Packing: for women on the road, its an art form

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Time to pack again. As Confessions of a Shopoholic streams on the lap top, I find myself once again staring into an empty suitcase wondering what I should bring with me for the next four weeks on the road. My first tour was ridiculous, I think I had four suitcases of varying sizes. What respectable girl wouldn’t bring everything just short of a evening dress with her for a six week voyage. Except I wasn’t boarding Crystal Cruise lines, I was going to be living in a tour bus with 9 other road warriors on the Linkin Park Projekt Revolution Tour.

Have you been to a summer rock festival lately? Do you see the guys on stage changing the gear between sets, those are my peers, they are typically male, gruff, and have one commonality that links them as a pack: they wear all black; It’s a uniform. Being completely against uniforms since the seventh grade when I had a school wide petition signed to ban them, I typically am not in favor of homogenized dress codes. I'm not into khakis, "casual Fridays" and I don’t do the all black thing. But that gets rather complicated when your working on the road. Here are these other roadies, with tiny little suitcases that hold three pairs of black shorts, one pair of black work shoes, four black t shirts and a tooth brush, and that’s all they need! Sure they do laundry every four days but its free and they could care less. How do you live like that? So back to my first tour, here I come, hauling what could be described as a wardrobe for  a family of five. I've got everything from galoshes to a bathrobe, and don’t even get me started on the hair products and beauty regime. It was hysterical. I quickly found out, by way of much teasing, that three quarters of what I brought was hindered completely useless. As a friend explained early on “whats the most useless thing on tour? A white t shirt” It gets filthy! Unless you want to spend the few precious hours you have in a hotel room applying shout it out to your camisole, get rid of it!

Trials and tribulations are the way of the road, but again, I find myself, three years and a bunch of tours later, standing over my suitcase wondering what to do what to do. What mood will I be in for the next four weeks? What??? Did I really just say that? Sounds ridiculous right? Hence the ridiculousness in trying to plan a wardrobe for touring.  First you have to take into account the clientele: Are you on a rock tour? A pop tour? A metal tour? What will the crew be like? Do you bring your favorite Journey sweatshirt that you love to wear off the shoulder or will that cause certain death to your reputation if Dave Mustane ever glimpses it. What about that cute polka dotted wrap dress you love in the summer? Are you going to be exalted by a gaggle of gay male dancers  for wearing it, or shunned by the uber cool Radiohead/Sonic Youth/Pavement fans that currently make up most of the ticket buyers. See, I don’t want to sound like my style decisions come down to the surrounding environment, but once you get laughed out of and locked out of, a production office, for wearing red 42” bell bottoms, you start to consider the company you keep.

So this time it’s an alternative rock band, who just garnered themselves a VMA, and are the reigning kings of "Nu Metal" in the music world. I do meet and greets with this band every night, we interact, I interface with their management, I greet their fans, I represent the band and my company…and myself, so the question is…what side of Cory do I want to show this tour?

It sounds shallow and transparent, and at times it is, but I see it as wearing armor going into a battle. Do you wear blue jeans and a t shirt when everyone else is dressed in black leather and lace? Perhaps. Perhaps this is how I’m feeling these days and that’s what they will get. The whole thing comes down to this moment, because changing my mind on the plane tomorrow is too late. It becomes a very intense exercise of soul searching and organization. I once became so overwhelmed with the experience I said fuck it all to hell, got liquored up and threw whatever I felt like into the bag. Unfortunately that act of bravery slapped me in the face the next morning when I got off the plane, on the other side of the country and realized I’d packed for not only the wrong season, but nothing matched and I’d filled my suitcase half full with underwear and socks.

See, these moments, packing a suitcase, may seem trivial to some, but to others, it becomes a zen-like exercise.

Thankfully throughout my now multiple years of touring and expensive packing, I have whittled the process down from an entire day…er…two days, (there’s the prep day when you do laundry and start to rummage in the back of your closet to make sure you know everything that you own). But now I can accomplish the task in a matter of minutes…ok, an hour. I just don’t care as much anymore. I take pieces that are easy to wash, don’t need to be ironed, go with everything and basically work, add a couple belts, hats and scarves. Throw in a small bag of jewelry and save enough space for the hair dryer, flat iron and paddle brush. You wear jeans on the plane because each pair weighs roughly two pounds, (you learn that when you’re trying desperately to get your bag under 50 lbs at the united check in counter, while God and everyone is staring at your personal articles spilling out everywhere as you transfer things to your carry on).

