Feeling: musical
Listening to: humming Blue Skies
Reading/Watching: homework

For some reason, against my will, things just went well today.

After choir, Capt. Dan held me back from leaving and asked if we could rehearse the solo for tomorrow's concert, which we've run through exactly once.

It was funny, the way he and I can be on the same wavelength at times. Our second rehearsal of the song, and it was perfect. I felt his tempo in my toes, did silly ornaments on random notes, while he played and nodded emphatically, his hair flopping like a shaggy dog. He wants me to keep the ornamentation, since it suits the period. And now, instead of worrying that we should cut the song from the concert for lack of rehearsal, he's now convinced that I should take up a career in Baroque singing. 'Cause, you know. There's such a market for that.

At five p.m. the jazz combo did our first paid performance for some convention at the museum. We were dinner music, playing on a little stage while people chatted and ate catered food. The centerpieces on the tables were huge floppy sombreros, their brims filled with corn chips, the crown of the hat inverted to hold a bowl of salsa. It was so cheesy, it was cute. And we ran through nearly two hours of songs, improvising our set order as we went.

I sang Come Rain or Come Shine, Paper Moon, When Sunny Gets Blue, and Blue Skies. People actually listened, sometimes. A few even finished eating and stuck around, sitting with their chairs turned away from the tables, watching us play and tapping their feet. Some songs garnered scattered applause. It's the most lukewarm audience I've ever had, but somehow I was more thrilled with it than any other, since the point of their evening was the museum, and the food, and the company, not the music. But they stayed for the music.

After everyone left and we'd broken down the set, we were told we could stay and eat, so naturally, being college students, the appeal of free food was too good to pass up. Especially since five of our group of seven were boys. Boys never pass on free food.

We sat in a circle, discussing the idea of recording some of our songs for fun, and eating chips from a sombrero, peeking at each person's plate and asking, "Where'd you get that?" "Behind the Native American display; they had shrimp and fruit and stuff." "Cool, I'll go there next."

Some of the waiters were clustered around a leftover tray of margaritas, and beckoned me over, calling me Red, asking if I wanted some. It's very weird to be called Red. I've had many nicknames, but oddly enough, that was never one of them.

Our paycheck was handed to us before we left, to be divided between us. The boys were celebrating, saying, "Cool, fifty bucks each!" until I had to spoil the fun.

"Um, guys, there are seven of us."

"Nuh-uh, there's three horns, drums, piano, and bass, who are we missing?"

"...Me, maybe?"

"Oh. Right."

So it divides into exactly forty-two dollars and eighty-six cents each. I grinned, because it's the lowest hourly rate I'd ever gotten for singing (how spoiled am I?!), but I was still thrilled. And I got home already thinking of ways that $42.86 could come in handy.

I also realized that the choir concert is tomorrow, and I have a solo, and I've not asked anyone to come to it. I'm too careful about trying not to push people into it if they don't want to go, so I make it sound like I don't care. Stupid philosophy.

So I want you to go. All of you. 7:30, recital hall. It'll be pretty.

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