyal to the boys in our own band to dance with anyone else. That next weekend the Gin Blossoms were on Letterman.
Four minutes sound right? Plus back the fifteen seconds — taken away for the scrubs — for the whole caged-in-front-of-hundreds-of-frat-boys experience.
Okay. This brings me to today. Today I went to my friend Matt’s house and recorded vocals (good lord help us all) for a song he’s putting together for this contest sort of thing. I think I’ll count today as a minute, and totally add more if anything comes of it.
So, 2.5+.5-.25+4+.25+1+1= 9
Know what is freaky? I just guessed nine up at the top there, totally didn’t pay any attention to the numbers I assigned to anything, and it all added up to nine.
Tell me about your fifteen minutes (or less) of fame. Cause now I’m feeling a little ridiculous.