My fiancé Preppy’s job requires him to rise in the pre-dawn hours a few mornings a week, in order to receive shipments at his store and get new merchandise on the sales floor. When I’m home, he always says goodbye and gives me a kiss on the cheek. I actually wake up enough to be cognizant of this interaction one out of every ten times, but it’s still a sweet gesture.For the last few months on the road, I have dreamed of this exchange, only to wake up in a hotel hours later and discover that it didn’t happen. It’s kind of a downer way to start the day. My sister Shannon believes in the power of our subconscious (not in a wackadoo Sylvia Browne kinda way, just a casual sort of thing,) and it has been her belief that the mornings I dream that are when Preppy has stood in our empty bedroom and wished I was there. I’m inclined to agree, because that makes us sound like lovers torn apart by fate and circumstance in an epic novel.
I wouldn’t trade the experience of performing for audiences all over the country for anything, but I think it’s going to fall in the same mental category as skydiving: Fantastic, a little uncomfortable, incomparable, and not something I need to do on a regular basis.
An interesting thing I’ve learned in the varied locales is that cities post no signage informing you that you’ve entered the bad part of town. Neighborhoods that look perfectly lovely in sunshine can take a surprising turn after dinner (residents of East Atlanta back in the day will be happy to confirm this.) More than once we’ve dropped off our suitcases in the afternoon at a sleepy little hotel, only to discover a gaggle of vagrants upon our return.
Last week in Oregon, hunger propelled me out after midnight to a nearby 7-11 for taquitos. My return trip to the hotel on the deserted street was impeded by two guys in a pickup truck, who stopped and beat the shit out of me. I wish I were kidding. I got away pretty quickly, and ran to a grocery store where I’d seen cars in the parking lot. The police were very kind and apologetic. Apparently there’s a bit of a crystal meth problem in the area, leading to a lot of random acts of vandalism and violence.
There’s been a consistent question about whether I was jumped because I was gay. I don’t think so. I was wearing flannel and munching on convenience store taquitos, which doesn’t really fit any homo stereotypes I’m aware of. But it does bring up another missing element of my life. Where the hell are the gays in the Pacific Northwest? Okay, I’ve suspected a few, but nobody presented their membership card or openly enthused about Adam Lambert, so I couldn’t be sure.
So I’ve been on hotel lockdown ever since the assault, and my show prep now includes covering my bruises with an inch of foundation. I could be another race under all that base and nobody’d be the wiser.
My nose, however, is the size of a baked potato, and my nostrils point in the wrong direction. I’ve never liked my nose, but I now think my uninjured nose is adorable. Cute as a box of puppies. I will never complain about it again. Those are the things for which touring has given me newfound appreciation: Early mornings with my fella, and my nose. Also, gays.
This morning we entered California, our final state. As we drove in, we had to stop at an official-looking booth, where a woman signaled for our driver to roll down the window.
“Welcome to California, sir,” she said. “Are you carrying any fruit in your vehicle?”
“Just one,” I shouted. “But I won’t be any trouble.”
I’m tired of what I once called my life being a dream I have in random hotels. If I can make it home in one piece, I’m gonna nail my feet to the ground.
There’s been a consistent question about whether I was jumped because I was gay. I don’t think so. I was wearing flannel and munching on convenience store taquitos, which doesn’t really fit any homo stereotypes I’m aware of. But it does bring up another missing element of my life. Where the hell are the gays in the Pacific Northwest? Okay, I’ve suspected a few, but nobody presented their membership card or openly enthused about Adam Lambert, so I couldn’t be sure.
So I’ve been on hotel lockdown ever since the assault, and my show prep now includes covering my bruises with an inch of foundation. I could be another race under all that base and nobody’d be the wiser.
My nose, however, is the size of a baked potato, and my nostrils point in the wrong direction. I’ve never liked my nose, but I now think my uninjured nose is adorable. Cute as a box of puppies. I will never complain about it again. Those are the things for which touring has given me newfound appreciation: Early mornings with my fella, and my nose. Also, gays.
This morning we entered California, our final state. As we drove in, we had to stop at an official-looking booth, where a woman signaled for our driver to roll down the window.
“Welcome to California, sir,” she said. “Are you carrying any fruit in your vehicle?”
“Just one,” I shouted. “But I won’t be any trouble.”
I’m tired of what I once called my life being a dream I have in random hotels. If I can make it home in one piece, I’m gonna nail my feet to the ground.
