Many times bitches, the best version of a story comes from the place where it all started. In the case of this story, we’re lucky enough to have it told by a professional storyteller who clearly understands the power of subtlety. We knew that this was too good to let sit in a comment string and deserved its own post. Enjoy!

Dear friends,

I don’t know who wrote this intelligent rendition of my performance at The Gallery but it is ball-sey to say the least. Now, listen, darlings– We must be nice to Bob. Bob can’t help himself. He doesn’t remember saying he would pay my musicians. He can’t remember much anymore. I take full responsibility for entering The Gallery in the first place. Sure, I’m 200 bucks poorer, being that I paid my musicians myself, but, really, what does money represent other than goodwill. If Bob cheats struggling artists, he cannot help himself. I forgive him because his toupee is so bad. You must do the same.It is not Bob’s fault anyway. There are others involved and as you know, we never get the full story. It is a story of sycophants and toadies who are now hiding their heads behind their asses. I was busy trying to make people laugh that evening. More truthfully, I was getting drunk. I was horrified at the tiny turn-out. Be that as it may, I would like to thank Paris and Sarah for their comfort and support- and the random lesbian who said I was hot, and my friend, John Nelson, who took the full force of the Dana Tornado.

Scorching!

By the way, did anyone happen to snap a picture of Laurel topless at Gallery? Girlfriend is hot!

UPDATE: Laurel ain’t throwin’ no shade, she just wants to get paid! So Bob Thibault cowboy’d up and paid the lady. As usual the best version of this story comes from her and is again pasted from a comment string in full.

Hi Kids, it’s me again. Let this be a lesson to all of us. We are often wrong. After I posted the item about Bob, I went down to see him, face to face, and he was honorable, understanding and a victim himself of certain people who professed to speak for him. The man paid me in full and gave me a tip, knowing that I am a struggling failure. I was very unhappy leaving the club that evening without money for my musicians and got caught up in the Bob Witch-Hunt. I now take responsibility because I was accepting information for second and third parties. Isn’t it interesting how we all demand understanding, acceptance and forgiveness and yet jump at the chance to bring somebody down. Let us blame alcohol. Apparently it was John Barleycorn who encouraged a certain party to make monetary arrangements without approval. Why? I think we all like to believe we have clout. We also like to be helpful and will take a gamble to help a friend. This is a good thing in and of itself, unless toes get stepped on. Bob and I sat down and I heard his side of the story. I told him my side of the story. The man didn’t have to pay me. There wasn’t a contract and the night was a bust. But he did, even after being humiliated by this blog. I added to his humiliation. I realize that I am very frustrated, and yes, angry, at Providence, for not allowing its only Cabaret Singer a venue — instead, all of us drowning in Pomme Frittes and reduction sauces…. all these restaurants, bistros, ultra-lounges, and no piano bar. Providence Monthly named Aspire ( I call it Perspire) the best lounge in Providence – and what do they offer as entertainment? Kareoke. This is a dirty, small state disgrace. Everyone kissing ass to get an ad in their magazine or newspaper. I won’t be a part of it. Crucify me, small town cowards.

Credit status restored, or too little too late?