Self-Fulfilling Prophecy or… ?

… is life really just better after 40!

I ship musical instruments that my friend invented. I call him My Man Marko. We met at Burning Man in 2007. He’s an original psychedelic-trippin’ 60s kid, owned a hip shop here in town and enjoyed his frequent, “altered” trips to San Fran for supplies. He brought the Grateful Dead to Salt Lake for the first time.

Marko makes drums, too, and yesterday he put me to work in that trade. It was one of those lovely first-day-of-almost-Spring afternoons of delicious outdoor freedom, dyeing hides and stringing them taut to accompaniment of squirrels and birds. Marko’s house and yard are a collection of a lifetime of subcultural eye candy, and the music ain’t bad either.

drum(I crocheted mallet drumstick covers, too.)

The best part? Before we began, we went out to lunch and ran into an old buddy of Marko’s, whom I immediately named Wild Bill. Marko introduced me as a singer and Bill conscripted me to perform with his band on Thursday night. “We’re terrible, just terrible,” he beamed.

How could I decline?

Bill asked to record our conversation and told me after we’d begun that we were streaming live.

“Do you think you might have mentioned that, Bill?” I scolded him. “I might have declined an interview, had I the facts!”

“So come hear Christie sing,” he ignored me, “Thursday night at the Millcreek Bar & Grill. She’s wonderful!”

“You might lie to me, Bill,” I snapped, “but don’t you deceive the good people! We’re terrible, just terrible!”

Apparently, at 40 I became a lounge singer.


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