I just came off a gruelling promo tour, you guys. You heard me—tour. Odette, Beth and I participated in the 2017 Impossible- to- Snag- an- Invitation -Unless -You’re -a- Huge – Celeb- Frye Festival during which we I read Follow the Goose Butt, Camelia Airheart
! was a total rock star. I know you’re super jealous, but being on the road for days half your life isn’t as glamorous as it looks. Fame can be gut-wrenching and thankless and in my darkest moments, sometimes I long for my old life back. Crazy, right?
When I stepped out of the car limo after arriving at the first gig, I knew my life would never be the same. I took a deep breath before being ushered into the library venue. I was handed tour swag in the form of a badge with unlimited access to all Frye Festival events (Na! Na! Na! Poo! Poo!), a schedule for the week, and as per my demand, a cheque family-sized bag of M&Ms (Red only. No peanuts. Room temp. Lined up in straight rows of 10 with each ‘M’ facing North.) for my dressing room. Boom. Famous.
It was show time! The kids groupies were screaming and rolling around on the floor like it was a mosh pit. The tension was palpable and you could feel the building shake. In a frenzy, I grabbed the mic and screamed, “Hello, Monctoonnn!! Miss Nackawic 1981 is in the hoouussse!! Are you ready to read rock??!” The fans were rabid—they laughed, they cried, and some even wet themselves! This was hardcore, you guys. At the end of it, I literally had to barricade myself as my devotees raced towards the stupid snack table me for an autograph. It was super awesome but also terrifying because security was nowhere in sight and I could have been trampled! Frig.
This is right before the stampede–no clue who these two are. I was photobombed. Obviously.
Here’s me all alone in the spotlight. I know I look super catwalk- ready, you guys, but it’s only because I was in the makeup chair for hours and hours, sipping lattes and screaming at my negligent makeup artist: You know I don’t look good in earth tones and I don’t give a #$% if my eyebrows are sparse or my moustache is scratchy! That’s no longer my problem. It’s yours!! PS My latte is freezing cold!! PPS You’ll never work in this town again!!! Omg, good help is impossible to find. Whatever.
The next stop was filled with highly demanding toddlers fans. These guys had literally zero appreciation for the arts or what it’s like to be on the road day after day, away from my family. They didn’t care one iota that my throat had a tickle and that I had to scream over them while they babbled, danced and drank non-stop from their stupid bottles. Omg—total divas. Those were the hardest 20 minutes of the tour, bar none.
After two days of my regular job rehydration and strict bed rest, the thrill of the tour was starting to wear off, you guys, but I wouldn’t hear of quitting because the contract was super clear in that I absolutely had to show up; touring is not for the
lazy weak, let me tell you. At the next leg of the press junket, I was greeted by a jaunty 8-year old girl who took one look at my oversized sunglasses and blonde wig disguise and whispered, “Are you the author celebrity?” I gave her a quick nod and she whisked me in through a side door. Once it was clear we weren’t being followed by the paparazzi, she offered me a drink from her juice box. I grabbed it. There was hardly anything left in it, for crap sake!! Google star treatment for once in your life! Honestly…
I didn’t even know which city I was in at this point, hand to God. Disoriented but hell- bent on giving the performance of a lifetime, I followed the self-absorbed girl down a dark hall to a fluorescent-lit room filled with starry-eyed wannabes. I strode past them, grabbed the mic and yelled, “Hello, boys and girls San Franciscoooo!!! Let’s read rock like yo’ Mama taught you!!!” They totally loved
us me, you guys, which made the exhaustion, chapped lips, and chronic throat tickle worth the physical toll this was obviously taking on me. The autograph signing was civilized for a change which allowed time for questions from the 8-year olds crowd: Can you sign my lunchbox bicep? Do you know my cousin, Braden Justin Bieber? Are you wearing a wig famous? Duh. Obviously.
As the last wisp of dry ice vanished, I knew it was my cue to hit the road again. Sigh. Would they remember me tomorrow? Would my signature on their lunchboxes biceps fade? Try grappling with questions like that at night and let me know if you still wish you were me…Didn’t think so.
Then there’s this…oh sure, the impressive line-up of people dying to meet
Diana Gabaldon me is super awesome but after hours of signing, smiling and having people bow at your feet, trust me- it gets old in a hurry. I just wanna be me…
I could go on and on but the truth is every city is the same. Every stage is the same. Every adoring fan? The bloody same. The second I closed the car limo door after my last performance, I felt gutted, empty, and utterly alone, you guys. It’s the part of touring no one talks about—I call it the underbelly.
Here I am in the
car limo regrouping and wondering if life on the road is worth it, before making the 12 kilometre long drive home. Missing my life so much right now…
By the end of the week tour, I needed my bed, I needed my space but mostly I needed my beloved Netflix family. One day I’ll tour again. How could I not when it’s in my blood!? For now though I just want my old life back. I want to go to the grocery store without getting mobbed so if you see me there, please don’t approach me unless I’m waving my Autograph Signing from 1-5 sign, okay, you guys? Air kiss and peace out.