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I was the girl that never wanted the party to end. Nevermind that i was fashionably last to leave anything. I wanted the music to never stop, the beer to run sold forever, and the people to tell just one more story. To invite me to a party was to be kidnapped until dawn. I came from a long line of loud laughers, music makers and oh yes, "cake smellers." This is a phraserecently given to me by my Australian friend Perry, who defines it as "those people who come over when they smell opportunity. I have a slightly different take on it. I define it as "nothing smells as good as sucess when you're starving to death."

In my home town of Escanaba, Michigan (pop. 20,000) everyone was starving to death. It became a way of life. In a little town like mine just about everyone had the good sense to suffer impossible dreams in silence. I was the loudest kid on the block. I moaned Billy Holiday and scatted with Ella as much as any one nearby could stand it. I was mesmerized by a television spectacular called, "A happening in Central Park" and I knew I, had to "happen" there. Forget that I didn't even know where Central Park was, I was going to go there. I told my neighbors, friends and family ad nauseum, that I, was going to be on "The Johnny Carson Show" one day. I was going to make records, work with big stars and SEE THE WORLD!

On and on and on I would go, oblivious to the fantastic looks I got. You better be tough if you're gonna be bold in a small town. I was ready at a glimps tp be tough, bold or...gone. Small town folks don't suffer fools gladly, even if the fools lives right next door to you. Especially if they live right next door to you. I don't even remember hearing those patients souls laughing at me, but many told me years later that they had, and that I woould come right back undaunted, the next daym with even bigger stories and the added threat of, "just you wait. One day, you'll wish you knew me." This may sound a bit mildly, judging by todays' all too common stories of Les Enfant Terribles with bad cases of "Gradiose Flagrant", but for a small town kid who was taught to accept what you get, never talk back to an adult, and who had never known or met anyone even remotely connected to show business, this was gutsy stuff. To some, it was insane. I'm certain more than one person must have muttered "poor Mrs. Adams", more than once under their breath while watching with pity as my mother made excuses for the bizarre ravings of her twelve year old child to total strangers, just captured while passing through town on their way to much better places.

How could they know that the tap dancing, shoe shining, pie face grinning kid, waving them down on the street (just to ask what time it was), would be tall telling then over the Dairy Queen in no time flat to see the two headed cat that lives in the barbershop next door? Did they know they will triple dip your cone in chocolate for only an extra nickel? Cake smellers know.

O.K., so maybe the cat wasn't actually ever alive and the barber shared space with his brother the taxidermist. And so what, if the two headed cat was just a slow business days' collective yawn, sewn together to scare and keep out the little kids so they wouldn't see the stack of beat to pilp Playboys under their Argosy covers. Everyone always went home satified...

Less and less I went home. Meager beginnings, bleak surroundings and potent dreams often provide the essential "no going back possibilities" necessary, to prove the neighbors wrong and keep the kid on the scent of the cake. It was this same sense, of the imaginable scorned impossible, willful little balled up fist, and insatiable lust for sweets that called me desparate to the table in Los Angeles a short time later, to start my own "happening."

Since then life has been a dream.


Some dreams you want to have over and over again so.

Listen to this record project.

It's about a girl that everyone said was totally crazy.

Well, they didn't get her at all.

It wasn't that she was crazy.

It was that she was carzy for cake!


The rest of the story is in the music.

Sincerly Yours,

Little Cathy Adams
From Escanaba, Michigan