My body may be back in Idyllwild..tres fatigue….but I’m still waiting for fragments of me to catch-up,.  We may be able to fly hundreds of miles and time travel courteousy of big white fibreglass birds in the sky, but I wonder whether part of us stubbornly takes the long route back….dragging its heels.  I think I’m nearly all back in one piece. ….just about.  Three days since my return and after a night barren of Zzz’s, exhaustion performed a double negative and rattled me from my dormancy.  I straddled the groove, looked around a la meerkat, ready to open up my experience again.  Good.  Good good.

I’ve days left, just a tiny bit in excess of a two-hand count…until I fly to the UK.  A compelling enough reason to stop dwelling on crap that doesn’t matter (lack of sleep and a head full of sinus cold) and get my inner giggle back.  Appreciate.  LOOK around me.  I guess I was having a bijou hissy fit that I had to leave San Francisco.  The last weekend there was full.  FULL. 

A friend I’d met dancing, invited me to a club on Saturday to see a comedy thing she’d been to before. Her description of its excellence was that it made her ‘want to be institutionalised’.  Well, that would intrigue the most introverted and lacklustre of souls! I booked a ticket straight away.

Mortified. A stage confessional and cringe-worthy divulgence of childhood experience…scribed in journals and read out loud by their adult selves.  Brilliant.  

a past contestant of voluntary stage catharsis..wincing with shame


Six willing and, perhaps, slightly unhinged, individuals stood beside their blown up, school photo’s, projected onto a screen.  What followed was two hours of laughing so hard I was nearly sick.  One guy shared the scribing of his 13yr old self and his obsession with Barbara Streisand.  He wrote about his Dad’s comments and hindsight gave us the full picture of how his father was praying his son had a crush on the legendary singer.  Weekend, after weekend, his dad patiently waited in the car whilst his son sat on the floor of thrift stores and open garage sales, flicking through dusty magazines desperate to uncover a picture of his idol.  But didn’t harbour lusty thoughts of frantic sex with dear Barb…more wanted to be her.  A girl from Hollywood admitted to her insane and misdirected yearnings for a man on a rape trial who she thought was ‘so damn cute he just has to get acquitted’!  The audience collectively groaned in horror and clutched their heads, (why do we do that, do we get so shocked we think are brains will flop out of our heads and writhe on the floor?!) as she recalled being a rather ‘sick’ teenager.  A, newly engaged, victim (self impossed….that’s not victim of being engaged BTW..though I didn’t meet his fiancée…) to the stage shared his ‘dear diary’ scribblings and the imaginary letters to his baseball hero.  He was a lonely fat kid (his description).  His musings always started with, ‘went to school…it was ok’, and ended with ‘score for the day…4 and three-quarter stars), all hell could be breaking loose, fantastical events in his life could be bubbling over and his only bounce from the monotone, monotony was ‘and mum took us to KFC and we had 5 pieces of chicken and it was AWESOME’, …..the rating remained the same.  A waif of a woman in a black felt hat, stepped up to read out a chapter her first novel, written at age 11 and half (the half is most important); a pornographic romance. Told with the vocabulary of a girl who’d picked up snippets of language from Hollywood movies, with questionable audience age ratings, and overheard phrases, she used again and again….  The entire club was in fits!  An ironic eyebrow, glanced at the 6ft photo of her innocent, peach-plump face was almost too much to cope with.  My friend Elina was laughing so hard I was nearly contemplating putting out an emergency request for a brown paper bag before she hyperventilated.  To top it all..OMG, a five piece rap band.  The Freeze (with a twisle haired blonde guy..with a touch of the Justin Timberlake about him.  More eye candy than a Jelly bean factory!) got up, having only heard each story in that moment, along with us, and rapped the crap out of them.  Genius…total and utter frickin genius.  I was in awe.  I LOVE men with lots of healthy grey matter!  I’m telling you, the rapping nearly tipped us all over the edge!  My only hope is for my retelling to not be a poor demonstration of how stuff can get seriously lost in translation! Maybe you needed to be there?!

My visit down 24th St in the Mission to Lunada, an open mike symposium delivered by local Chicano’s, paled into insignificance…my hilarity metre was stretched to white, flailing around in the wind.  Without Mortified, I’d have rated it well; the poetry was raw, twisted, ironic and delivered with subtle brilliance…   As it was…post Mortified..I gave it….. 4 & three-quarter stars!  Can you have too much of a good thing?!  Last night’s party, underneath the thin floor of my bedroom, that went on, way, way, way, way…..WAY past the ending of my own evenings pleasantry’s, would conclude the affirmative…to me anyway (I know..bloody kiljoy!).  But, thankfully, time dissipates the puffy eyes and the grit deposited under eyelids by ‘party fairies’..mean cousins of the ‘tooth fairies’…. and the rushing mountain air restores the sluggish body before too long.

So now.  Come what may…


About indialeigh

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2 Responses to MORTIFIED

  1. Chris says:

    You are a MAGNIFICENT writer! Hope you get some sleep tonight.

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