The moon is a mirror reflecting my face.

Had such a magical blast doing my fun and horrific new show 52 Man Pickup last night. Sitting on stage and being like. This is it. This is what I do. I get on stage and do weird things in front of people. Sometimes I am lucky enough to get other people to join me in doing it. And then I want celebration, before the eventual wind down. Me in bed, thinking, "Wait, what did I say? Wow. I did that. In front of people." And then I cringe, jolt, and as hilarious comedian and friend Katina Corrao would say, "want to kill myself a little." And the aftershocks are like orgasms that prevent me both from sleeping and from getting off in any way (so, like, bizzarro orgasms) to relieve anything whatsoever. And yet there is the distinct memory of praise and adulation from all those that came. Both during and after performance. And yet I think. I have led them astray. That is not the real me at all. And in a way they know the real me better than I, if only because no one will ever know the me that I think I know, and her existence (and sometimes actions) are always questionable.

Nostalgia is a sepia toned bitch, and sometimes she lingers on your tongue like a honeyed liquor. Long after the bite there is the sweetening of the gash. I sat, after a cliche NY dinner stop at VNYL, at McCoy's Pub on 9th Ave. Somehow after gigs in that neighborhood I always wind up there. It's low maintenance in price and atmosphere and is always comfortable somehow. I was telling Kyle, Sarah S. and Crystal C. about a taste I was having that wouldn't go away. Wanting adventure. Being pumped from my show and wanting the night to continue, for the buzz to be deeper even though my stomach was locking over the booze without food situation. Wanting something quintessential NYC and wonderful to happen. Surprise or something. I don't know. I guess I just wanted to get drunk and party like I used to and feel under the spell of something. The moon has been waxing to burst so I suppose it was just my hairs raising.

And then, a jukebox I have passed before played a song that has eluded me for almost 10 years.

It's Joe Jackson's "Steppin' Out," and I know that now, because the bartender suggested I walk over to the jukebox and look at the number to find out. I guess I was still in shock from the fact that I was as close to knowing the name of this song as I have ever been, and that its name had evaded me like that of a gold spinning gnome for nearly a decade while someone, in this bar, knew what that name was. Plus, staff generally know the same 100 songs that get played off the same 70 discs in their jukebox rotation.

Every time I walk into a drugstore, or flip past a radio station. Like once a year, or every other year, this song will be playing. I will catch the last minute of it, or worse, have to suffer through all of it; enjoying it's intoxicating upbeat melody and mewling over the words, picking out a few here and there, but never enough in all of my internet searches to figure out the name of the goddamned thing, and then wait. Wait for a DJ to say, "That's 'Myah Myah, Steppin' Out' by Boogleboggle" or whatever. Wait for the semi competent person behind the counter at Burritoville to tell me what 80s compilation it's on. Trying to find my next guide to the answer. But they always fail me.

Well unnamed Irish bartender at Irish Pub has succeeded. I owe a debt of gratitude and a nostalgic kneel to the great nation of Ireland and the serving of alcoholic beverages forever now. I can cross that off my list of things to do in life now. And download it onto my mp3 player now, so I can get sick of it like all the rest of my music.