It's in Glade Memorial Hall, an old church adjunct which I kinda dig as a performance space, but which was pretty goddamn hot. The talent this time around included a jazz singer, a short story reader, a magician (who did a card trick I couldn't figure out, even being a big card-trick nerd), a scary clown, a rock band, and a pop duet, but of course, the class of the show was my opera-slingin' pals Lara and Jeff, who respectively sang and played piano on a trio of French songs. Afterwards we went and had a few drinks and a good time, as they say, was had by all.
Plagued by fitful sleep and an inordinate number of bizarre dreams again. One of the dreams involved our apartment being overrun by rats, which I really, really didn't like, and another involved me going to a rock show put on by an LJ person who I have never met and who isn't even on my friends list. The show was interrupted by a clueless, shambling old guy who asked a lot of dopey questions to Sally Timms (who was one of the performers); at the after-party, the LJ person asked to see my tattoos, and while showing them to her, I noticed that a bunch of them had faded to the point that they could barely be seen. Proving once again: discussing your dreams is the temple of boredom.