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.

Oh if every day was a pleasant day...

It's time to advance ZZ Top and I've got laryngitis. These aren't arenas or places I've been before. These are ballrooms, county fairs, and whistle stops in deep Texas. I can't whip out the old email threads and contact someone online. Nope, this time I need to CALL. Call the venue and try to locate the correct person. When did calling people become so daunting? In the world of email, text, skype, BBM, twitter and AIM, how on earth do you even know how to speak anymore? And when you do, its rushed, because you are speaking like you're texting or typing, you just need answers, no need for pleasantries. That's something that's gone out the window. So sad. When someone actually asks "Hello, how are you doing" you are taken aback... "uh....fine.....fine?" We call for answers and execution, not for conversation. And yet, how much more enjoyable would day to day interactions be if they were all pleasant? It may take twenty more seconds to lead into a conversation with a "How is your day?", but its guaranteed that the rest of the conversation will be better than it would have been without it. Because you're not barking orders or snapping off questions, you've taken a breath; A moment to recognize that you are speaking to another human being, who has needs and lives in the world, and that in turn makes you realize that you too are a human being that has needs and lives in the world, and then you stop and take a minute for yourself and adjust and relax, and all of a sudden, its pleasant... which is why we call them pleasantries.

Wedding Weekend What?!?

You stand there, perfectly put together, smile plastered on your face, and you're numb. It's all a blur. From the getting ready to the pictures to the ceremony, All of a sudden they are asking for rings and you immaculately produce one, then people are clapping, and its over. Married. Oh then all chaos breaks loose. Wine all around! Girls!!! Giiiiirrrrls! Get over on the deck we need the wedding party! Where is your mother!?!? Giiiiiirls! You can drink later I need you here now! Bride? Where's the bride. No! You just stay where you are. GIRLS! It's pandemonium. Lipsticking, hair flicking, dress straightening, heel clasping, boob placing crazy-ness.and that just keeps going. I find myself going in and out of consciousness, I'm on auto pilot. I look around and everything is in slow motion, it's like I'm underwater, everything is muffled. Even now I can only remember about five conversations I had that night, and I talked to so many people. Adrenaline coursing through your veins, and then you add alcohol to it? You're dead. I held it together till the very end, then I went from all good to.... a fucking train wreck and put myself to bed. Everything was fine, but I flipped fast. 12 hours of drinking? Family? Pressure? Hours of small talk. Yup, that's enough to kill anyone. And the small talk. Oy vey! No sir I don't remember Desert Storm and I wasn't around for the Iran Contra Scandal, I'm gonna make my way to the bar. Oh no ma'am I don't believe I do know that line of Laura Ashley and I'm so glad to hear your daughter didn't turn out to be a crack addict like you'd feared. Really? You think the weather is nice? I think it sucks actually and I'm sorry to hear about your heart palpatations, no I can't recommend a good cardiologist.
What is WITH these people!?! And who starts a fight over gay marriage with a 65 year old man? They were gonna come to blows! People were clearing away furniture! Hello!!! You're 30 years old, 6 foot 5, 250 pounds! Let it go! And who fell asleep on the toilet, to wake up to the cleaning crew, all alone hours after everyone had left? Not me thank god! But what's a good wedding without good stories. "don't know how I got this!" says a friend the next morning as she points to an egg on her forehead the size of a Volkswagen. Don't remember? Shit by the look of that I'm surprised you remember your name right now."i just threw up in the bushes" says another friend as she makes her way to her rental car from the front desk. So I guess it was a wedding. Everyone survived; though their ego's may be damaged, their bodies are still functioning... some better than others. The important part is that the bride and groom are happy and currently having sex on a beach somewhere, not thinking about family or to do's or anything but each other, a well deserved vacation. So yeah, it was fun, I resembled a warrior more than a party guest, I guess that's what family does in those occasions. I know when it comes to my wedding...should I ever choose to have one, it's gonna be on a beach, and if you wanna come, great, if not, I'll tell you the stories when I get home. But here's to the traditional wedding, in all it's glory. Good job this weekend team, it will live on in infamy....at least those parts we can remember.

