It's 5am. Once again, I'm in same London hotel room not able to sleep. Didn't even need the drugs or the alcohol to stay awake. Every gay club in West London rocked out to all Michael Jackson and Denise Williams. I was in 8th grade again high as a kite. Taking a few hours to think about .......... nothing. No ground transportation, no guarantee pick ups, no routing.
This industry is a roller coaster. Any time someone has a heart attack i'm afraid of my stress levels. I know production managers who have died and / or had triple bypasses due to their levels of stress. And as I go into this meeting in a few hours to play who has the biggest balls, I'm contemplating, "why do i have to prove it all the time? Can't I have a respectable business in the music industry without my employees fearing me or my blood pressure rising?" And I think the answer is, to be good? no. To be at the top of your game? Hells no. I have to be constantly on my toes even if it's stomping out shit heads who are beneath me. But who's beneath me? And who am I to even have someone beneath me. It's just like Dina in Housewives of New Jersey who gave up success to take care of her child. Cept that bitch had a husband in the background who'd pay for shit regardless.
That's always my fucking hang up.
let me get back to my slingbox to watch part two.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Welcome to.....ALL MY ADVENTURES
I'm trying out a couple of my journal entries from tours past and present. Let me know your thoughts.
4:30am
RIIIIING!!!
“Hhhhello?”
“Ma’am?”
“Yes?”
“Um, do you have any black guys in your party?”
“uh…yes.”
“Well one of them is in the hall way….asleep….and naked.”
[insert opener]
How does one resolve these situations? By leaping up with a video camera of course to get it all on film, something to laugh about on the bus later. Something to roast marshmallows to and drink Heineken Darks in the middle of Europe to. I don’t know. Something funny. The elevator opens on floor 3 and that’s when the smell hits me. Suddenly, this doesn’t seem so funny any more. There is a security guard standing just outside of the suite area…staring down, gripping his Billy club. BILLY CLUB? This Midwest mutha fu…..I pick up my speed and focus on what the security guard is focusing on….a grown man, fetal position, drooling into a puddle of vomit and….oh dear God no…is that? FECES? Jesus Mother of Mary.
“I am so sorry sir. Is housekeeping around?”
“They’re not going to clean THAT.”
“Well if I could procure a bucket and some Pine-sol I could help…but you’re going to have to help me a out a bit here…really. Stop ogling and MOVE.” Fucking rent-a-cops.
My sound man drags him into the room. I run bath water. He chooses to leap into his bed with vomit and feces, his own, on his feet. He’s moaning loudly. I’m pouring water onto the floor trying my hardest not to throw up and/or jump off of the Sheraton balcony because I have a Masters Degree and I’m cleaning up a 30 year olds shit.
I call down to the front desk.
“Hello, I need a bucket. Someone is sick.”
“Yes, ve aer all sick.” Smart ass Indian.
“Yeah, well do you want it in the hallway all night or do you want to help me find something to clean it with.”
“It ees 5 oclock een zee morning….housekeeping duz not show up until seex oclock.”
“Fine then I’ll go back to bed.”
“WAIT! I vill bring to you bucket.” Fuck.
SO to keep under raps that our lead “rapper” has mistaken the common hallway for his suite bathroom, I must endure the wrath of shit duty. I’m too nice to wake anyone, particularly since I don’t want anyone, not even group members, to know. His new name would be “Shitty Wonder” or “Sponge Bob Shit Pants” or “Shit E. Ricardo”…then he’d be mad, he’d start firing people, I wouldn’t be able to pay my mortgage….etc. Shit happens, right?
Shit clean, back to the lobby to drop off the bucket. The first car of the morning for the first group is standing by. The New Yorkers are ready to go. One hour later will be the Arizonans and then the Angelinos. I don’t think Shit Boy (see, I’m even starting) will be up by then. I see the others off, thank them for a great tour and see you in 2 weeks! I stagger, red-eyed and nose fried back into bed and wait.
I tell my assistant of the evenings “goings on”. She calls his room. Of course he has missed his flight, but we knew that. We were just going to wait until Frankenshit arose and would put him on the next flight back to LA.
He doesn’t answer.
My assistant goes to the room to bang on the door.
Still no answer.
“Tina!! What are we gonna do? What if he’s dead?” She’s getting nervous.
“We’d sell 3 million records?”
