Monday, April 14, 2008

Anne on Tour

According to Chekhov's famous dictum of theater, if there's a gun on the wall in the first act, it must be discharged by the end of the play. Likewise the words "on tour" set up clear expectations for silk scarves, driving goggles, and Cary Grant. Or at least groupies. Lots of groupies. Happy, drunken, worshipful groupies!

Alas, life is a lousy dramaturg.


5:30 AM: Bed.

6:20 AM: Airport.

7:20 AM: Airplane. Turbulence. Terror.

8:40 AM: Airport.

9:40 AM: Airplane. Turbulence. Terror.

12:40 PM: Airport. Begin to feel as if stuck in Philip Glass's lower intestine.

12:50 PM: Procure rental car (blue Dodge Avenger) from jolly woman with elegant moustache. Inveigle percussionist into driving and proceed to grind out, like a low-grade sausage machine, small talk whilst conducting desperate mental review of program for which am insufficiently prepared.

12:59 PM: Attempt to inquire about percussionist's second child's middle name and accidentally recite order of set that opens second half.

1:45 PM: Driving. Turbulence. Terror. Realize that's hunger and eat limp, personally-defeated personal pizza. Pay cash.

1:50 PM: Arrive at hotel. Discover hotel suite is booked in someone else's name.

2:30 PM: Finagle hotel suite and establish foothold in corner of bedroom. Disturbing number of televisions. Disturbing number of pillows. Prepare for rehearsal.

3:00 PM: Get call from percussionist: moiety of group has decided to spend the night in Connecticut and will not arrive until tomorrow.

3:03 PM: Call ex-boyfriend. Like you do.

3:05 PM: Practice.

6:07 PM: Set off for evening with ex-boyfriend who is driving black 1994 BMW that goes "beep" every 2.5 seconds. Attempt to navigate with tourist map and get lost 4 separate times on the way to and from ingestion of worst Vietnamese food in known universe. Ex-boyfriend makes numerous references to Lord of the Rings. Beep.

9:03 PM: Realize self has irremediably geeky taste in men. Sigh. Beep.

9:30 PM: Bed. Except not because, somewhere in cavernous, cheaply-constructed suite, something is clicking. Spend next hour and a half hunting for clicking noise before exhaustion overcomes sensory perception.

11:59 PM: Click.


7:30 AM: Up. Nervous. Eat 4 separate helpings of continental breakfast and observe Middle America at play. Middle America likes English muffins and so do I.

9:30 AM: Attempt to take pleasant morning stroll while waiting for rehearsal. Realize that, due to location of monster hotel in clear-cut at intersection of freeways, THERE IS NO WAY OUT EXCEPT BY CAR. Start up utility cut in a huff but turn back when power lines begin to buzz.

10:00 AM: Retreat to suite. Await call re: rehearsal.

1:00 PM: Still waiting.

2:30 PM: Rest of group trickles in from Connecticut. Go out en masse for chi-chi felafel. Locate concert venue and spend 10 minutes figuring out how to get inside. Do tech-in. Loiter. Eat atrocious, presenter-provided stir-fry.

8:00 PM: Concert! Admit no amount of cynicism can obscure fundamental awesomeness of playing in front of people there to appreciate rather than discriminate. Have fabulous time! Do encore! Shamelessly autograph CDs despite not actually playing on said CDs!

11:00 PM: Click.


5:15 AM: Bed-to-car transfer accomplished. No continental breakfast b.c. too early! Oh, sad.

7:00 AM: Realize percussionist has programmed GPS with the wrong airport. Turn around and gun the Avenger.

8:20 AM: Barely make flight. Airplane. Turbulence. Terror. Airport. Airplane. Turbulence. Terror...


OK, OK, so it was moderately awesome. But I fail to understand how people do this for living without falling over or frothing at the mouth.

And next time, there'd better be groupies.

No comments: