The
Traveling Hooker Boots, Part I
True enough, being in a band sometimes really is all about
skittles and free beer, or you could find yourself attempting to persuade irate
event security to drop all the charges and hand over the check, in spite of
that unfortunate door surfing incident.
And
sometimes it can just be physically painful being the only female in a band.
Ever think
about all the equipment (instruments, cables, amps, batteries, wireless setups,
etc.) you get to haul around when you go on tour? Add to that all the other
goodies, such as fellow band members, boxes of CDs (lesson learned - always
bring more than you think you'll need!), merch table set up, (and, of course,
the single most important item ... a cooler) and there isn't a heck of a lot of
room left in your average vehicle for girly stuff like mini-kilts and cool
shoes.
And, trust
me, I own some pretty cool shoes, including a pair of black thigh-high shiny
stiletto-heeled boots just bought on sale, referred to by one and all as "the
hooker boots."
Which is
all why, when a friend offered to lend me his new Ford Explorer for a weekend
gig at the Los Angeles Irish Fair last year, I shouted, "Hell yah!" and
accepted on the spot. Not only was the doohickey as big as my living room, it
had a GPS system that promised I could zip painlessly from Pomona to Long Beach
to another gig Saturday night (at Club Good Hurt - more about that later) and
still find my way back to the Pomona, and the hotel, in the dark. Which, trust
me, is a big deal as driving in L.A. terrifies me even in the daylight, and
when I drive at night, I terrify everyone around me!
So first
thing, come crack o' dawn Saturday morning, I'm peeling rubber on my way north
while balancing the overflowing cup o' tea on my lap while twiddling with the
knobs on the radio when the sudden realization hits me, I don't know where the
GPS is hiding in the car. A quick search reveals the unthinkable: I can't find
the power cable! But time's awasting and if we're not at the fairgrounds by 9
a.m. when the front gate closes to traffic, guess who gets to haul all this
stuff across two football fields? Wearing five-inch spike heeled hooker boots,
fishnets, and a mini-kilt? In broad daylight? Nah-uh. No way. No how.
Even after
getting lost a couple of times (hello L.A.!), I manage to get through the front
gate with five minutes to spare. Now comes the fun part: load in, set up,
locate missing (possibly still asleep) band members, and bow before the awesome
Gods of Sound. Oh yeah, and most important, finding the toilets.
The shows
go off with a minimum of damage - three sets spaced fairly evenly with plenty
of breaks for wandering around and checking out the other bands, signing CDs,
and posing with fans, as well as examining the various offerings of the beer
tents. Guinness, Guinness, and more Guinness. The holy trinity of Irish
potables.
The only
serious problem arises at the end of the day when, as we're bolting for the
parking lot and the next gig, I realize I can barely hobble about on my tip
toes. Too much walking around in new boots without "protection" and my feet are
sporting a crop of blisters that's getting worse by the minute.
OK, the
guys would never be stupid enough to have this happen to them - but sometimes
you've got to suffer for your art. A fan buying CDs tells me her husband
dragged them back to all our shows that day because he loved the "hooker boots"
and wanted her to see what she was getting for her birthday. Long pause as I
slowly back away from the table. Thank you ma'am, and good luck with that!
In the end,
Enrique, our percussionist and the nicest man in the world, is studly enough to
push-pull the combined load of wimpy girl/instruments/ crap out to the car.
And then
it's all aboard for a dash across L.A. traffic (with a few side trips along the
way because I get lost, of course) to the infamous Club Good Hurt. I totally do
not understand the name of the club until we get there and are welcomed with
open arms by the (exceptionally) well endowed and friendly ladies behind the
bar, all of whom are wearing skin-tight nursing uniforms with huge red crosses.
Well, duh!
The rest of
the night speeds by in a flash, with me dragging a friend off to the ladies' room
where she proceeds to lace me into my favorite bondage dress (no only a fond
memory, sniff) while increasingly urgent voices, and a few fists pounding on
the door, make their point clear that one should not use the toilet as a
dressing room! And they call themselves ladies?
So it's
back to San Diego in the early a.m. with a car that's lighter in CDs but
stacked to the rafters with assorted odds and ends, including said hooker
boots. Imagine my surprise, therefore, when I get up in the morning and stagger
out to the driveway, only to be greeted by a vast expanse of space.
Wait a sec.
I look to the left and right, like something should magically appear. Wasn't a
car there only a few hours ago? WITH ALL MY STUFF!
Next month (it gets
better): On the run with the Traveling Hooker Boots; San Diego detectives
get a laugh; what happens when a Ford Explorer meets a koi pond in Clairemont;
explaining "professional attire" in the courtroom; and other fun stuff.
Patric Petrie claims
it's all true and only the names have been changed to protect the innocent. She
gets endless amusement (and the occasional morning after headache) from
performing with her Celtic/world beat band, Skelpin', where she plays fiddle
(really fast) and sings (not so fast). Skelpin' tours in the U.S. as well as
abroad, mainly in Japan, and believes airlines should stop charging for
instruments.