So there you have it. Tour Packing 101.  So although I still don’t subscribe to the all-black method of tour wear, I have paired it down to suit a reasonable and comfortable style that allows me to be who I am, while not being obnoxious.

Here’s to 49.9 pounds and a suitcase full of cotton!

Freestyle Hiking

Freestyle Hiking

When travelers think of Brazil, they conjure images of shopping in Sao Paulo, walking along the sandy beaches of Copacabana and the sun drenched bodies of beautiful women on the shores of Imapena; even the jungles of the Amazon come to mind, but I am fairly certain they rarely think of the Island of Florinopolis. “Floripa” (as it’s known to locals), is a southern city on an island about an hour and a half flight south a Rio. The island itself is of 200km in length, which in a car would take you about two hours to traverse from tip to tip. The beaches are filled not with Europeans and Americans looking for a cliché party experience, but actual Brazilians, pro surfers, and locals who call this place of a million parties: “Home”.

There are different scenes for different people. It’s a “get in where you fit in” situation. The northern coast is home to the beaches of Juere International. With it’s skyscraper lined sands and brightly decorated bars, this area very much resemble South Beach.  On the west coast you’ll find El Centro, he main hub city; a bustling community of commerce and urban activity. There is the East Side of the island, with its sweeping winds brushing the iconic shore; this area is the main destination for world-class surfers, as the waves are touted as some of the finest anywhere. To the South there are National Parks, great swaths of forest, for the very few inhabitants that do live there, they enjoy their privacy in a world that seems so detached from everything else, one could mistake it for another planet.

As a surfer, to come to Floripa and not go to Praia Mole is like a diver flying all the way to Australia and passing up the Great Barrier Reef.  So that’s where we went. It was quieter there, less populated, cozy. The island of 300,000 balloons to a whopping 1 million in the high season, so we were very grateful to have arrived just in time before the tourist take over.  On Praia Mole (Praia means beach in Portuguese) there are two beach bars that bump beats all day from a live DJ. The Caiparinnas flow, but the vibe is so relaxed you don’t associate the scene with a “Scene”, it’s not “sceney”, at least not at this time of year; it’s just a calm destination for local surfers and the occasional tourist. Walk north along the beach and you’ll pass dozens of tanned bodies clutching surfboards on their way to the surf beach which you can only access on foot. This beach is also rumored as the spot in which one can easily elicit sex from strangers, should that be your forte.  This is where our adventure began.  

The rocks the rock the rocks of Praia Mole. They are incredible. Grand slabs of stone, smooth and comforting to the touch, beaten soft from years of wind. Gargantuan creatures; protectors of the shore, sitting proudly against the sea’s edge. We climbed these rocks. Hoping from one skyscraper to the next, leaping between rock walls; pulling, pushing, and throwing our body weight in any which way we needed in order to get to the next boulder. Scamper, scamper, scamper, hop, hop, jump, jump, climb, up, down sideways; lock this foot in here, wedge that limb there and hoist! Up, over, jump down, go under, in between. The nooks and crannies between the rocks were both perilous and inviting as we navigated our way further down the coastline. With each new bend came an even more impossibly stunning view of Mother Nature, unbelievable sights of grand beauty, sights that humans can only behold if they venture along the path the way we had. Where we had ventured to there were no roads, no piers with Ferris wheels, no sign-posted path to a look-out landing. No, our adventure was not for the fat or the faint of heart, you had to be crazy enough to get here by foot, by rock.  It was a few hours into the climb when we realized we were well beyond the boundaries that most humans ventured, and with that realization we laughed, acknowledging that we re insane to be doing what we were doing, and should either one of us fall, twist an ankle, vanish into a slippery crevasse or tumble into the sea….we were far from civilization and we’d be in trouble. We could easily disappear out there. Newspaper headlines flashed past me: “American Tourists still missing: day 26”. They’d never find us.  We started calling this action-adventure-sport: Freestyle Hiking. Rock climbing with no gear, just our limbs, our intuition, our reflexes and our smiles. We would have gone all the way to the point had we not run out of water and besides, sunset was near, we recognized that without light, our shenanigans, which had already gotten pretty out of hand, could quickly turn into a nightmare, so we decided to call it quits.

