If you missed last night’s performance at Chop Suey…I am very, very sorry.

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(Thanks to Stephen for taking this on-stage photo)

It was almost too much–ALMOST, not quite. For the first time in a long time, I felt the brush of stardom. The build up to the show had been buzzing within the Seattle community for a long time. Our posters stared back at me every time I stood near a telephone pole at any Capitol Hill intersection. The Weekly posted a huge picture and boasted about our sexy costumes. Pictures from our press shoot were circulating all over the internet, from facebook to myspace and back again. People started feeling pressured–no, scratch that, OBLIGATED–to come to the show. Chop Suey was a big venue, a rock star venue for musicians, benefits, and crazy gong shows.

We labored for months, many of having reached our one year anniversary as a Freedom Dancer recently, the core group of performers made room for a 7 piece band, a d-jay, and an improv troupe that specializes in video. We squeezed into a hideously tiny dressing room, our stuff sitting on top of mic stands and instrument cases. Weird people came in and out and little paper signs everywhere were posted warning us not to keep the back door open at any cost. The dancers changed their costumes, their underwear, their clothes constantly while shouting, “Close the door! Close the door!” (There’s only so much muff you can show in the name of the stage before anxiety kicks in). Everyone lost something at some point, although everything was eventually recovered. (With the exception of my jazz shoe). The enormous and friendly drummer sat on the only couch in the green room. We were using it as a place to put our costumes and I watched in sinking horror as all my clothes sank into the deep recesses of the couch. Later, I narrowly averted a hissy fit thanks to Lieta and Abigail, as I searched in vain for my black and blue tights. They had fallen into hard-to-reach spot between the back of the wall and the couch. I found them just in time–I don’t get nervous before shows but my fuse does get shorter.

The audience stood on top of tables, booths, and chairs to see the stage. They crammed inside the venue with passion, singing along to every song Mark belted out, many of them knowing all the words and shouting encouragement to the stage. Our doubt that we might not fill the venue vanished when we heard people were being turned away, the beers on tap went dry, and then the cops came. Chop Suey had stuffed the crowd past capacity. The chaos from the crowd seeped into the backstage, suddenly we didn’t remember what came first the bows or the encore. I jumped the beginning during “Hero” and beat myself up about it for the entire song, cursing myself for ruining the last number of the night. Mark had warned us that we were required to stay and dance for the d-jay–a nice woman who brought a male sidekick we kept kicking out of the dressing room during our quick changes.

I found myself too tired to dance, the lights vibrating into my brain at a bad angle, I couldn’t seem to muster the strength. I floated from the ‘quiet room’ to the dance floor, excited by how many friends I saw. At one point an older lady asked me if I was Mark’s sister. “No, that’s the joke,” I said, referring to a gag Mark and I always play about not being related–only having similar sounding names. “I’m not his sister.” The woman pushed, “Are you Lieta?” I was not patient, “NO, Lieta is Mark’s sister…that’s not me.”

I wasn’t being a bitch, I was just overwhelmed, for the first time in a long time. After doing so much improv, I’m not usually bowled over by the crowd. But this night schooled me. When I first entered the sweaty sticky crowd after the show, I searched in vain for my husband. This past week I’ve shocked multiple people with the information that I am married. No one can believe it, (even though–pardon my French–I’m wearing a fucking wedding ring on my ring finger). It’s not that I don’t feel a little proud that I carry myself like a swinging, liberated, chick who rocks the local theater scene in leg warmers, hot pants, and humor. It’s just that I can’t partake in the usual shenanigans that take place in the theater (you know: multiple affairs, back stabbing, spin-the-bottle games, drunken one night stands). Sometimes I think my absence from these events make people think I’m this truly untouchable lady–but not because I’m married…I’m just above it all. Alas, a very sweet gentlemen revealed that I was his favorite freedom dancer and that he has a crush on me. (I’m hoping he’ll notice on my Myspace profile that I’m hitched). Flattery, flattery, flattery…isn’t that why most of us are on the stage? Anyway, I found my husband outside the venue at the hot dog stand. He was standing with an assortment of friends, wearing my gay best friend’s sweater, and eating a cream cheese dog. “I love you!” I shouted, and hugged him around the middle. Everyone laughed and clapped me on the back and said I had done well–despite the fuck up in the last number–and ushered me inside where I devoured a Maker’s Mark on the rocks.

I met significant others, random fans of the Soft Rock series, and introduced myself to the bouncer–who was exhausted and said that the night had been ’stressful.’ He was cute. Pizza was ordered and I took a break in the green room and ate a slice of veggie. There was no room so I sat on the half of the pizza box that didn’t contain pizza. A friend of mine mouthed the words, “I’m so drunk” as I polished off a slice and a half. (This same friend wasn’t wearing any underwear under her panty-hoes while sitting ‘criss-cross applesauce’ on the floor). We steamed about the injustices of the venue, how their were no bartenders, and how we didn’t even know the cops were there until after the show. The dressing room was heavy with the lingering smell of Aqua net, sweat, and several nervous stomachs. “We did it!” someone said, “We sold out the Chop Suey!” I stuffed a piece of cheese pizza into my purse for later–feeling as if my Freedom Dancer ride was only beginning.