Women on the road. What a funny idea. Out of 75 touring personnel there are 5 women out here. I decided it was time to have a girls day. So we went to get our nails done damnit! We did it all, mani's, massages and mimosas! It was awesome. We chatted like a knitting circle. I don't think people realize the life out here and what its like for a woman to function in it. Out of the five of us, we each have five different jobs: a production assistant, a press and promo girl, a caterer, a dressing room girl and a lighting chick. We interact throughout the day but don't work in the same divisions. For instance, I work alone. I don't have a team along side me, neither does the dressing room girl. Whereas the caterer has a team of men, as does the production assistant, and the lighting chick works alongside men as well, one being her husband. So we all interact with men differently during the day. I tend to deal with building reps, managers and promoters. I have to be feminine enough to be inviting but not so feminine that I'm sexy because that is intimidating. The Production Assistant needs to ooze sexuality so she creates a certain vibe in the office, very much like the secretaries of the 50's and 60's, but she can't actually BE SEXUAL, as that would create inter office stress and unneeded emotional turmoil, so she needs to be a chaste, while being sexy. Then there is the Dressing Room Girl, who spends time inside the band's coveted lair. She hems their clothes, fetches their underwear, brings them meals. This could be considered a very close relationship, but better not get too close. This is such a fine line that the wives of the band members had to interview her and give their seal of approval. So you can imagine how she dresses everyday....basically she can't look like a woman. She wears hoodies and baggie dickies in true roadie fashion. She's a gorgeous girl, but she's been given fair warning by her predecessor, don't even think about exposing belly or bra strap or you'll get canned. So that brings us to the catering girl, who works her ass off, hauling tubs of ice and cleaning up after local stagehands. She's the den mother. Cute as a button but with a steal coating you can't penetrate. She needs to be all smiles and laughs to everyone that comes into catering, no matter what. Catering is the place of comfort during the day. Food is you're only break. The only time you have to sit down and relax. So you walk in and are greeted by our smiling catering queen. The shit she gets from truck drivers, cranky roadies and lazy locals I can't even tell you, as she wipes the sweat from her brow and once again cleans the salad bar. Finally, the lighting chick, who pulls cable with her bare hands and fixes moving lights like a surgeon. Makeup is a ridiculous waste of time to her when she has a 5:45am lobby call, and what for? Her husband who's standing along side her barking orders at the local labor to move truss? This ain't no romantic comedy. She's decked out in a black hoodie and black pants just like the rest of them, on purpose, to look just like the rest of them, no need to draw attention in a sea of testosterone.
So there you have it, a woman's life on the road. The five of us. Pulling our weight everyday in this world of male-ness. I've heard certain terms and justifications for having women on the road; "One for every ten", keeps men in line, keep them sane, keep the energy balanced. Then there is also when you don't want more women "throw out the bleeders bring in the breeders". Yup, its quaint aint it?

I don't even want to get started on trying to find a shower in a venue with a door that locks, or what happens when you have to buy tampons at a truck stop with ten of your compadres behind you in line. Or that time you wore a skirt to work, you know just to change it up, never mind that it was down to your knees, you got so many cat calls you changed half way through the day so you could get some work done.

And then there are the OTHER women around, the ones who DON'T work with you, the visitors, the ones that just cause you a headache and remind you who you can not be under any circumstances. Like the time you came into the front lounge and there was a stripper passed out, alone, without her clothes on. Or the time your fellow roadies girlfriend got drunk and walked around the bus just in her bra? Or when your friend decided to pull a couple hot chicks from the crowd, brought them on the bus and they puked in the back lounge? Or the production runner who decided to work the whole day without a bra? Or the time the promoter rep for a local venue came out to party and got so hammered she started making out with everyone. Awkward.

Yup, women on the road, its a complicated story. So that's why, on a day off, after a long bus ride, I decided it was time for the five ladies of the road to join together and get Manicures and Mimosas. It was fun, if only for a fleeting time, as we laughed about our fellow roadies, commiserated about our shared pain, and giggled about our silly lives. We had fun, as girls do, as girls should, and then we went back to our male dominated days. We'll do a girls day again soon, we owe it to ourselves, we owe it to each other.

