If we make it past the scrutiny of the judges, we will performing on network television for millions of viewers, and, more importantly, in front of David Hasselhoff, celebrity judge.

Yeah, that guy.

Although I’m trying to steer clear of any “Hollywood dreamin’” this little excursion could stir up in the hearts of young burlesque dancers, part of me hopes to rep Sactown to the tune of “Queen of the Night”, a song I will never again wish to hear after this is all said and done.

L.A., here we come.

Settling down in front of my laptop Tuesday morning to watch the Presidential Inauguration unfold via live online feed, I noticed that the event had a unique sense of resonance with me. It wasn’t just my emotional butterflies, either. The feeling was physical.

More specifically, my mouth is f*ed up. We’re talking molars in need of root canal(s), probable cavities and two chipped teeth. Not to mention the emotional trauma I’ve endured waiting through the pain game and listening to reprimanding pep talks from my disapproving parents. Watching Obama address the nation in all of his dashing, charismatic glory, the combined twinge of strung-out dental nerves and enormously high expectations left me with an aching hope…a vicodin-induced hallucination where, for a brief moment, I caught a glimpse of universal health care.

Life as a poor person is a balancing act. You can’t always get what you want. And sometimes, you can’t even get what you need.

It’s never happening, is it? Must I move to Europe? Will I ever have health care? Sadly, these questions are rhetorical. Possessing health benefits is a lofty goal, an intangible utopia I can’t quite imagine gaining access to. I work in a restaurant with a bunch of young people, where our idea of insurance equates to “being really careful about shit”. When I told our cook about my tooth (he also has mouth problems) he suggested going to a local dental school. “They’ll pull it out,” he offered nonchalantly.

Umm…maybe I’m too poor to be waspy, but my teeth are kind of an asset to my physical attractiveness, which is priceless. How will I ever land a sugar daddy to finance my first memoir with a missing tooth?

Here’s my brand of health insurance: If I get sick or develop an infection, I shop first in my friends’ medicine cabinets, googling any prescription labels I’m unsure about. I try to eat well and drink lots of water, and I leave diagnoses to my subconscious, because I’ve discovered many of my maladies appear in my dreams. Yeah, that’s a little 18th Century Latin American of me, but it works (sometimes).

Luckily, there are enough of us around in the Midtown vicinity who haven’t been to the dentist in the past five or more years, making for plenty of cathartic war stories. Yeah, I realize it doesn’t help my situation to hear about someone else’s damaged grill, but mouth pain loves company, and these tales help assuage my fear that, on the day I finally can get into the dentist, I won’t be the only person that prompts the hygienist to think “Holy SHIT is her situation fucked up…” when he or she looks at my x-rays.

Gone are the days of dependency, when I could show up to my dentist under my mom’s insurance after part of my front tooth got chipped off by a beer bottle at a frat party. Now is the time of financing, payment plans, and the names of low-pro dentists scrawled upon Post-It notes, so thoughtfully passed off to me by others who have navigated the peaks and valleys of oral hell.

I’m looking to you, President Obama (although my vision is a little blurry from all the pain meds I’ve been taking, and the fact that I don’t have $180 to go get my contact lens prescription renewed). Here’s to optimism, priorities, and, if all else fails, holistic healing.

There’s been a lot leading up to my new bike, including a tragic theft last summer, an emotionally charged blog post and an article for the Sacramento Bee, which consequently lead to a couple of donated bikes.

This is the final product, minus a few small changes. My limited edition Sillgey Phantom, a title that doesn’t even do justice to the grandeur of my fine, fancy, urbane ride. At this particular moment, the only thing I can think of to sum up this beautiful episode of my life is a quote from Bella Swan: the first time I laid eyes on my bike, “I realized I was unconditionally and irrevocably in love with him.”

Phase 1: The bare bones, ready to be finessed by the extremely talented Lenny Kovner.

Phase 2 – 10 p.m. – Lenny, Zephyr, and a sexy wheel coming together.

Obligatory pause for a cute bird photo….

That’s Mortecai . Ok, back to the bike…

Phase 3 – brakes. 11:30 p.m. Energy is low, hopes are high.

Phase 4: Finished product – Sex on wheels.

That’s a fine-lookin’ pair.

Okay, so speaking of SAD, today is a reason to be GLAD (Grateful and in Love with this Awesome Day…yeah, that’s the best I could do). Have you stepped outside lately? It’s sunny! The skies are azure blue and the sun’s palpable rays, splicing through the crisp January air, recall better times…spring times.

Of course, Sacramento is a cruel mistress, famous for throwing us winter weather curveballs so we can do a celebratory jig and pull out t shirts from within the neglected loins of our closets, only to be spurned and scorned by tomorrow’s heart-stopping chill.

In other words, I’m not getting my hopes up, but I am most definitely getting outside for some SAD therapy. Turn off that thermostat, ditch work, bid your jacket adieu and be GLAD. Thank you, global warming! From the bottom of my tepid heart.

All good nights start with a Chicken on your lap…

…plus Cook’s champagne, and the newly infamous yellow plastic party cups.

With fellow Sacramento blogger and all-around dapper gentleman Adam Saake, at an awesome undisclosed (and potentially lethal) location on J street.