After a warm meal and a dreamless sleep rooted in exhaustion, we woke up the following morning and decided to head south. This time we had a destination: Joaquino, the next beach over. By foot it had taken us about an hour to walk there on the main road, which was the only way to get there…unless you were two insane tourists that like to test their physical boundaries. So off we went. Hop, hop hop, scamper scamper, up and over. Our muscles were sore from the day before, our palms thrashed, our calves  on fire; and yet our bodies rejoiced in their power to continue, to fight, to preserver: we felt strong, we felt invincible. The southern coastline was ragged with shiny black lava rock. Slippery when wet. The previous day we were above the sea, this day, we were often right on the water’s edge, giving us an new element to play with: water. Wet rock does not bode well for climbing.  We learned this quickly. When we hit a patch of rock we couldn’t scale, we’d head up to higher ground. Though the rocks beat you with their impenetrable surfaces, their impossible cliff faces and dangerous angles, they are far safer than what Mother Nature created on the mountain. Nothing hurts more that the sting of the aloe vera plant, and we’d found a forest of the stuff. From a distance, the mountainside looked lush, soft and inviting, but as soon as we ascended upon it, we understood what trouble we’d gotten ourselves into. Upon closer examination, one will find that what looked lush and inviting is actually a bouquet of jagged, thorned, torture devices known as tropical plants, complete with every type of thistle, needle, barb and razor to slice and dice any predator. Every species has to protect itself, and this fauna was no exception, and the danger was no joke.  So we found ourselves literally stuck between a rock and a hard place. Going down was death, but going up wasn’t going to be much better. As we maneuvered through batches of natural razor blades, we decided that the Aloe Vera plant is so good at healing cuts because it fucks up your skin so badly it has to give you something in return to help you out; we called it “Natures Karma”. At one especially perilous juncture, as he gingerly maneuvered through the forest of evil botany, I heard my friend bellowing a symphony of “ow, ohh, ouch, FUCK!”. He stopped and yelled to the heavens “This shit is NOT FUN! This SUCKS! I’m NOT having FUN right now!”. I just laughed and kept going, what were we going to do? We couldn’t turn back, we had to just keep going forward, and this was the only way. Until we could find a spot in the roughage to dip back down to the rocks, we were feasts for Mother Nature. I tried with all my might to not think about the countless animals we were cohabitating with and the number of Google searches I’d have to do on “poisonous Brazilian plants” and “rare skin rashes”.  This was freestyle hiking. We took it all, the good, the bad and the Aloe Vera. A few times we came across some fishermen who looked at us like we were insane. Their faces were priceless. No smiles, no waves, just stares, as if to say “what the hell are you crazy people doing and how the fuck did you get out here?!? Surely you didn’t WALK!”. We just smiled and kept climbing. 

 

By the time we got to Joaquino we were dirty, punctured, bloody, tired masses that had been through one of the most intense endurance tests of our lives. We hiked up to the beach, passing tourists that looked at us as though we’d just been through war.  In a sense we had gone to war, us against nature. We had to use every part of our bodies to survive. We had to develop heightened senses in order to figure out each situation. We worked as a team and we kept each other’s spirits up when times got grim.

 

We took the road back to Praia Mole, drinking beer along the way, smiling, laughing  and recounting our day’s adventure. We stopped at an excellent sushi restaurant about a mile from home, which quickly became our new watering hole. Dirty, beaten and tired, we drank Sake and regaled our stories to the restaurant owners, as our heads got fuzzy and our limbs tired; we were completely fulfilled. Full of sushi and rice wine, we jogged home and promptly passed out. 

Freestyle hiking isn’t for everyone, but for those who want to see parts of the world that no one ever sees, for those who want to experience a side of nature devoid of trails and warning signs, for those who want to experience extreme adrenaline and push themselves to new limits physically, spiritually, mentally and emotionally, come to Florianopolis, come climb amongst the rocks, throw all caution to the wind and go for a hike.

