Tag Archives: feminism

Post Tour Blues – Report 2 of 2

…continued from Report 1.

Finally being able to have some privacy keeps you isolated as well.  Even if you live with someone else, compared to road life, the amount of privacy you are suddenly allowed is a shock.  We tend to try to take advantage of this, which also keeps us isolated and susceptible to PTB.

One of the things that you really need to adapt to on the road is the lack of privacy, which I have discussed in the past.  Everyone knows when you poop, everyone knows what you look like in the morning, everyone knows how many times in a row you’ve worn the same shirt without washing it.  Everyone knows when you’re upset, everyone knows what your underwear looks like because you often consolidate, and do each other’s laundry.  Basically, everyone knows everything.  It’s like having 11 live-in boyfriends/girlfriends.  Yes, this can sometimes be a nightmare, but it can also sometimes be the most at home you’ll ever feel.  You and your bus-mates become a little fucked up family.  To add to this, it is a constant friggen peanut gallery.

On the road, I cannot do something as mundane as eat a saltine cracker without someone making a comment about it.  I cannot stand how everyone feels the need to ask what you’re eating every fucking time you put something in your mouth.  This isn’t a tour thing, but it’s just enhanced on tour because someone is always around.  I can be eating out of a chip bag that is the size of my torso and at least one person will say, “what you got there?”

I usually don’t respond.  I will just sit there, six inches from someone, and blatantly not respond to their inane question.  People must think I’m either nuts or just an extreme bitch, both of which I will not dispute.  If I opened my mouth I would end up saying, “Unless you went blind between now and the last time I saw you five minutes ago, I think it’s obvious that I am eating some chili lime flavored Lay’s.  Is there something so fascinating about this that propels you to ask such an annoying rhetorical question?”  Instead of saying all that, I just ignore the person.

I know that I have referred to Wal-mart run’s before, but I’m not sure that I have ever fully explained what they entail.  I think it’s obvious that it means that the bus stops at Wal-mart, but this almost always happens at 2:00 in the morning, after a show and approximately every 5-7 days.  Mostly we get groceries, but it is also your one opportunity to get everything that you need.  So, if I need to buy tampons or underwear (in the case that I haven’t been able to do laundry in years) this is my time to do all of that, so sometimes you just need some damn privacy while running this errand.

Often though, 0069 ends up sharing a cart with me and we end up rolling down the aisles on the grocery carts like they are sports equipment, and then playing bumper carts with at least one of the other crew/band members instead of being productive during this errand.  I think Jackhammer and I played a brief game of hockey using a can of pigs feet as a puck in the canned meats aisle.

2:00am Wal-mart run!  This is us NOT being productive.

2:00am Wal-mart run! This is us NOT being productive.

We really did need groceries and thermal shirts, but somehow this is what we left with.

We really did need groceries and thermal shirts, but somehow this is what we left with.

During one particular Wal-mart run, I explored the $5 CD bin.  I collect CD’s so of course I’m going to check out the selection just in case I come across a gem.  And I did!  A Chevelle album I didn’t have.  Score.  So I was walking through Wal-mart, and the only thing in my hand was a CD, while everyone else from the bus had shopping carts full of cereal and canned pineapple.  Every single one of them that I happened to walk past, made a comment about the CD and how it was strange that I was buying one.  Neat.  Thanks for your input, the last five guys said the same exact thing.

Then I go to order a Diet Coke at the McDonalds that is inside of the Walmart, because I love supporting our capitalistic society run by big corporations and corn byproducts.  If I am not already annoyed because of this, and the pure fact of being inside of a Walmart which goes against my entire lifestyle of trying to live low impact, I hear “oh god.  What did you do to yourself?”

Me: What?

Bus-mate: You got McDonald’s?!

What I’d really like to do here is simply ignore this question and not say anything at all.  Like I said, I do this often, so they are all relatively used to it.  Well, as used to being blatantly ignored as you can get, but in this case, there was nothing else around to distract him, so I had to answer or else be further antagonized.

Me: I just got a Diet Coke.

And even if I had ordered some french fries or whatever, I don’t need to hear your opinion on the subject.  It seems to be a surprise to you, but I have managed to get through my entire life so far, without your incessant commentary.

