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myself, even though my act consisted of me, a mic, an electric guitar, and a synthesizer. Much like Owl City, Passion Pit, and Five for Fighting, I considered myself more of a “project” than a solo singer. Also, not-so-secret industry secret, it was easier to book shows if people thought you were in a band.
    “Yeah, but you know how it goes,” he said. “A lot of people are buying advance tickets, and I don’t want them to be disappointed.”
    Not for the first time, I found myself jealous of Dave Grohl, Nirvana’s former drummer and the current lead singer of the Foo Fighters. His follow-up band was still going strong; he made lots of money and lived in a nice house. And most of all, he didn’t have to deal with any club managers trying to dick around with his set list.
    “Listen, let’s have a conversation about this. I’ll swing by the club,” I said. “I’ll come by tonight before work.”
    After I hung up with him, an unexpected loneliness set in. Yes, this was business, but I didn’t want to go to Space Camp by myself. I need some backup. So on my way out the door, I called up my posse to see who could come out. I called Tammy first, because, let’s be brutal here, if I was going to be seen out with anybody in L.A, I wanted it to be with somebody at least semi-famous. But she didn’t pick up. So I tried Thursday, who was a better choice anyway, since she liked indie music.
    “I’ve got to pick my roommate up from the airport,” Thursday said. “And we might be doing something with this guy she wants me to meet afterwards, so I don’t know. Let me call you later.”
    Okay, so I tried Sharita, even though I knew that was a longer than long shot.
    “I’m already in for the night,” she said.
    “Put away the ice cream and turn off
The Big Bang Theory
and come out anyway,” I answered.
    Guilty silence, then: “It’s the season premiere.”
    “For fuck’s sake, Sharita,” I said, swinging a leg over my Harley-Davidson Heritage Softail Classic, which, unlike the Corvette I used to drive, somehow survived my post–Sweet Janes money woes and subsequent repossessions. “I swear to God, all you need is a cat to be more fucking boring.”
    “I’ve got to go,” Sharita said. “They’re back from commercial break.”
    “And get a fucking DVR. You’re the only person on the face of the earth who still doesn’t have one,” I said, but I couldn’t be sure if she heard me before she hung up.
    I hope she did, because even though Sharita had never been one to go anywhere that wasn’t work- or church-related on the impromptu, I really did feel mad at her as I started up my bike, put on my helmet and goggles, and pulled on my motorcycle gloves.
    Now I was feeling even lonelier, like I was one of those sad people who didn’t have any real friends. All of my close lesbian friends had moved onwithout me, acquiring in a cult-like block lifelong partners and kids made from cocktails of determination, helpful fertility specialists, and donor sperm. My few remaining single friends—my supposed best friends—never wanted to do what I wanted to do at the last minute anymore.
    And you know what the only difference between a rock star and a has been is, right? Entourage.

SHARITA
----
    W hile attending Smith, a college with a deserved reputation for staunch feminism, I had been told over and over again that I didn’t need a man to live a happy and fulfilled life.
But how about if I really, really wanted one?
That was the question I had been asking myself lately.
    Sometimes I’d be watching television, or reading a book, or making something truly delicious to eat and I’d think, “Wouldn’t it be nice to have someone to share this with?”
    I’d be turning thirty next year and it felt like I had Everything But.
    Everything But the guy.
    I thought about my desert of good man prospects that day while calculating the amount of Social Security one of my firm’s clients, a political candidate, would