Murderistic Daddy

It might take a little more time. Even you, dear diary, don't know the half. Or a tenth. What is it about confession that makes me uneasy? It's not as if nobody knows. People do. The other players in the scenes, for example.

I had a secret. Or maybe I was a secret. Either way, this secret would take me out of my life and convince me of other worlds. A stronger hand than I'm used to, a snarl instead of a sigh. I never did these things with a clear head and that somehow justified it to my other self. Well, fuck my other self. My other self doesn't get that much satisfaction. He does what he's supposed to do, when he's supposed to do it and doesn't miss a beat. I'm getting off the point. Maybe getting off on the point.

My secret found out that he wasn't the only secret. I never made promises. But it got messy. Messier than usual. I still can't tell who won that fight, but the suspicion is that we both did. Or maybe we both lost.

I can't just blurt it out, can I?

The music's the motion, everything else is up in the air. Like me, for example. High and detached. Do I sew myself to someone else? Who'd take that kind of pain?

This is a quiet moment, but it won't last. Everybody's taking five in rehearsals, but there are still people flitting around like speed freak butterflies.

Zelig must be in a good mood because he went on a hiring spree. He's got more trainee waiters and waitresses than he has patrons. Well, that's not strictly true, but the ratio is a little off. He says he wants everybody to feel well served. He's got the girls all dolled up in things just large enough to cover their underwear, but not completely. The gators are sporting a series of straps that still show the better part of their upper anatomy, and high rise trousers. I feel like I'm in one long dress rehearsal.

Now, diary, you know I've got callouses on my fingers to beat the band, but the manic Mr. Alexander has us practicing new numbers constantly and I can't even ... butter my bread without it smarting. It's been nothing but work, but I'm the kind of cat that loves his job, so it ain't really a thing.

Shadowman says he wants to change our name from the Creepers to Mad Dogs and Englishman. So I guess Bebe's mad, he's the dog and I'm the Englishman. The bandy legged git. I told him nothing doing, the public knows the Creepers and the Creepers we're going to stay.

All work and no play. Story of my life. Somebody needs to bring me an apple brown betty.

Break's over.

Malcolm
Jerome
Cael
Eddie

Woke up to the sound of that scary gate Shadowman blaring the Django. A swell tune, but I only layed down to cop some cups 5 hours ago. But I'm up now. Zombie jazzman. Flynn's having a shave, no sleep, and we're heading down to the Harlequin for some joe.

I made a light comment about getting the Creepers on for more than three nights a week at the club, but I think Zelig took it to heart. Good stuff, but I think Flynn might kill me. He's got things to do, he says. He's always got things to do, the low down gangster. Sometimes I think I better line my bass with a lead plate.

Good times brewing, it's in the air. Vodeville's coming into its own. Let's hope the Creepers can ride it high. National? International? Someday, Louis will beg us to blow alongside us.

Gotta trilly.