Then, I get back on the bus and have to hear from the English Hooligan about how bad Diet Coke is bad for me.  I already have grown to accept the fact that I am going to get Lupus due to aspartame poisoning, so let me just grow disease ridden in peace!  He feels the need to comment on my Diet Coke intake every single time I have one, even though he has a milkshake or two every single day, and chicken wings and a cheeseburger every other day, but somehow, “that’s different.”  He’s rolling his eyes and shaking his head right now.

Girls get it worse I think.  The attention that I get as a female on the road is one of the best and one of the worst parts about being a chick roadie.  The down side is that like I’ve already said, everything I do is commented on, but with an added cascade of sexist undertones.  “So, you’re hanging out with {insert name of musician or crew member of another band here}.”

Uh, yeah… and you were just smoking a joint and shooting the shit with him two hours ago, so please spare me of your passive sexist remarks.

Every time I use a hand-truck, which is everyday, SOMEONE makes a comment about it.  It’s usually one of the locals and it’s usually something like, “Don’t they have one of the guys to help you with that?”

Do I help the sound engineer with patching?  Do I hang lights for the LD?  No.  So why would any of them help me cart around t-shirts?  It’s what I’m paid for.  This may come as a surprise to people, but I do get paid for my work.  I cannot tell you how often I have been asked if I get paid and every time it is hugely insulting.  Many people assume that I’m essentially a glorified groupie.  So let’s set the record straight, this is how i make most of my living, yes I get paid fairly well, no I am not someone’s girlfriend and yes I travel on the bus; they don’t strap me onto the roof like cargo.

At the Fonda Theatre in Hollywood, the first thing that the PM said to me was, “Whose girlfriend are you?”  I looked him in the eye, and just turned and walked away.  He went on to get what he deserved, which was a lot of ridicule from a drunken, Norwegian guitar player who laughed in his face and asked him upon meeting him, “Why do you keep grabbing at your crotch?” among other hilarious observations about this guy’s existence.  Beware of the drunken musicians my darling venue staff, because they don’t give a fuck.

Now I am home, and as nice as the privacy and lack of a constant peanut gallery is, I do miss my roadie families.  Every time I’m home, it takes a while to adjust and I don’t know what to do with all of the privacy.  When I walk into an empty house, I think that I should do something “forbidden” just to take advantage of being alone.  Like eat a bowl of ice cream for breakfast while naked with Ace of Base on full volume and dance on the couches and tabletops.  Or at least call a hot boy to make-out with.  Then I remember that I’m crazy, so I just make a salad instead and read the newspaper and yell at it when Dick Cheney is quoted or when Rick Scott tries to pretend like he is not a subhuman who has profited billions off of sick people.

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Confessions of a Heedless Sinner – Valentine Edition 2 of 2

…continued from Edition 1

After having really good friend chem and vibing well again with Hunter at this festival he says to me, “Let’s go into the middle and get weird.”  How would you take that?  I assumed that he meant let’s go deep into the crowd and cause a ruckus. We’ll be obnoxious and dance and laugh and all of that goofy shit.  Cool, I’m down.  So he grabs my hand and leads me into the very center of the crowd. He then places me in front of him and pushes against me and I can feel his penis on my back. Ew.

I’m WAY to passive, and instead of leaving right then, I just kind of stepped forward so that I was no longer in contact with him, and was silently trying to figure out a way to dip out without making it awkward. Approximately two seconds later, before I could properly asses my predicament, he took my hand and pulled it behind my back, and put it around his dick. I swear to fucking God that this guy took his whole dick out in the middle of a crowd of people while this show was taking place. I could not believe that this was happening. I didn’t know what to do or say, so I just quickly reclaimed my hand and ran away.  I say “ran,” I couldn’t make a very quick exit because there were so many damn people in the way, so I did hear him shout to me, “did I offend you?” To which I didn’t even waste my time with, and kept walking then exited the festival wishing that The Trojan was with me.

Did you offend me? I think on the grand spectrum of the offensive scale, you offended me on every level, yes. Not going to waste anymore time discussing that. It makes me sick.