*C

So our lead singer got the flu. A serious flu in fact because we've canceled five shows. That's 10 days off. 10 days off for a roadie is dangerous. Right about now I guarantee you half a dozen roadies have completely depleted their bank accounts due to excessive alcohol consumption (as well as other party favors...we are near the Mexican boarder after all) and another half are crawling the walls from trapping themselves in their hotels rooms to NOT deplete their bank accounts. Either way you lose. We are not the sort to be lazy, so when you give us all this time off, and we have nothing to do, we go crazy. And it would be one thing if we had real "time off" and we could go home, or even take a few days off to travel to the coast and relax, but we're on call, waiting for the next chess move in this game and we are at the mercy of the band, so we need to stay put and wait it out. Waiting it out today means in a Hilton hotel room downtown Houston. Have you ever been downtown Houston? Did you know it the fattest city in America. When you ask a local what you do here they answer "eat and shop". Here, you get arrested for skateboarding, there are signs everywhere that say "this is not a camp ground" and there is zero culture. It's almost like some strange reality show they've got us on, we're on candid camera. The plot: How long till they loose their minds.

Everything is sand beige. Everyone is sand beige as well...so boring. BUT the highlight so far...the hotel was hosting a Chess competition! Grade school kids, running around with enormous statues for winning chess tournaments! that looked THRILLING!

My friend met a girl in a Thai restaurant who had tattoos, he asked her where to go to have some fun in this town, she smiled and said, you mean where people are...."open minded". Yes. That is a key ingredient, especially in Texas. Open-mindedness is so often taken for granted in the circles we swim in, and yet, two days with nothing to do in Houston will tell you exactly where your mind is.

I needed to do laundry today, since it had been 10 days since my last load. So my friend and I took the hotel shuttle over to the only Laundromat in the downtown area...a nice ten minute ride from the hotel, and as we pulled up, there were 8 other roadies doing their laundry! Laundry party! Liquor store was next door...it actually WAS a laundry party! Leave it to us to make anything into a party.

So tonight is some arcade bar where there is skee ball and PBR. Perhaps we'll have some fun. Perhaps I'll come home early and watch more episodes of Mad Men on my laptop. Either way, we're off to Dallas tomorrow...so we can wait some more...so we can fly to Vegas...so we can wait some more. Have you ever wanted to work this bad? Does it sound strange? Perhaps, but it totally puts into perspective what you enjoy doing, and one of those things is putting on a rock show, and damn do I love putting on a rock show....I can't wait till the next time I get to put on a rock show. Get better soon lead singer...please God...get better soon....

I'm at a waterslide park in Orlando...

Have you ever wondered where the term "ugly American" comes from? I'm looking at it. So I figured, with three days off in Orlando, Florida, why not go down some water slides? I think I'm scarred for life. I've vowed never to eat fast food ever ever again. But onto sunnier topics, I went to Bruce Hall's house for his son's birthday party on the 5th. For those of you who don't follow REO Speedwagon, Bruce Hall is the bass player. The whole crew was invited to attend, we drove over in the bus and parked on his palacial estate. I found it interesting that the neighboring palacial estate (with the same layout but in terracotta rather than stone gray) was in forclosure. Even rockstars can't distance themselves too far from reality. It was a lovely time. We ate burgers and ice cream cake and felt a sense of home for a short time. Watching 13 slightly overweight roadies in their late 40's and early 50's eat cake and drink soda in a sea of kids made me break out in a quiet laugh as Bruce passed out brownies. REO Speedwagon has been a journey thus far. A journey into a certain reality. All the hot chicks are gone, the blow dissapeared long ago, instead, wives pictures poke out of wallets and images of kids are displayed proudly on iphones. There is a sweetness to the whole thing, a sense of a brotherhood, and it's comforting knowing that even when the late nights turn into early bedtimes, the band plays on. We walked into the main foyer and there, displayed in all their glory, gold records and bass guitars. Bruce Hall's Hall. It was rather breathtaking. It wasn't the Hall of Records at Graceland, but then, nothing is. I turned to a nice looking man with a long white ponytail tucked into a basball cap, smiled and said "thanks for having us in your home". He winked like Santa Clause would to a kid with a tray of cookies and turned to attend to the grill. They really are very happy. And I feel honored to have been a part of such a sweet day, Tomorrow we play Lampe, MO. Lampe is 45 minutes north of Branson, Missouri. Hopefully I'll make friends with some local folk and aquire some grade-A moonshine. Here's hoping.