Okay, bad joke. I calm her down and tell her to wait for him to come out of his drunken slumber, but be ready -- he’s going to want to get the hell out of there fast. I had him scheduled on the next 3 flights, the airport is 20 minutes away.
We wait another 45 minutes. Check out is in about 30 minutes. We have to wake him. Shit, now I have to call front desk. I wonder how fast the news spread through the staff? The best thing to do would be to get him out of here, through the service entrance.
“Security please. Yeah, I’m gonna need for someone to let me into suite 1708. We believe someone is passed out in there and isn’t hearing the alarm. He won’t be out by check out if we don’t get him out. Can you help us please, Sir?”
“1708?”
Here come the jokes.
“Yes. 1708.”
Pause. “We’ll be right there.”
We’ll? What were they sending? A fucking Shit Calvary?
My assistant stands by and Security opens the door. He’s awake.
“I thought you were the maids again. They keep knocking on my door.”
“No Dude, that was me. It’s almost noon.”
“I missed my flight?!”
“Yes, you were passed out and you’re fucked up. Look at yourself.”
“I ate in the bed?”
“Ate in the bed?”
“Yeah, that’s jelly in the bed.”
“No Dude, that’s SHIT in the bed. YOUR shit.”
“No it’s not.”
“Yes it is. And it was a big deal and the whole fucking hotel knows. Get your shit and let’s get out of here.”
“Somebody must have put something in my drink.”
That or the whole bottle of Patron Silver you drank after the show. The 4 other drinks you had at the after party, or the cold fries. Yes, that or a Mickey. Let’s say, “mickey”.
“Midwest-towners thought to have slipped Mickey into rap stars drink while at reggae night at local undisclosed bar.”
That’s about as likely as George Clooney calling me to really take me away and not invite me to invite them to play at his 45th birthday party. Pro Hoes (our term for athlete groupies) have it so much better.
And what should I say to him? Anything? Since I am his mother, sister, best friend, representative of all baby’s mommas and such?
I see him off and promise never to bring me or my kind to that hotel EVER again.
4:30am
RIIIIING!!!
“Hhhhello?”
“Ma’am?”
“Yes?”
“Um, do you have any black guys in your party?”
“uh…yes.”
“Well one of them is in the hall way….asleep….and naked.”
[insert opener]
How does one resolve these situations? By leaping up with a video camera of course to get it all on film, something to laugh about on the bus later. Something to roast marshmallows to and drink Heineken Darks in the middle of Europe to. I don’t know. Something funny. The elevator opens on floor 3 and that’s when the smell hits me. Suddenly, this doesn’t seem so funny any more. There is a security guard standing just outside of the suite area…staring down, gripping his Billy club. BILLY CLUB? This Midwest mutha fu…..I pick up my speed and focus on what the security guard is focusing on….a grown man, fetal position, drooling into a puddle of vomit and….oh dear God no…is that? FECES? Jesus Mother of Mary.
“I am so sorry sir. Is housekeeping around?”
“They’re not going to clean THAT.”
“Well if I could procure a bucket and some Pine-sol I could help…but you’re going to have to help me a out a bit here…really. Stop ogling and MOVE.” Fucking rent-a-cops.
My sound man drags him into the room. I run bath water. He chooses to leap into his bed with vomit and feces, his own, on his feet. He’s moaning loudly. I’m pouring water onto the floor trying my hardest not to throw up and/or jump off of the Sheraton balcony because I have a Masters Degree and I’m cleaning up a 30 year olds shit.
I call down to the front desk.
“Hello, I need a bucket. Someone is sick.”
“Yes, ve aer all sick.” Smart ass Indian.
“Yeah, well do you want it in the hallway all night or do you want to help me find something to clean it with.”
“It ees 5 oclock een zee morning….housekeeping duz not show up until seex oclock.”
“Fine then I’ll go back to bed.”
“WAIT! I vill bring to you bucket.” Fuck.
SO to keep under raps that our lead “rapper” has mistaken the common hallway for his suite bathroom, I must endure the wrath of shit duty. I’m too nice to wake anyone, particularly since I don’t want anyone, not even group members, to know. His new name would be “Shitty Wonder” or “Sponge Bob Shit Pants” or “Shit E. Ricardo”…then he’d be mad, he’d start firing people, I wouldn’t be able to pay my mortgage….etc. Shit happens, right?