 

Raising girls in this world....

The other day someone asked me if I ever wanted kids. I laughed because to me, this is an obvious question, though I can see how some might not see it that way. "Of course I do" I replied. "And knowing me, with the life I've lived, I'll probably be blessed with four boys!" He smiled, knowing how I spend 99% of my daily life with nothing but men. I have always been this way, not just in the touring world, but I've had a way of surrounding myself with honorary brothers. Through his smile a pained look clouded his eyes and he said "No...you need to raise girls. Its hard to raise girls, many who do it shouldn't and those who should often don't know it". I was taken back a bit. You see I am one of three girls, raised by an amazing woman, one who was born to raise girls. She raised us in her image: strong, independent, confident. We stand apart, because we were taught to, raised to, nurtured to be a certain way. So when he says this, I understand what he means. My mother was calculated in her rearing. At times I found her influence to be overbearing, her voice in my head constant, her teachings precise and specific, and yet, I always respected and admired her for her work, and in that moment, looking at this man, I did again. Its been her life passion: raising her daughters. This conversation makes me think about my friends. My girlfriends who I love so dearly. Some of us share certain attributes; some are similar to me in many ways, others are the extreme opposite. You like people for different reasons. I think about certain friends that make me cringe when I hear them answer their phones in that sing song voice, five octaves higher than their normal voice. Those who make me want to slap them when they bat their eyes at the waiter and ask for a favor, or how I roll my eyes as they slip into some affected alternative version of themselves as they lean over the counter to talk to the bartender. Didn't anyone love them? Really love them? I roll my eyes, but deep down I want to hug them, because it's not their fault. They were taught to do that. By women who were taught by their mothers. They were taught to get what they wanted out of life in the only way they knew how, by manipulation and flirtation. And guess what...it works. That's the sad part. And they make it look effortless from of practice. So who can blame them? If it ain't broke. And this works in all levels of society, in all types of interactions. It can start as a means to survival, but it crosses all social circles, from paupers to princes, from the girl in the local grocery store to the woman dripping in diamonds on the arm of a Barron. Sex...is...power. Oldest trick in the book. So unless you were taught to burn the book, close up shop and start your own printing press, this is the game we all seem to play. Which is why when this man looked at me, with a pained look in his eyes as he said I need to raise girls, I understood what he meant. Its much more difficult to raise women. Women will be responsible to teach men. They are the one's that choose which weapons to wield, whether to play dirty or not, what rules to use in the game of life. Women who don't use men, but love men, will teach other women how to love men, and then those men, will love their women, because they respect them. Its a cycle, a circle, a game, a responsibility, a life's work. Some women are meant to raise women, I guess my fears of raising four boys pales in comparison to the weight of raising three girls. Thanks mom.