goodbye to a good one...

a really amazing girl I know is leaving LA. She's been here two years,
built a solid reputation in the industry and is off to Austin. Her
story is not uncommon; she had her heart broken by a boy and feels its
time to move on...move home really, back to Texas where she can "be
closer to her family" who live in Houston a mere 2.5 hours away. She
plans on picking out a cute new one bedroom for no more than $700/mo
because that's standard, and getting a freelance job in the industry
just like she did here. Her tone is optimistic and light. She reflects
on the good times had in LA and is hopeful of new adventures before
her. Yet she does have a sad quality in her voice when she says "this
place is crazy though ya know, I feel like the last two years have
been a blur", And I understand what she means. As she said it feels
like you never get any traction in LA, like your always moving and
rather frantic and the highs are really high and the lows are rather
unbearable. Its a funny place this Los Angeles. Full of dreamers and
wish makers; hope and despair share equal sides of the coin. I feel
the city itself is anthropomorphic, a living breathing organism with
character traits and mood swings and everyone has a personal
relationship to it. I wish my friend well, knowing that going back to
her roots will suit her well. It will be safe and yet independent and
all together a good fit for her 6 foot blond varsity volleyball frame.
I can't help thinking I've lost another good one to the holes of LA,
that people come and slip through and don't stick around; but that's
the nature of an animal, its ever changing. So here is to good people
and good times, happy trails and new adventures. May we all be so
lucky to have good friends to say farewell to on our journeys to new
places~ adios Regan Beam.....

There are times when you find yourself in a good place, and you are not sure what is going to happen from there, but at the moment, all is good. The people are good, the mood is good, the conversation is good. I'm working for a band that is so incredibly wonderful, as people, that I am blown away. Which is sad actually. I'm shocked at their warmth, because I've never felt it from a band before...and that's rather sad if you think about it. They laugh, they hang out on your bus to shoot the shit, they ask you how YOU are doing. It's rather odd actually, and I continuously find myself being surprised. But its more than that, as there are many considerate musicians, its the playfulness and family feeling between crew and band. It's the blurring of the lines between the band and the crew in its traditional etiquette. Maybe its because this group of men have been playing together for decades, and have had the same crew for nearly as long. Seasoned is a word that comes to mind. Is that what it takes? To have played the same songs so many times, to have toured so many years, to have seen so many randoms enter and exit different green rooms never to be named and never to be seen again. Perhaps it takes a certian humility, an acknowledgement that you've gone this long, you should be thankful for the gifts your given, the fans you have and the nights you get to play to packed houses. Its like....these guys are living in reality. Its the sense of reality that is often the missing ingredient in the rock star swagger; the air of "I don't care". The confidence in their stare as they come with money signs in tow. Is it their head that wells or is it manahgement who does it to them? or the media? or the fans? We all want to blame someone for the break up of the Beatles, the end of Cream, the fall of Britney, but only beacause they were once so exhaulted that we need answers. It must be a cocktail of various forces at play. However if the artist...can remain an artist....and weather the storm of outside influences..perhaps....they will survive. And to survive, as I have witness over the last few days, looks like a lot of laughter, warm embraces, smiling fans, generations of family backstage, long talks on cool buses in humid climates, and beautiful sunsets during your set to a crowd who cheers for your songs. Doesn't seem all that bad

GLEE LIVE! the first night of the tour....

Glee. Ohhhhh Glee. If you haven't heard of or seen the show Glee, you're living under a rock....underwater....on Mars. It seems that Glee is bigger than Miley Cyrus and Justin Beiber combined. And this audience isn't tweens. These are very well dressed, mature...as in ...in their late thirties to early forties, a lot of them are gay and all of them LOVE Glee. They were glued to their seats, they didn't even leave to pee or get a beer. They jumped, they cheered, they sasheed their way home. Never in a million years did I think I'd see men and women in their eighties tonight, but there they were, a bunch of them. And whoa what a white crowd. Maybe that's just Phoenix, but there was noooo color in that audience. So what did I learn? I learned that my 150 people could buy over 5,000 dollars worth of merch in half an hour. And I learned that Corey Moneith, the guy who plays Finn, the football player, is a total sweetheart and a sucker for attention and hauled his co-star, Amber, the black chick, up to my party for a little pop in. Totally caught us by surprise and then there was chaos! We dealt with it like the pros we are...but...come on guys....its time to stop pretending you can casually mingle with the crowd...you sold out an entire tour in an hour.