Like I said, I was sober, but having a cocktail alone at a bar to take a moment to wrap my mind around what just happened seemed appealing. I took a seat at a bar stool and called Fat Face. He knew that something had transpired, he knows me well and knows my vocal tones, so I think he knew that he needed to come to my rescue. I downed two whiskeys by the time he got there, and he took a seat next to me, told me that I, “look really pretty tonight,” (which I thought was super sweet because we don’t often talk like that too each other. Usually he’d say something more like, ‘oooo girl, you are lookin’ damn fine tonight!’ and laugh) and ordered a Yuengling. I told him what happened, and he was appalled. He said that I am absolutely too passive and should have squeezed Hunter’s dick off. We went on to have a relatively deep conversation that made me feel a little bit better. Well, kind of. Fat Face’s presence always makes me feel better, but the conversation concluded that there is something wrong with me.  There is something I must unintentionally do to attract that type of male degradation.  According to Fat Face, shit like this doesn’t happen to other people as much as it does me.  He then invited me to go to some other bar with him where he was meeting up with some of his work friends that I don’t know.

My initial response was something like, no I should leave you alone… I might cock block you tonight if I’m with you, considering it’s Valentine’s Day and all. He put his arm around me and said, “Cait, shut the fuck up.” So I shut the fuck up and followed him to a nearby bar. I was a good girl and made small talk with his friends who I liked and Fat Face and I did our typical thing… I spit in his drink, he did some bell hops, we argued over music, made fun of other bar patrons and harassed each other until closing time. Typical.

When we were leaving, I spotted a man who could not walk heading toward his truck. I don’t know that I have ever seen anyone as drunk as this guy was. He somehow got in his truck, which made me nervous, turned on the ignition, but then just passed out cold. Cool. He’s not driving. Normally I don’t get involved with shit like that, but it was definitely my moral duty to my fellow citizens to not let this guy on the road. I was being chill, and figured that I’d knock on his window and tell him that I’m calling him a cab. Problem solved.

Of course Fat Face gets all involved though and thinks that it’s a good idea to go inform the bartenders inside. Fat Face doesn’t give a shit about anything, I could call him telling him that my house is burning down and he’d be like, “I’m taking a nap.”  For some reason though, of all the things that he could get invested in, he decides to get all up in arms about this and try to man the fuck out of this situation. I just rolled my eyes and let him think that he was doing the right thing after he failed to agree when I made the point that the bartenders will do zero things to help this. However, Fat Face tells them anyway, and next thing you know, there are two schmucks that look like the type who failed out of Police Academy had overheard Fat Face talking to the bartenders, and who are now over there also trying to man the situation and get involved in the action. For some dumbass reason they wake the dude up and tell him that he should go. What the fuck? I was pissed. Fat Face and I watched in horror as the guy started driving.
“Watch him run into the building,” Fat Face says jokingly. Two seconds later, “Oh my God he’s really going to run into the building.”  The guy doesn’t even pretend to turn out of the parking space, and instead slowly rolls forward, smashing into the glass window facade of a brand new gym that is one door down from the bar. Tight.

Fat Face is now getting all frantic saying, “Cait. Call 911. Cait! Cait! Call 911!” Jesus Christ Fatty, shut the fuck up, I’m on it. So I call 911 and have a nice chat with them as a fight starts breaking out. What a douchebag bar scene. That’s when I told the dispatcher that I was peacing out of there. Once someone got knocked out cold, and was laying in the middle of the street unconscious for a scary amount of time, I informed dispatch that I couldn’t wait for the cops because things were getting sketchy, and she told me the fire department was on their way. As we were pulling out, the fire trucks were pulling in and Fat Face giggled with delight and said, “I kind of feel like I caused this.” Yes you absolutely did, you twat.

And that was my Valentine’s Day of 2015. A perfect exchange with a cute boy, a terrible onslaught by a gross man and a Cait and Fat Face adventure.

To be perfectly honest, after that rollercoaster of a night, I was glad, and felt it was oddly appropriate that I ended up with Fat Face on Valentine’s night because after all of my adventures and confessions… and no matter who I am fucking or loving or currently dating, Fat Face is always my favorite person to end up with at the end of the day.  True friendship is the most romantic thing of all.

I stayed the night over his place because it seemed like the responsible thing to do. He lives close to the bar and at this point, I had been drinking and knew it was not a good idea to drive all the way home. I would like to take this moment to let all of you know that Fat Face not only has one zebra printed bed comforter, but two. He also has a Chik-fil-a calendar hanging on his wall and for some absurd reason, about 15 boxes of Milano cookies sitting next to his bed. Again, Fat Face is hot and single and I will provide his contact information to any eligible women.

