I Have Not Yet BEGUN to EMASCULATE

So my new homie Zo Williams had this full on convo with me about the way women have got to stop emasculating our men.  And I thought about it last night long and hard because I usually discount these sorts of conversations.  Emasculation to me is like Reverse Racism.  It just don't make sense.  Like only ONE type of person can be discriminated against or one person can be sexist but not anyone else.  But since the Supermoon was out and we were under it in the streets of Ladera Heights I was feeling compelled and forgiving and compassionate and shit....and I realized....all of the guys who came to the house sauf for a few randoms, came bearing gifts (alcohol, easy) paid their $5, and told me I had a beautiful home.  Seriously....there were maybe 4 who didn't.  Them little fast ass girls that came through who acted like they ain't neva had an ounce of home training?  THEM.....bucking their black girl eyes at me...not even looking for who's home it was....seriously?  Oh and the teeth sucking and eye rolling. It made me think...are we that bad?  There were high heeled shoes and lipgloss and poom poom shorts....although I should have paid more attention to that one, she was serving food to people without being asked.  I can use a big bootied food server on my team.  But I digress....there were a slew of wack ones....a SLEW.  All that sizing up and purse carrying....I do not miss that about my 20's.

IMMIGRATION: And other frightening tour stuff

I believe one of the most eregious moments of tour management is processing immigration.  It's the one thing that can change your heartbeat in a matter of seconds.  Worse than a bad hotel.  Not having your shit together when you get to Customs can set off the whole tour.

Not just because you can't talk your self in....You can always talk yourself in.  I'm a master of talking my parties into other countries.  Talk about eating humble pie.  You have never seen such Uncle Tom Coonery in your life since probably the Big Minstrel Jubilee of 1900.  I don't show up in black face.  I do not tap dance.  I just shut the fuck up mostly and say "oh yussuh...nosuh...you right suh....how could they suh?  Damn shame indeed suh.  No you ain't stupid nasuh...we don't think you is suh....the name was spelled wrong suh...yes I should have checked it out suh I'm sorry suh.....Yes they are a loud bunch suh...no...no drugs....wouldn't dream of it suh....well you see, my cataracks suh....yes well those are all prescription too suh.....ya see we's been out here a mighty long time suh..."

More important than that is you have to keep all of the coons and loud obnoxious entitled American's you carry with you quite and in check.  And I mean don't even breathe hard.

I had a guy go off at Ireland Customs...like crazy.  Lost it.  All my fault.  I said to said Diva..."Dude , let me fix it"....said Diva pouted and kicked.  Customs agent was like "tha fuck is wrong with him...he a Diva or something?  That attitude will get you no where"....I spent the rest of the afternoon begging said Diva to come out of his room....the promoters threatened to sue us....we got him in.  I don't even think we had a guitarist that show....and it lasted all of 45 minutes...possibly under.  It was horrible.  Moral is, I now check spelling and I know I can get a stomping coon into a homogenous country with a lil bit of "le shuck and le jive".

So as I gear up for summer...creating all of these immigration forms, dotting my I's and crossing my T's....it's now 138am.  I've been at this all day.  I'm addicted now.  Moreover, I don't want to stop because a break may lead to a bad pick up tomorrow.  What if I forget something?  And then it's Pori/Stockholm Sweden all over again.  The day I crossed so many I's and T's that I left my own passport in the hotel....well, it was in my purse, someone looked at it and didn't put it back in my purse.  Jumped on a private jet (cuz they didn't really ask you for your passports back in the olden days - pre Sep 10 , 2001) and away I went.  I couldn't connect.  I said I'd catch up.  The festival couldn't get my passport to me until Monday (it was Saturday).  I had a show in SAN FRANCISCO on said Monday, and the US Embassy was closed (1 dude who was out "uh...it's a weekend" "DUDE THIS IS AN EMERGENCY!"  Fricken Americans.).  I drug myself to Berns...my favorite hotel at the time where our usual promoter met me.  It was like the scene in "What's Love Got To Do With It" when Tina showed up and said "I do not have any money...but if you could give me a room just for the night I swear I'll pay you back...."  Horrifying.  But I too, made it to San Francisco in time for the show....thank God for a 10 hour head start (time change).

So what did I learn from that?  Check for your passport before you leave the hotel.

Oh I have a million of them...but going down memory lane is depressing.  Lemme go to sleep.