So they came, they signed things, and I had to push them out of there so I could finish my party...aka...hand out tickets. All in all, I would give the show a A+. The pipes on these kids! Its freakin amazing! Its one thing to see the TV show. On the TV show they are brilliant, but you know that they are recording the songs in studios with engineers and lip syncing over them on the show. Here it's live....and their THAT GOOD. Amazing. Broadway. Fantastic. I got chills so many times I lost count. Lea Michele is one of a kind.

Of course everyone from the production team was sweating bullets because supposedly all their heads are on the chopping block if anything goes wrong. Fox has so much money invested in this thing that tensions are riding high high hiiiiiigh. Lets hope they all walk away...richer than they already are???? and don't be surprised if "Glee the Movie" is in the works. This is television. Fox. they are gonna milk this for all its worth. And you would too if you were an executive watching this show tonight, everyone was standing and jumping and having a ball. Its like...a whole new side of karaoke. cuz lets not forget...thats what this show is. They even play Sweet Caroline, which I think ranks as the most sung karaoke song ever. Pretty cliche and a nice gab of sarcasm from the creators of the show.

So there you have it. Glee Live! Its a phenomenon. And its a beautiful show, both visually and musically. Everyone obviously has but so much work into this. And the production team they have is first rate...i mean....the lighting designer alone could be in the rock and roll hall of fame for the amount of big name bands he's worked for. But man were they nervous about Glee. ohhhhh the irony.

that's it folks, that's all I got.

Why is it that when you have nothing to do you do nothing? I have so much time on my hands and yet i do nothing with it. I mean in the sense that I don't produce anything. If your bored it's because your boring. I feel like if I have a month off of work I should be writing the next great american novel, or writing a script or directing a play, but no, I just sit around and read books and go to the gym and see friends. Shouldn't I be DOING something, MAKING something lasting, having something to SHOW for all this time I have to work with. Some people are slaves to their jobs and they would do anything to have the time to write or paint or dance and yet I have all this time and I don't do any of that. I travel and I journal and I read. I sleep, I volunteer, I discover, I do crafts...I feel retired. How am I retired at the age of 27. Shouldn't I be building a yatch to go sail around the world? arent I supposed to be building an empire? Here I have all this potential and absolutely zero motivation. I guess its the classic 20-something issue of not knowing what to do with my life. How angsty. How cliche. How boring. So here I sit, blogging...to myself, so that I feel I'm at least writing something everyday. At least Im DOING that. its all blabber anyway. But I feel some people understand this dilema. This is why people have babies and families at this age, because they feel they have exhausted their own lives possibilities and its time to focus on a new challenge....a family. And thats what then takes up all their time for the next couple decades. Im not ready for that, and yet I'm bored with myself. Great. So now I'll go read some more, get ready to go meet up with a friend, then go see a friend's play; to watch her be creative, to watch her be a part of something, to watch her do what I shoudl be doing. oh the irony.

we have the right to refuse service

why is it that we give so much energy to ex boyfriends? Aren't they x's for a reason? Didn't we X them out of our lives? of our phones? of our email chains? of our circle of friends? So then why do they continually pop up and create a seething cauldron of emotion that sucks the life out of you? is it possible to dismember that part of your heart that for some reason will always have a parking spot that says "reserved for ____". And they can valet their shit in your heart space whenever they feel the need.
And unfortunately its not totally their fault, because YOU LET THEM BACK IN TO FUCK WITH YOUR HEAD AND HEART. it's a choice. to get emotional. its a choice, to let them affect you. Oh what I've give to be like a Buddha on a mountain and let the energy wash over you, unaffected and unwavering. What I would give for that control, that non-attachment, that distance. Nothing affecting you emotionally but just pausing and seeing emotions as they pass by you and through you.
Today I say goodbye to the x that continually batters my soul, knocking on my door expecting me to open for a chat and a quick bicker. Its not healthy, this back and forth, so today I say, the lot is full, no space for you, reserved sign pulled, go park your troubles in another woman's heart, this one's off duty.