Update!  The following fucking day, I saw Michael.  Jesus Christ, talk about 36 hours of testosterone overload.  Someone pour me a drink.

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The Adventures of Touring with a Rock Band – Part 15

I am currently home, just got done with another tour, and got a call from my good friend who was on this last run with me.  He immediately skipped the small talk (something I deeply appreciate in people. When a conversation begins with, “Hey! How are you? I am immediately uninterested) and began with, “so…. I have this girl over who is saying that she is possessed by a demon that she acquired in my house so she can’t leave, what should I do?”  First of all, WHAT?  Second of all, if she was possessed by a demon in your home, wouldn’t she want to leave?  That’s too rational however for the types of girls that he fraternizes with.

Now, let me give you some insight on my friend, who we will call 0069. No, I did not just make that pseudonym up. Him and I are so mature that we gave each other code names when we decided that playing spy at our age would be fun. If you’d like to donate some spy equipment, rearview glasses and walkie talkies would be greatly appreciated. I’ll forward you my address. Anyway, 0069 is one of my road family members along with the rest of the band and crew that I love working for the most. To describe 0069 as an “instigator” would be a severe understatement. I believe that he makes it his goal in life to be the number one most offensive and vulgar person in the world. With that being said, I have nothing but love for him.

It takes a lot to offend me.  I am offended by any form of prejudice, the word faggot, Bill O’Reilly and crocs.  That’s about it. Oh, and by couple’s who sit on the same side of the booth together at a restaurant when it’s only the two of them.  Point is, I can get down with the boys and be grossly inappropriate and degrading.  I regularly participate in rating girls on a scale from 1-10 with the guys, making jokes about cerebral palsy, laughing at dick and poop jokes and encouraging one-night-stands for the single dudes on the tour even when there most certainly will be an STD and/or a fat girl involved.  It gets dirty on tour and 0069 thrives on the filth. There have been only two times in my touring life, in which I was offended.  Offended might not be the right word, but there have been two occasions when the behavior taking place in front of me was so foul, that I had to walk away because I felt a.) slightly sick to my stomach and b.) too uncomfortable being associated with that level of abasement.  Of course, both times was when 0069 was in full effect.

The first instance was the first time that I was present for one of 0069’s “night calls.” Whatever you are thinking, that is exactly what it is times ten. A night call is when 0069 calls a girl and pretends to have phone sex with her while all of us are listening. Simply putting his phone on speaker phone would not be over the top enough, so he plugs his phone into the bus stereo system, so that we can hear these classy ladies orgasm in surround sound.  At first it was funny, and we were all sitting in the front lounge trying not to burst out in uncontrollable laughter as the guitar player started making that fast suction cup noise with his hands right up against the phone, making it sound like 0069 was jerking off… or fucking a duck (which is what I thought it sounded like).  I will admit, it was pretty damn entertaining, but once her groans and intense breathing started getting wildly intimate, as a fellow-female, I did start to feel bad for the girl who was currently being humiliated.  I had to walk off of the bus because even though this chick has to be a fucking idiot, I did feel like I shouldn’t be associated with that level of degradation.

The second instance was after I made a bet with Gus, wagering that J. Jackhammer (the guitar tech) could get action one night when we were at some terrible DJ dance party thing.  Obviously, that is not our typical scene, but I won’t get into why we were there because it’s not an interesting story.  Jackhammer got that nickname while we were all at dinner one night, and I was annoyed with the guys and disappointed that I had not yet seen a bear or a moose since being in Canada.

Wolfgang asked me, “Sex is enjoyable.  So why don’t all girls put out?”  To which I said, “Because it’s not always enjoyable.  A lot of the time guys are just jackhammering you.”  J. then said something which I’m sure was asinine, but that’s our language, and whatever it was that he said, Wolfgang called him, “The Jackhammer” and the nickname stuck.  Back to the night of the dance party, and Gus said that there was absolutely no way Jackhammer was going to get laid before bus call which was 2:00am and it was currently 1:30. I had faith. Let’s get real, guys on tour have an advantage because all they need to do is find a girl wearing a skirt and who is at least mildly drunk and say, “do you want to check out the tour bus?” Done. Panty dropper.

