Stand in the place were you live

Saturday night.

The inaugural performance to kick into full scale promotion mode.

It was as terrible and as fantastic as anyone could have hoped.

I won't bore you with the terrible stuff, cause the only way to get good at something is to be bad at it first. Nobody clocks out from their day job and then walks onto the stage that night a rockstar. And anyone who reads this regularly knows that failure is my best friend.

and wine.

wine's my second best friend.

And Joann.

She's like best friend 1.4

Cause she's always there for me when failure calls it quits for the night, and, most importantly,  she's nice enough to point out when he hasn't left the room yet.

It's inspiring to crash a little bit.

If crashing wasn't the key metric of success then NASCAR wouldn't have any fans and skateboarding would be an acceptable mode of transportation past the age of fourteen.

But what was really amazing was the volumes I learned about myself, my music, my ability, and my shtick.

No, I wasn't perfect, or even all that great, but it's like doing sit ups for the first time after years of double cheese burgers and IPAs. Can't see my toes quite yet, but I know they're there, and I know we'll meet again.

Halfway through the show, Joann who freely admits to being unskilled in the social media sphere, posted a picture on her Facebook, and got "Likes" for the first time. Couple more of those and she's gonna be such a crack addict.

I think we got some video footage of one of the songs off the new album which I'll post on the website if it doesn't make me look too bald and pasty.

Speaking of bald and pasty, it did occur to me that if I'm gonna make a go of this, I got to work on my look a little more feverishly. Fashion has never been an area of which I have had any real interest except to sneeringly mock for its frivolity.

Oh how tables turn.

I've always been a vain man, but I've never given the cut of my shirt or the color of my hair or the size of my second chin more than an inkling of my attention. When I started playing in my teens, it was the grunge age, style was unstyle, boys were lumber jacks and girls dressed like troll dolls. It was all flannel and army surplus jackets. When I was an actor, (and I really don't mean to make this sound the way its going to sound), but I had other people for the hair, costuming and make-up. And when I wasn't performing it was a T-Shirt and jeans, or a T-Shirt and sweat pants. And in my working life, I wear an apron nine hours a day. Nobody cares about my hair unless they find it in their food.

But now I have to care.

I have to start looking like the kind of person that radiates professional showmanship.

My wife suggested that I wear jeans, and undershirt and an open button up shirt, so I put something like that on and then walked out into the living room:

"Too gay, or not gay enough?" I said.

"Too gay." she replied. "Just put on something comfortable."

See, that's the problem right there. I got comfortable clothes. Cotton shorts and a grey Tshirt and I'm set for the weekend. But when I'm forced to think about it, I have no idea what Wait . . . Dad? is supposed to look like.

Somebody mentioned wearing a hat, but it makes my balls sweat just thinking about how uncomfortably damp hats are.

And do I wear a ball cap like a sports guy? Could I get away with an ironic trucker hat like the guy from 30 Rock, or an actual trucker hat like those skaters dudes or actual truckers? Fedoras are out of the question unless I'm Indiana Jones or a reporter, or really anyone in a trench coat. And those mini fedora like hats are reserved exclusively for the kind of douche-bags who can either embrace the ridiculous image (Bruno Mars anyone) or totally unaware of their douche bag status.

(Side note: My best friend wears these on occasion, and absolutely PULLS IT OFF, so he doesn't in any way fit this joke, but he is the only one, ever)

I'm too short for a top hat, too Californian for a cabbie, too secular for a yamaka, too straight for a beret.

So I'm pretty sure hats are out.

But the pasty balding guy thing isn't that sexy.

Unless . . .

One could go for that late nineties Michael Stipe or death-bed Steve Jobs look, but that means eating a lot of lettuce and i don't think they make faux turtle necks anymore.

Then there's the rough Bruce Willis - Jason Statham look. But I would need a million mile stare, and frankly no one wants to see those two break out in song.

Sting is a possibility. Military short, clean lines, always that healthy glow as if he has only just returned from hot yoga or tantric sex.

Gonna need to blacken my wardrobe a bit. Splash some water on my face. Discover a fondness for tofu and kelp, but its definitely doable.

However the look turns, I'm gonna have to get me one of those.

And I better get to it before Joann discovers Instagram.

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