Part 1: This is love.
Kevin (the bass player for The Wall) brought in a huge bag of veggies from his garden -- green peppers, red peppers, teeny yellow tomatoes, fat beefsteak-looking tomatoes, a few romas. After everyone had taken what they wanted, I grabbed the remainder of the bag so I could make a batch of salsa. There was one pepper I had never seen before... it was small and round, and the most perfect red I had ever seen-- it should have been the model pepper in the botany books it was so beautiful. I asked Kevin what it was, and he said it was an Italian Hot Pepper (or something like that). I asked him how hot it was and he said, "Hotter than a jalapeno, but not like a habanero." Sounded yummy.
Last night after midnight I got inspired to make salsa... I was cutting up his veggies for over an hour. I got to the little red pepper and cut a teeeeeny sliver off it just to test the heat; I didn't want to overpower the salsa by adding too much. Dude, that f-er was HOT, and my mouth burned and tingled until at least 4am when I went to bed. Multiple washings with soap + water and attempts at neutralization with various kitchen remedies all failed. At one point I wondered if any blisters were raised. No biggie, I'm a big girl.
Anyway, as I normally do when making salsa, I did micro-slice my thumb while maneuvering around a teeny tomato... I suffered no more than a papercut and it didn't even bleed. However... some of that pepper juice must have found its way into the cut in the middle of the night, because my thumb is on fire this morning. It looks absolutely normal, but I feel like I have a glowing ember smoldering on the pad of my thumb. I guess this is what pepper spray is all about. (Memo to self: do not become a mugger.)
This reminds me of the story my friend (no names, yo) told me:
One night my newlywed friends prepared dinner, and she made a fresh salad using the fresh veggies her mom provided from her garden that day. One of the veggies was this pepper of death, which they didn't know was a pepper of death-- they thought it was a sweet pepper so it was liberally applied to the salad. They took one bite of the salad and screamed for mercy from the heat, so they picked off the remaining pepper bits and tried to enjoy the rest of their dinner, though their lips and their tongues were really hurting. A few hours later, she and her husband were sitting on the couch watching TV in a very typical position... when suddenly her husband turned white as a sheet, and started panting, screaming and crying and eventually vomiting... apparently, her husband didn't wash his hands after picking off the peppers, and then he scratched his nards while watching TV. He said that he has never known pain like this.
Definition of love: scrubbing the capsaicin off your crying/puking husband's nutsack. I'm willing to bet when she heard the words "in sickness and in health" just a few weeks prior, that image did not come to mind. ;-)
Part Two: The backup singers need something to do during The Wall's long jams
During the huge and way-cool playout of Another Brick in the Wall (Part One) last night, we backup singers realized that we need something cool to do. I mean, you can only sway like a Robert Palmer girl for so long. Steve We suggested that we smoke-- I mean, what better way to look like a rocker while doing something with your hands? Besides, the lazors will look so much more rad with a veil of smoke in the air. So what if I don't smoke? Who cares that I'm a vocalist? This is art, and I will suffer for my craft. Besides, if it's good enough for two Westminster Choir College graduates, then surely it's good enough for a Montclair State jerseygirl like me.
Of course, this is Delaware, and you can't smoke indoors in this state without a pardon from the Pope. In every other case I love this law with every molecule of my being. But yo, when I'm trying to get my rock on, it doesn't work so good for me. So Steve Weatherman and I drafted this letter to the Governor.
To the Honorable RuthAnn Minner:
Since the implementation of the Delaware smoking ban, it has come to my attention that smoking is also not allowed in performing venues, even if it is to be used for the purpose of artistic expression.
Ruth, honey, babe, kitten... you're cramping my artistic style. You're not allowing me to rock.
Hearken back to that checkered past when you were a young, brazen tart: surely you've thrown back a bottle of Thunderbird and had a few unfiltered Luckies with your amigos. Recall the curls of cigarette smoke carrying Hendrix' hott guitar lixx into the air...
With these sweet memories in your mind, surely you can see the artistic necessity for allowing us to smoke during our production of The Wall at the Wilmington Drama League. It's a fund raiser, and people won't give us money if we don't look like badasses (and black skullrags alone do not a badass make). Didn't Lao Tsu say: The only true path to rocking hard is by having a smoke. Who are we to argue?
So for the good of the arts in Delaware, could you please give us permission to ROCK?
Fuckin' A and warmest sincere thanks,
Jill and Steve
|Fortune Teller Miracle Fish today tells me that I am: somewhere between In Love and Indifferent. Yeah, yeah.|