The entourage of us, which included some of my crew and the guys in one of the support bands who all look like H&M models, hit the dance floor and after performing my legit dance moves, I got in wing-girl gear to win this bet.  I had no time to waste, and literally pushed Jackhammer into this girl who looked promising and then she giggled. Bingo. I kind of did a fist pump/raise the roof move around them, to encourage dancing, and then Jackhammer took it from there.  I knew he’d have game.  I got distracted for a while by the H&M models and R-dizzle who was being high and hilarious, and twenty minutes later we all realize that Jackhammer is still dancing with the tween.  It looked like I was going to win the bet!  I won’t continue with the tedious details, the only important thing is that 0069 sabotaged my bet. However, I still believe that I won because in my world, fingering a girl on a dirty dance floor still constitutes as getting action.

0069 had to one up Jackhammer (or grotesquely up everyone) by bringing “beauty number’s one, two and three” onto our bus. I am positive that at no point did 0069 know one of their names. Of course, they were called, “beauties” upon their entrance, but of course after their departure, they were referred to by all of us as bitches one, two and three. It was like Dr. Suess gone Charlies Bukowski. Due to a brilliant coincidence, paired with 0069 always taking it to the extreme, Bitch #2 was the same girl who Jackhammer was with minutes before. Jackhammer hid, and the three bitches were in the front lounge with 0069 and playing what I can only call, “let’s make-out!”

0069 made-out with the largest girl of the three, (which of course the boys later described as a whale, though in her defense I would describe her more as a walrus), for no reason other than it was extremely offensive and vulgar, while the other two girls just sat there and watched. So awkward!  Me and R-dizzle, watched from the vent in the door. I was literally on my hands and knees, peeking through the vent, giggling and spying on 0069 and Bitches 1,2 and 3 like I was a character from Gossip Girl. I had a moment of clarity upon realizing that I was the only person who was stone cold sober, so why am I trying to hide? They probably won’t notice or care if I just blatantly watch instead of hiding in my own “house.”  So I just walked out into the front lounge and started filming the whole charade which turned out to be my cinematic masterpiece.  I majored in film in college, and created a lot of works, but I would credit this as my magnum opus. I feel I really encompassed the crudity of the moment. While I was getting good material, I had to leave.  It was foul and again, I didn’t want to be associated with this level of female humiliation even though these girls were gross and not exactly deserving of my moral conscience.

While I have absolutely gotten down on some gnarly behavior, it doesn’t even come close to what 0069 does when he is in full effect. Just feed him some whiskey “down his neck” (as the English-men would put it) and you’ll almost always have a story to tell the next morning. Due to this blog, people who don’t really know me, think that I am always a party. No. Most of the time on the road I am reading or counting t-shirts or trying not to bother everyone with the loud noises caused by me chomping on carrots and hummus. 0069 is the party, I’m just the collateral damage.

While he pisses me off sometimes, and while we haven’t known each other very long at all, I’d say that we are close. We just have an unspoken understanding and we like each others flaws. So, 0069 calls and asks my advice on what to do about this possessed girl, which I respond with, “put arsenic in her drink.”

He said, “unfortunately the corner store is all out of arsenic, wooden spoons, thick rope and stove foot spa combos.”

Me: “Hmmm, if you lived here in Florida you could just shoot her and get away with it due to the stand your ground law.”
He then went on to send me a picture of her to which I said, “she looks like she has TB.”

OF COURSE, (because it’s 0069), he said back, “Tight Box? Yes.”

Brilliant.

 

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The Adventures of Touring with a Rock Band – Part 13

It’s times like these that vitalize my “yes” policy.  I just worked on a short tour for a band whose lead singer, B, I knew from doing Warped Tour back in 2010 with her.  She asked me to do this run with her new(ish) band.  I almost said no, because they weren’t paying my normal rate, and you don’t want word to get out in the industry that you will work for less.  B’s my girl though, and I have a personal policy, which is that I say yes to every new opportunity, even when it seems scary.  Especially when it seems scary.  I am so glad I said yes because in only two weeks I fell in love with everyone and the world seems a little bit more colorful right now.

At first, I was having some anxiety (for reasons that I won’t bore you with), but in only a few hours, all became well; as it always does.  The first circumstance that calmed me was, “could you take my picture?  ‘Cuz I won’t remember.”  You know the song.  It was a hit in the 90‘s.  I was doing my merch girl thing, selling during the set, when Filter, who was the headlining band, started playing “Take a Picture,” a great guilty pleasure song and I took a deep breath, let the song penetrate and everything felt in balance again.  Music has magical powers.