Shit clean, back to the lobby to drop off the bucket. The first car of the morning for the first group is standing by. The New Yorkers are ready to go. One hour later will be the Arizonans and then the Angelinos. I don’t think Shit Boy (see, I’m even starting) will be up by then. I see the others off, thank them for a great tour and see you in 2 weeks! I stagger, red-eyed and nose fried back into bed and wait.
I tell my assistant of the evenings “goings on”. She calls his room. Of course he has missed his flight, but we knew that. We were just going to wait until Frankenshit arose and would put him on the next flight back to LA.
He doesn’t answer.
My assistant goes to the room to bang on the door.
Still no answer.
“Tina!! What are we gonna do? What if he’s dead?” She’s getting nervous.
“We’d sell 3 million records?”
Okay, bad joke. I calm her down and tell her to wait for him to come out of his drunken slumber, but be ready -- he’s going to want to get the hell out of there fast. I had him scheduled on the next 3 flights, the airport is 20 minutes away.
We wait another 45 minutes. Check out is in about 30 minutes. We have to wake him. Shit, now I have to call front desk. I wonder how fast the news spread through the staff? The best thing to do would be to get him out of here, through the service entrance.
“Security please. Yeah, I’m gonna need for someone to let me into suite 1708. We believe someone is passed out in there and isn’t hearing the alarm. He won’t be out by check out if we don’t get him out. Can you help us please, Sir?”
“1708?”
Here come the jokes.
“Yes. 1708.”
Pause. “We’ll be right there.”
We’ll? What were they sending? A fucking Shit Calvary?
My assistant stands by and Security opens the door. He’s awake.
“I thought you were the maids again. They keep knocking on my door.”
“No Dude, that was me. It’s almost noon.”
“I missed my flight?!”
“Yes, you were passed out and you’re fucked up. Look at yourself.”
“I ate in the bed?”
“Ate in the bed?”
“Yeah, that’s jelly in the bed.”
“No Dude, that’s SHIT in the bed. YOUR shit.”
“No it’s not.”
“Yes it is. And it was a big deal and the whole fucking hotel knows. Get your shit and let’s get out of here.”
“Somebody must have put something in my drink.”
That or the whole bottle of Patron Silver you drank after the show. The 4 other drinks you had at the after party, or the cold fries. Yes, that or a Mickey. Let’s say, “mickey”.
“Midwest-towners thought to have slipped Mickey into rap stars drink while at reggae night at local undisclosed bar.”
That’s about as likely as George Clooney calling me to really take me away and not invite me to invite them to play at his 45th birthday party. Pro Hoes (our term for athlete groupies) have it so much better.
And what should I say to him? Anything? Since I am his mother, sister, best friend, representative of all baby’s mommas and such?
I see him off and promise never to bring me or my kind to that hotel EVER again.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Dialnet - My hero
There is a very special store on Melrose, one block away from Johnny Rockets. They fix that stupid charger port on the stupid Blackberry when it goes bad...which it does, every 3 - 6 fucking months. I have about 4 blackberries because black berry simply has you return the phone and gives you a new one. Whereas, these brilliant, i dunno, Armenians since we're in LA and all, have come up with the brilliant idea of REPAIRING THE PORT. For $60 you can be happy. $60 and 2 hours. Which sometimes sends me into a frenzy, but at least the port is repaired and I can charge it without tying a band aid or duct tape around my phone.
It's truly the little things in life that can lift my whole day.
It's truly the little things in life that can lift my whole day.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
"My Dogs wear my collars, Sirs. And let no one at this table ever forget that."
Oh Helen Mirren, oh Queen Elizabeth. If people just understood that. It doesn't have to be a bad thing. I mean, people are slaves to a corporation who just have a bunch of men folk in charge. Why a woman gotta be all a bitch and shit if she does the same thing. It's far too complicated to have to explain equality, so you just have to start ball chopping. I'm convinced of this. I think I'm going to make that saying a t-shirt.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
36 hours and counting
I'm looking across my hotel room to my made up bed at 9am. Nope. I shore didn't sleep in it. Nope, I sat on the couch at the end of it with both of my computers out and advancing every summer show I had. Toured the new house I'm renting with my gay husbands. Shopped on Amazon for my Boo. Packed. Showered. Lathered my leather still sunburned skin. Listened to Roberta Flack 4 times. Yelled at Talent careening down the hall with her London peeps. And Ichatted. What the fuck is it about London this trip that leads me to insomnia? Sure just 4 days ago i was 11 hours behind here. But that was FOUR DAYS AGO. I think this is what they call age. At one time I could globetrot without missing a beat. And while no beats where missed, my body is shore nuff tired. And nothing in particular happened in London to excite me. A flurry of French waiters in each restaurant, but I wasn't up on my game. Too sleepy. Then I get to my room and stay up all night. I NEVER stay up all night. Not even to cram in college.
