Gig One: Bitch Franklin will Charm You

Driving into the fog of the city, and all my little childhood fantasies are about to come true.  Bundle of contradictions in the passenger's seat, my palms are sweating and the pit of my stomach is a of swirl nerves and the taco plate from La Hacienda.  I'm anxious.  I'm excited.  I'm a little tired.  I'm singing a silly song from a movie I used to watch as a kid in a slightly hysterical manner.  Mark calmly navigates the PT Cruiser (aka the Bitch Mobile) through commuter traffic.  He's been playing gigs since I was in junior high school, so he thinks my nerves are funny.

But you don't understand.  I don't have the best track record ever.  When I was younger, I loved being the center of attention.  I made up little songs, commandeered sisters, cousins and friends into various dance and lip-synching routines.  I played a singing mouse in a church musical, dreamed of being a world-famous singer.  Preferably, one with long blond hair and even longer legs.  But, le sigh, it was not to be (especially the legs and the hair).  High on my own little ego, I decided I was going to sing at my eighth grade graduation. I was so sure I'd be amazing I didn't bother to practice....or even give it much thought until the very last minute.  We don't need to re-hash the whole gory thing, but the back-up music was in the wrong key.  Children stuck their fingers in their ears.  Most of the boys in my class had to be bribed not to burst out laughing.  It was an epic fail, the kind that makes me glad YouTube did not yet exist.  There is a VHS tape festering out there somewhere; I have never even seen it.  I am positive that I never want to.  I would like to have it destroyed in a ritualistic manner, but I think it's being held for future extortion opportunities.  After that, I never sang in public again.  (not even in front of Mark).

These are the thoughts as we pull up to Cafe Royale on Post Street.  I try to swallow them with a few glasses of champagne, and the attempt is a relative success.  Pink-cheeked and slightly buzzed, my knees are kind of weak, and I'm really glad some of our friends made it out.  Suddenly it's our turn, and suddenly we are standing in front of a bright red curtain.  We are Bitch Franklin, and the lights are bright.  Since there is no turning back, might as well enjoy it.  I look at Mark, I look a the ground, I look at the faces in the dark.  He lifts up the guitar, and here we go.

I had a fucking awesome time.  My nerves mostly vanished in the lights and champagne, and it sure beat the hell out of my Eighth Grade Grad performance.  And what's cuter than a girl with a ponytail and a chirpy voice, singing about love, umbrellas, and clutching a semi-automatic weapon? Especially when she's standing next to the man she's gonna marry,  a long-time rocker with dreadlocks an acoustic guitar, and some pretty sweet harmonies.

Bitch Franklin will charm you. ;) 

-Sierra