Someone once said that April is the cruelest month. I think it was Engelbert Humperdinck. Or Elmo. Some guy whose name starts with “E”.
But who said it isn’t important. What’s important is, that asshole was wrong. April is not the cruelest month. March is.
Chalk it up to global warming, which has shifted everything earlier in the calendar. Or maybe it’s because I live in New Orleans, where spring fever has always kicked in around the middle of February. Whatever the reason, March seems to be when everyone and her grandmother get a little stir crazy and start planning concerts and festivals and quilting bees.
I am not ready for this. As much as I hate the cold, I would rather endure a few more months of winter, which might encourage folks to stay quietly bundled up in their living rooms, toasting their asses beside antiquated space heaters, their metabolisms and levels of enthusiasm running low. I am not ready for being social just yet.
But like Lindsay Lohan strung out on coke, cruising down Santa Monica Boulevard in a Porsche 911 Turbo S at 2:00am on a Tuesday morning, time stops for no man. And so, I’m going with the flow. I have no choice.
Which is my way of saying that we have a show next weekend. Won’t you please join us? It’s going to be fabulous and raunchy, with dirty jokes and striptease and talk of titties. Yes: TITTIES. We’re really stretching ourselves. We’re breaking new ground.
See you there.