SO I'm going to get on this bloody plane and knock myself out, literally, all the way to Philly.
Roots 2nd Annual Picninc this Saturday June 6th.
Holla!
T
SO I'm going to get on this bloody plane and knock myself out, literally, all the way to Philly.
Roots 2nd Annual Picninc this Saturday June 6th.
Holla!
T
Monday, June 1, 2009
BURNT SUGAR
I'm so black Greg Tate ain't got nuthin' on me. I am completely and utterly sunburnt. I just swore up and down that my melanin would save the day. I am sadly mistaken. I was awoken this morning, not by the sun rising over Diamond Head, not by waves lapping outside my door, but by my sheets stuck to the back of my legs. I tried to move but used the back of my arms which also stuck. Then I tried with my shoulders who, as their fellow limbs, were also stuck. The burn of sunburn. I've been sunburned before, hell i'm from Sacramento. I remember 109 degree summers. It's starts on my little rosy cheeks and then maybe my shoulders. But my back and my BOOTY? Lord have mercy even my BOOTY is sunburned.
But it was for a good cause.
I rode a 7 foot wave. Oh yes, I did (said wave photo not included). I rode it looong and haard. I didn't falter, fall, succumb, nothin! I rode that muthfucka til ITS wheels fell off. OH hells yeah. And then I did it again.
I put in 4 days in a row of long hard surfing. And just when I thought I was good and could take day 5 by storm? Sheets stuck on the back of my ass. Walking in the sun actually hurt. I'm Indian black. Which I don't mind. I just hate that I hurt whenever people touch me. That's some white shit man! First surfing, then the Fat Boys break up, now this.
However, I stayed in the best hotel EVER. The Waikiki Grand hotel. 1 block from the beach. I can see the break I surf from my lanai. And did I mention the best part? It's GAY FRIENDLY. And did I mention the next best part? You know how hotel bars are usually poppin'? Well this one was poppin' and it's a GAY BAR. They showed Donna Summer and Jody Watley videos, excerpts from gay themed movies like "Mambo Italiano" and "the Bird Cage" and anything John Waters. They had a male reveiw Thursday through Saturday nights. AND, did I mention the 3rd best thing EVER? Besides the kitchenette I had in my cute condo, I cooked for me and my girl who rolled out on a humbug from NYC. So we had bacon, eggs, croissants, coffee and guava nectar all on the lanai....Roberta Flack crooning from the IPOD, and what do I see rolling down Kalakaua Blvd? A GAY PRIDE PARADE!!!!
Can you imagine what the bar was going to be like AFTER the party? Child, we ate and ran to the bar for $2.00 bloody mary's and all the topless boys you can see. The lesbians were friendly. I told the first ones we were straight and they stopped talking to us. But the next few gals were cool as cucumbers. Found out all of the great house music hangs, concerts in the park, that 70% of the military was gay - "don't ask DO tell"....it was amazing.
All before 11:45am.
That's when I headed out for the surf.
By the time I came back, I was a chocolatey new sensation. Amazing. So I thought.
Til this morning. Now I'm happy to leave this island.
That and my Surf Boo's daughter got really ill so I didn't get to have that final romantic evening I wanted. Such is life when dating dudes with kids. I had to really think about that. Do I want to date someone with kids? And I do. By the time my old ass has a baby I want them to already have siblings. Plus I like guys who have kids already, and are actually apart of their lives and take care of them. If only they can make room for newness in their lives and no baby mama drama I'm all in. Hell, I'm still friends with my ex boyfriends ex wife, so anything is possible.
Oh Honolulu....I'll be back in 2 weeks. With some 87 proof sun block. Surf boys are still CRAZY fine.
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