The venue that first night had a bar area upstairs that was designated only for band and crew members.  Even though I was exhausted from traveling that day, I figured it would be a good way to break the ice with everyone and get to know the people I was about to live with for two weeks.  B and I caught up over a couple of drinks, and I remembered all of the reasons why I love her.  She is just an interesting person and talking to her doesn’t feel like talking to a girl.  We absolutely have girl talk, but we also talk about music and pooping and fucking and politics… conversations that you don’t always get with another chick.  The next thing I know, B and I are on Filter’s bus partying while simultaneously trying to be diplomatic and not get sexually harassed.

When getting to know the other bands on the tour package, you have to realize that you represent your band.  Even though I’m not a band member, when I meet the crew or musician’s of the other bands on the tour, I understand that I am, in a way, an ambassador to the band that I am working for.  It only takes one shitty exchange or incident to put a bad taste in one’s mouth, so that’s where the diplomacy comes to play.  To the not getting sexually harassed part… I’ll start by saying that there is an art to being a girl on a tour, and out of a four band tour package, B and I were the only girls amongst 24 guys.  Being a female crew member is tricky.  You need to be likeable, but professional.  You want these guys to remember you because this is how you get new gigs.  It’s all word of mouth.  I have a strict, no tour romance policy.  No romances with anyone on your bus, or with anyone from any of the bands that you are also touring with.  This can be difficult, because you meet a lot of cool boys.  However, that would get complicated VERY quickly, and it adds to reasons why being a girl on tour is an art. If you start hooking up with one of them, (there is absolutely no way of keeping that a secret) you go from being a crew member, to the girl.  That is not a good place to be.  You need to be one of the guys, but flirt enough so that the guys want you around… but not enough to where they don’t take you or your position on the tour seriously.  I suppose it’s like that in any male dominated profession.  It’s a balancing act to be well-respected and get people to take you seriously.  The whole reason I began this rant, is to say that B and I ended up on Filter’s tour bus, and we played the game, and played it well.  She is in a different position than I because she is a musician, not crew, but I’d imagine that she has the same obstacles, just slightly different circumstances.  She needs to flirt a little bit, but also be taken seriously.  An art.

The rest of the tour went something like this…

Wake-up.  Truck stop poop.  Coffee.  Read.  Walk.  Work.  Drink.  Party.  Drink.  Sleep.

It was beautiful.

One of the days they played early at a music festival, so we had the majority of the day off and went to a mini theme park in some irrelevant town outside of Houston.  We got our ass kicked by a wooden rollercoaster, drank margaritas and watched a swarm of catfish slaughtering each other.  It was one of the most primal things that I’ve ever seen.  I should have taken a video.  Later that night, I developed a crush on our guitar tech, played cornhole (until Christian gave our TM’s girlfriend a black eye with a bean bag) and got to wash my hair (a rare opportunity).

Little Rock, Arkansas.  Downtown Little Rock is always a good time.  Who knew?  I didn’t think anything relevant happened in Arkansas except for Bill Clinton.  However, each time I pass through Little Rock, I have a good experience.  They have a great book store, exactly three cool bars, fucking weird 3D art along some sidewalks, a river and a bunch of bridges.  I am a big fan of heights, so I find myself walking on bridges a lot.  Christian, the guitar tech, and I discovered that these bridges serve as a make-out point after 9:00pm, for kids under the age of 21.  No, we didn’t make-out (no tour romances, remember) but we did find a rainbow bridge!

 

I always take pictures when the person is not looking.

Rainbow Bridge.  I always take pictures when the person is not looking.

Finding bridges became a tradition with Christian and I.  We named them all.  There is Suicide Bridge, Rainbow Bridge and Horror Bridge.

