It’s the morning after the first show. It was enormously successful, and I’d like to share some of my personal glamorous bits because I do lead and always have led a personally glamorous celebrity existence.
I discovered the maid or the assistant or my butler or my driver had not packed my black onesie that went under my incredible $2-yard-sale black stretchy lace dress I can pull over my head in dirty dressing room bathrooms I have to share with others, the dress I have worn for 2000 incredibly successful shows.
Instead, there was someone’s old black slip. Luckily, I brought my 12-year-old Donna Karan black bathing suit in case there was a hotel pool. I often bring it to dinner, too, in case there’s a restaurant pool. It worked perfectly under the lace and hid most of my tattoos.
To use the bathroom, though, one must take it all off in the stall. Women will comprehend.
In the dark at home on the farm, I had packed very high heels that turned out to be a violent neon pink. Showtime found out they were too big. I made it up the stairs onto the stage with the help of the glorious Danielle Johnson, with whom I sang a song, a stunning Nashville recording artist and writer.
Tons of applause because of her and Michael Arlin, the musical director and devastatingly good piano person. Couldn’t get back down without breaking my neck, so I took the stupid things off and tried to add them to the auction. Didn’t work. Had a shot of gin and a box of pasta.
Mary Porter’s show was her usual genius thing, tons of money was made, all given to her Alzheimer’s charity and then to the hotel to sleep. First, though, packing up everything.
I got behind a counter in some room, took off all the clothes again to save the only decent pair of hose, and finished the night barefooted. I left the shoes on the counter.
As an artist, a creative, a writer, a performer, I am, and my ilk are very sensitive and precious. We have exquisite lives. We must be supported and cherished while we think about the precious things we think about for YOU, the ones who actually work hard and then give us your money.
I mean, we work hard, but not like coal miners. We are effin’ Special. I want you to know that so you can understand my suffering for my art.
Bags and bodies at 11:00 in the lobby. On to Wilmington!!! More later. Love to you all.