Asparagus

"Mind if I sit on the end of this table?" I asked a pretty blond lady who
was delicately picking at her Whole Foods salad. She looked up at me a bit
startled, looked at the long empty table she was sitting at, alone, and
nodded. Each table could easily fit twelve people, yet each of them held a
party of one. Why are we all so afraid to share space? The woman smiled as I
sat on the far end of the table, on the opposite side by the window, a good
six feet away. As I clunked my purse down I laughed and commented on the
wall of brightly colored shopping bags she had barricaded around her, as if
she was hiding from the other shoppers. "You look like your hiding with all
those bags on the table", she answered with a smile, "well I like to keep
them close, you never know". I gave her a weak smile and sat down to eat my
food. You never know? You never know what? That a grocery thief could run
through at anytime and snatch your asparagus? Your sitting in the dining
area of Whole Foods for christ sake, this isn't exactly a war torn
territory. Are people always this paranoid now a days? Have we gotten to
that point where you worry that your groceries will be plundered by....I
have no idea what....before you can get them safely in your home? And
speaking of homes and food, I volunteered at the mission downtown today. The
rescue mission housed over 100 men and women who are part of a program,
funded privately and donated to regularly. The members of this program are
brought through a drug and alcohol abuse treatment plan for three months,
they are taught skills and work as cleaning attendants while they are there.
They also must attend church three times a day. Privately funded. Bible
belt. Three times a day.
But the whole point of this is to get back to groceries. I was working with
a group of university students from Ohio who were on an "alternative spring
break", where a large group will go do service projects in a city for a week
instead of say.... boozing in Florida. To each his own. So there was this
nice guy, Charlie, born and raised in Cleveland, who was telling me about
his week. It didn't shock me that he'd never been to Nashville, that he'd
never been out of the country and plans to go to Lebenon this summer; it
didn't shock me that he'd never line danced or volunteered before. What
shocked me was when he told me how "weird" asparagus was. Random comment I
thought. So I asked, "what's weird about asparagus? That it makes your pee
smell funny?" His eyes lit up, "It does?", my expression was a bit
perplexed, "ok so if not that, what's so weird about asparagus?", he replied
"its just that last night I had some for the first time. I'd never had any
before". "What?!?" My disbelief was astounding. "What do you mean? You've
never eaten asparagus? What else haven't you had?" I started rattling off
vegetables I would put in a daily diet and he shook his head to all of them
"Eggplant?" "No", "Squash?" "No", "Radish?" "No". Basically if it wasn't
part of an iceberg lettuce side salad or didn't come out of a fast food bag
or a microwavable meal, he had no idea what it was. This boy is technically
a man! He's 19. He goes to college! He's on a school trip! He can feed the
homeless but he can't feed himself. What the hell is wrong with our country?
So I'm my days reflections, I've decided that we should not take our
education, our food or our resources for granted. And that coming from
California, the land of perfect produce, I must understand how fortunate I
was growing up in the eden state of plenty. But also that there must be a
change if we want the nation to correct itself as far as health. Its
devastating.
But for today, Ill just try to handle myself, so with that, I crack open my
filtered water, stretch out at this enormous table (which has now become a
party of one) and get ready to indulge in a large salad, with a hearty side
of asparagus.

Ya'll Got Bud Light on Tap?

Ok, so I'm sitting in a bar, by myself, downtown Nashville, waiting for the line dancing lessons to start. Yup, true story. Half of the fun and terror of moving to a new place where you don't know anyone if forcing yourself to go out and try new things, and inevitably you will come to a moment, much like I just have, when you look around and start to second guess your gumption and truly start to wonder if this was a good idea. But, battle through, you must. Who knows, maybe I'll make a friend, maybe ill get in a bar fight, maybe ill learn a dance step, but I will leave having proved to myself that I have the grit to get out of the house and face the country music, sans confidant, and I'm stronger for it. While I sit here drinking my Landshark beer (which is more like a Bud light than anything else) I see a sea of blue Kentucky Wildcats t shirts, Reba blairs on the loudspeaker, the soft southern twang of the bartender flutters over the noise, and I am reminded of how truly far from home I am. Maybe this will be a new home someday, but for tonight, all I have to do is try to learn a couple dance steps. I hope you are loving life and learning with each moment.
Xoxoxo-C