Nashville.  We were homeless for a day in the city.  We had to get off of the bus at 8:00am, so that it could be fixed, and we didn’t get it back until that night.  We got breakfast and were like… now what?  We roamed around some souvenir shops, entertaining ourselves with bedazzled shot glasses, and ridiculous bumper stickers that say, “Kiss me!  I’m from Nashville!”  Then we had to find somewhere to shit, so we ended up at Hard Rock Cafe, because that was the only place open, as it was still before 11:00am.  If you ever go to the Nashville Hard Rock, just know that all of the members of the band shit in that bathroom.  Bloody Mary’s?  Yes please!  Another bar?  Yes please!  I think we were all buzzed before noon, but B and I took the rest of the afternoon to sober up.  I know that I can be quite the drinker, but I never drink before a show.  I’m dealing with a lot of cash, and a lot of mental math and I try to be at least semi professional.  So B and I walked around a Barnes and Noble and goofed around in the “As Seen on TV” section of a nearby Rite-Aid.  I think the rest of them continued to drink because we walked into the venue to discover this:

PASSED OUT!

PASSED OUT backstage.

Somewhere in Kentucky I believe, is where I fell in love with M.  Not in a romantic way, but in a, I officially respect and appreciate who you are and you are forever cool in my book, kind of a way.  He is the guitar player of the band, and he actually started talking about music.  That never happens.  You would think, that traveling with bands, music would constantly be a topic of conversation, but it’s quite the opposite.  This is the first band that I’ve been out with where the band members discuss other bands and their love for music.  We were all (minus B and the bass player who went to see a movie) at a Bar Louie, enjoying the late night happy hour with the band’s manager when I noticed that M was starting a conversation about music.  It took me a second to realize what was going on, but once I did I was ALL in, taking full advantage of the rare occasion.  Him and I were stimulating the conversation the most, so we would name a band/artist, and go around the table, making everyone disclose their opinion about it.

M: Bob Dylan.  Go.
Dave: Big yes.
Christian: I get the appeal but it’s not something I listen to.
Me: Great songwriter, but other people perform his songs better than him.
D: Overrated.
And so on…..

We discussed everyone from Blink182 to Bob Marley, and talked about which album we would bring with us to a deserted island if we could only choose one. We told stories of the best live show we have seen and confessed what bands we would love to play in.  It was so refreshing to hear people in the industry still being passionate about the industry.  I know so many musicians who never listen to music.  It’s strange.  So that conversation is what made me fall in love with them as a band, and especially M since he was the most fervent and I think was the only one who wasn’t simultaneously on his phone.

At the end of the tour, the band left before the crew did, so me and the three other crew members had the bus and no work for three days.  This turned into what was essentially a 72 hour bus party.  Fellow touring folk understand what that means, but I will explain.  A bus party starts with an iPod being hooked up to the bus speakers.  Generally there is one person who is sort of designated as DJ, but we all take turns playing whatever we want.

Side note: Kyle, the drummer for the band Helmet, might take first place as bus party DJ in The Caitlin Awards.

Anyway, for a good bus party, I recommend Katy Perry.  I thought I was a hater, but Christian, Drew and Rhett made me realize the error of my ways, and we danced for hours to Katy Perry.  Best idea we’ve ever had.  The bus was parked in a mall parking lot, so from the outside I’m sure it looked like a war was taking place because of how much the bus must have been shaking.  On the inside, just imagine four adults, jumping up and down, using hand-held lights to create a strobe light effect, playing lots of air guitar, and climbing on seats.  Bus party.  Oh, and of course add extreme amounts of Jameson.  In three days, I’m sure that between the four of us, we must have done close to 100 shots of Jameson with a pickle back.

Bus party.

Bus party.

 

Air guitar.

Air guitar.

In between bus parties we spent hours in a Dave and Buster’s, literally had to walk a half of a mile every time we needed to shit (I know I talk about pooping a lot on these touring adventure stories, but I want everyone to understand what a goddamn ordeal it is.  Don’t ever take for granted the luxury of always having a toilet handy), woke up screaming at each other from our bunks that it smelled like balls in bunk alley, found a laundromat and Iced Drew three times in one night.  He was a trooper about it and took it like a straight up All Star.

Drew getting Iced.

Drew getting Iced.

I will conclude this with saying that I fell in love with Christian when I played “Cry Little Sister” the original, by G. Tom Mac, and he immediately knew it, and we bonded over our love for that song and our love for The Lost Boys.  I am such a sucker.  However, because I remember what Ms. Distler taught me in high school English, one must always conclude an essay by repeating what we just learned, which in this case is, I have my “yes policy” to thank for those two weeks.

The crew.

The crew.

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