It isn’t too often that you get invited to hang out in a room teeming with warm, glowing faces and finger-snapping support for five minutes of completely uncensored stage time. The concept of “safe space” comes to mind.

I recently attended the definitive soapbox, an open mic devoted entirely to amateur appreciation, gratuitous introductions, and performance for the soul, not kudos. I met the host when the series lived in San Francisco, when an artist friend of mine would bring me along every few weeks. We’d cheer, laugh, snap and sometimes put our names on the list.

Only once did I take the stage. It was an impromptu romp on the piano, which had been suddenly discovered underneath some papers and a huge honking amplifier. At that point, I had lived in San Francisco for four college years, and none of my friends had ever heard me play the piano. It wasn’t something I got to do very often, and I was moving back to Los Angeles soon. What a great way to say goodbye to that quirky, foggy city.

Fast forward a few years later, and soapbox now lives down south in Long Beach as a bi-monthly event. The host saw that I was local, and he Facebook-invited me, tempting me with the promise of a coffee-shop piano.

I considered this. On average, coffee shop pianos have more than 50% of working keys, at least 25% of which are tuned to a level acceptable by most deaf people. They’re usually used as tabletops, a crime that would make my high school jazz band director’s ears bleed. Coffee shop pianos are almost always upright beasts, and one leg is always shorter than the others. Daring to sit on the wooden bench is like asking for a tailbone fracture. I was sold.

I filed down my acrylics and jumped on the 710 South, eager to yet again meet fresh-faced poets, music lovers and random acts.

An act I’ve done since the pimply 7th grade, it always brings me joy. And since this blog is my one true definitive soapbox on the Web, I would be amiss to not share it here.

Jerry would be proud. And probably drunk.