Last Thursday marked my third Trickster Salon, and I have noticed a theme developing, namely, that every experience of actually getting to the Salon has been more absurd than the last. The first time, I ended up wandering around the piers of Fisherman's wharf with a jester hat poking out of my bag. I never did find the salon (It was on the other side of the city, in the Mission. Don't ask me why I thought a Trickster convention would be held at the wharf).
The second time, I was a featured performer and a little stressed out about it, which led to drinking a bottle of whisky as I spray painted my hair pink and donned a tutu. I was also wearing a garter and a flamingo hat on my head, and gloves, and paper hands taped to my chest, and that was only the beginning of the accessories and instruments and toys I planned to bring to the salon, and my being drunk wasn't exactly conducive to keeping it all together and actually getting it to the salon. Luke had had a long day at a job, and still had to work the late cleaning shift at the Adelaide when he got back, and it was after about the second or third time that he had to run back through the rain to get a guitar capo or wallet or pony, that he got stressed out, which very rarely happens, and demanded that we take a cab or else we were never going to make it there at all. Cole, the third member of our party, was very amicable and pleasant through the whole thing. I was less pleasant, but agreed to the cab, and pretty soon we'd flagged one down and were on our way.
The driver had a long white beard and a funny looking hat, and at first he seemed to be existing somewhere in the realm of normal cab drivers, albeit extremely chatty ones. He told us that his name was Buzz Brooks and this was his "Cab Cabaret," ("Perfect!!" I crowed, "Because we're going to a TRICKSTER SALON!"), but Buzz scarcely stopped talking to get the address of said salon before launching into a rambling discourse about cab-driving, life, and his Aunt Peggy.
"Who?" Said Luke, in the passenger seat.
"Why.... my Aunt Peggy!" Said Buzz, and, without a moment's hesitation, cranked the radio dial so that the music that had been playing softly flooded the cab, and now he was singing along with the pre-recorded version of himself about his Aunt Peg, who apparently has a mustache among other issues.
With Buzz in his own little happy world, the rest of us exchanged pointed looks while trying to process the situation.
"The man tried to tell you when we first got in," said Luke, wryly. "It's a cab cabaret."
"Where are we? Have we wandered into an alternate universe?" Asked Cole.
"This is PERFECT!!" I crowed again, in a trickery and whisky fueled haze. "Oh, UNIVERSE!"
Buzz, ever the entrepreneur, revealed to us once we arrived at the Mission that the entire cab ride had been tape-recorded, and we could purchase the memory of our special journey for a mere seven dollars lumped in with the fare.
"PERFECT!!" I yelled for the third time, and before Cole or Luke could stop me, forked over 19.45 for our Cab Cabaret Experience.
Later that night, I eagerly inserted Buzz's custom made cd into my computer, only to have it stick there and make obstinate whirring noises. I inserted it into each of the Adelaide's public desktop computers, to no avail.
"So much for BUZZ and his stupid Aunt Peg," I growled.
"He looks a bit like an evil elf, come to think of it," noted Luke as we scanned the Buzz Brooks website for contact info of where to complain.
And so that was our first group trickery transit.
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