The crowd at 10th and K. (For those that were present, remember: “I have a BABY and a STROLLER”). The promise of midnight was palpable in the air.

Sacramento’s ball finally dropped, causing everyone in the crowd to become horny and start kissing.

Happy 2009.

So, three thoughts. Completely unrelated.

Un: I really need to learn how to play music, and not because I’m a whore for attention. Rather, I’ve been coming up with all sorts of amazing band and album names as of late. Could I just get a gig where I name shit? That would be ideal. Many of you already are aware of Big Butts in White Pants, a philosophy branch/lifestyle brand/ideology my friends and I came up with some months ago. BBIWP just screams “t-shirt line” or “latin female hip-hop crew” to me. Ladies, if you’re out there and you’re searching for a band name, consider it.

Also, it is my request that you please name your first album “Easier Done than Said”. But please note: I retain the rights to use this term as the title of my forthcoming memoir.

Deux: I had a good Samaritan experience yesterday, and I’d like to share it with you for the sole reason that these sorts of things don’t happen often anymore, and, for those of us in the customer service industry, they can help reclaim small pieces (shrapnel) of our faith in humanity.

I was parking my car on L Street, getting ready to waste incalculable hours of my day inside Bead Fetish, and I headed to one of the snazzy new parking meters to buy street time. When I got to the machine, there was a used parking sticker stuck on the face of the display, and it still had half an hour of time on it. I thought this was such a wonderful deed – I would have never thought of donating leftover parking time. It shows that strangers can be powerful when they join together against The Man. I’m sure it’s illegal, but whatever. That was the highlight of my day (even better than Bead Fetish).

Trois: Last-minute Christmas shopping is dehumanizing and barbaric. That said, I’ve had to make several trips to Target in the past week (I simply cannot stomach the mall anymore. Like, at all). I was walking through the parking lot and saw a very interesting window decal, and it made me think…

Remember those girls in high school with the stringy long hair and pink lipgloss that blasted Limp Bizkit from the blown-out factory speakers in their red Mitsubishi Eclipses? Yeah you do. I think it’s safe to say that at least 68% of those ladies had, at one point in their lives (however brief), the “sexy Tinkerbell” window decal. Some gothier types eventually evolved to the “dark angel” decal, but the general image I’m recalling is a busty woman with big wings spreading her legs.

That said, analyze this photo, and then try to tell me it’s not solid, disturbing proof that the dark angel sexpots have grown up and become soccer moms….

And they said you can’t make a ho a housewife…

Well, good news for those of you who want to booty bump the man candy off of those go-go platforms. Wednesday night has been revamped, for vamps, and the new monthly event is called PLAYDATE. DJ Raquel, aka Mother Owl has been throwing this party for about a year, and recently it crossed over from its former home of Press Club to Sacramento’s gay nightlife mecca.

Good news (for most of us): You won’t be hearing any Beyonce remixes tonight. Mother owl spins an eclectic blend of retro, new wave and electronic tracks. In fact, the music and the people are so sexy, Playdate’s crowd has morphed into an eclectic blend of lesbians, skinny straight boys, their sexually confused posses, and, more generally, people that like to get down.

Don’t forget – tonight’s event is ’70s themed, so put on your best fishnet bodysuit, tease up that hair and come dance one out with Sacramento’s fiercest. Purple Girl will perform LIVE. Hope to see you there…

After you get over the initial rush of shoving your horrible, uncomfortable skirt suits into Tupperware containers like they are Rwandan genocide leaders being buried alive, you start thinking about the less awesome details: taxes, the disappearance of disposable income, and most of all….

corporate Christmas parties.

Luckily, I am loved by people who live normal, somewhat-stable lives, and I was invited to accompany my lovely friends in Reno for their office Christmas party. These ladies work for a local environmental engineering firm whose name will go unmentioned (I realize I’ve already done enough damage…at the actual party. You’re already not making a great first impression when you and your date show up to an environmental firm’s party in giant pieces of fur).

So last Saturday night, as you can now probably surmise, I got enormously spoiled with a corporate-funded holiday party in the biggest little city in the world. I’ve never been a big fan of Reno, finding little less in life more depressing than the sight of middle-aged women in Looney Tunes sweatpants trolling casinos for riches and seafood buffets.

That disturbing image aside, I had far too much fun for someone who is self-employed. And my friend won a Wii! That’s like, worth more than I make after five days of writing time! I think it’s safe to say I had a little more to drink than is acceptable when you’re hanging out at a professional event with people older than your parents, but the past few months I’ve felt almost sober, and my friends were into it, so hey…so what if my behavior prompted the DJ to ask me to sign “Uma Thurman” on his copy of the Pulp Fiction soundtrack at the end of the night?

Here are some of the photo highlights.

(What do you mean, ‘let’s leave our cell phones in the hotel room’?)

(Fur bandits…but we’re still vegetarians)

(We snagged a free limo ride and took advantage of priceless photo opportunities during the 3 1/2 minute ride)

(At the Nevada Museum of Art…before everyone else showed up)

(Feeling cultured, thinking about the thousands of tax dollars I will owe the government in a couple of months)

(The “young professional” holiday family photo. A.k.a., “overworked and underpaid.” But at least we’re still attractive)