Freebird

Four years ago I went to see Lynyrd Skynyrd open for Kid Rock at the Riverbend Ampitheatre. It was my first tour and the crew knew some of Kid Rock's crew. They all spent their time backstage drinking and hanging out with their friends, I was the only one who watched any of the show. Though I played it off like it was kinda cheesy, to me, it was magical. I was finally on the road, and on a night off, we got backstage passes to a show I actually wanted to see. I timidly walked out to front of house, not knowing anyone, but I had the right passes, so I stood there quietly, trying to stay out of the way. Lynyrd Skynyrd isn't what they were in 1977, how could they be....only one of the original members still remains. But that night, watching Freebird, I had an aching longing in my heart, a deep yearn, to one day tour with them. Why? No idea. Other than the part about them being an anthem for my youth. A few people actually called me Freebird for a semester of my senior year because I taped the lyrics to my bedroom door. But that time was long gone right? I didn't connect with this band on stage or its audience, but at that moment, I wanted to be a part of it. As soon as Kid Rock came on I left. So here I am, in Albuquerque, NM, and I just watched Lynyrd Skynyrd, once again, from the sound board, but this time, I'm supposed to be there. I'm on tour with ZZ Top, and Skynyrd is opening. I watched the whole set. And to be honest, its cheesy. They use large painted tapestries instead of video screens, they all look like a cross between Brett Michaels and Slash and I really can't muster any love for the confederate flag that they grip like a rosary. So much has happened in the last four years of touring. The massive crowds, world renowned festivals, celebrity appearances, jet setting luxuries. This half empty state fair arena doesn't really seem like much when compared to other touring acts, however, the faces of the crowd are just as bright, just as star struck, mouthing all the words, tapping feet just like the best of them. So I look around, and think back to myself four years ago when Simple Man made me cry, when Sweet Home Alabama made me stomp, when Freebird took my breath away. I think about the point of all this. That these guys up on stage play songs they didn't write, for fans who don't care who they are; its about the music. Its about the fact that these songs still evoke emotion in the fans. That people will pay money to hear the songs they were listening to when they learned to drive their first car, the song that was playing when they lost their virginity, the song they celebrated that big Friday Night win to back when they were 18 and felt they could take over the world. They want to feel that way again, and these songs will do it. So it doesn't really matter that they don't have the big screens or the fancy lights, it's not about that. I knew it four years ago, and tonight, I'm reminded of that; the purity of it all. And I shiver at the thought that when I was 25 I made a wish to tour with Lynyrd Skynyrd, and tonight, that wish has been granted. I'm a decade away from having those lyrics pasted on my wall, but I guess that I, like everyone else in that audience tonight, will never be too far away from that person I once was. There are some memories you never outgrow. And while sitting at front of house, I once again acknowledged that if you do want something, purely in your heart, the universe will deliver. So let yourself dream. Get into the moment. Feel something. Really want something. Allow yourself that gift. And if you do.....it will happen for you.

I thought I paid for everything...

"Women made such swell friends. Awfully swell. In the first place, you had to be in love with a woman to have a basis of friendship. I had been having Brett for a friend. I had not been thinking about her side of it. I had been getting something for nothing. That only delayed the presentation of the bill. The bill always came. That was one of the swell things you could count on.

I thought I paid for everything. Not like the woman pays and pays and pays. No idea of retribution or punishment. Just exchange of values. You gave up something and got something else. Or you worked for something. You paid some way for everything that was any good. I paid my way into enough things that I liked, so that I had a good time. Either you paid by learning about them, or by experience, or by taking chances, or by money. Enjoying living was learning to get your money's worth and knowing when you had it. You could get your money's worth. The world was a good place to buy in. It seemed like a fine philosophy. In five years, I thought, it will seem just as silly as all the other fine philosophies I've had.

Perhaps that wasn't true, though. Perhaps as you went along you did learn something. I did not care what it was all about. All I wanted to know was how to live in it. Maybe if you found out how to live in it you learned from that what it was all about"

- "Jake" The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway

For he's a jolly good fellow

My best friend is a renegade, a poet, a musketeer in the best sense of the word. He goes looking for adventure and adventure finds him, I could say the same for trouble, but with every trouble seeker, adventure is the main pursuit. Not more than three hours off the plane from Bali, he's at a woman's house, servicing his needs. His bags are neatly tucked away at my house, door always unlocked, in case he needs to creep back in during the breaking dawn. Being on Bali time, he wasn't going to bed anyway, so its no surprise that he got no sleep last night. I've never stayed up waiting for him, because I know him, and I know what he and I get up to when we gallivant around foreign countries, shady back alleys and unknown city streets, so it came as no surprise when I couldn't get a hold of him this morning; I've picked him up from many a random house, and I knew he'd call if he needed a ride. That's what friendship is. True friendship. True friendship is never judging. True friendship is getting excited for them when they are growing, and setting boundaries when they could get syphilis. True friendship is listening to the harrowing tales of a broken heart, knowing this too will pass. True friendship is offering a helping hand, a loving hug or a slap to the head when needed. I live with this man. We travel together across continents, through airports, in and out of look-a-like hotels, into dark streets, loud bars, interesting predicaments. He is my blood, my sweat and my tears. He's a brother in the true sense of the word. For when I've needed a lesson, he has appeared as the teacher, and when I've needed a confidant, he's bee my partner in crime. I can honestly say I wouldn't be who I am today without this man. Maybe its the fact that we tour together every year that keeps our bond so strong, maybe its that crazy attracts crazy. Whatever the reason may be, I'm glad he's here, and I'll pick him up from any street corner, anytime.