It was rather a glorious April day in Montreal yesterday, but it’s a little cooler this morning. We are headed to Winnipeg in a chartered plane. Today everyone is flying together; band and crew, no tour bus, everybody thrown into a bowl like jelly beans. There is a routine to this, dear reader, and it seems this routine shall be routinely routined in the coming months. While doing the European leg (except for the island of Great Britain) we’ll be bus-less, cutting a cloud between cities. So today, let’s examine in broad detail the fixings for a normal UHTC travel day. Everyone’s luggage is loaded into a vehicle and that vehicle goes ahead to an airport; some time later, after all UHTC souls have checked out of the hotel, we move onto a motor-coach, are driven to an airport, and in most cases, dumped off at the doorstep of an empty aircraft. There will be instances where security is of deeper concern in certain airports, but today’s affair is relaxed: we get on the plane, grab a seat, and in a timely fashion, get off the ground.
On the other end, today being a Winnipeg end, it is much the same in reverse. We alight the aircraft, board a motor-coach idling a few steps away, and drive to the hotel. Once at the hotel it may be some time until the bags show up, but today’s bagonomy is far from complicated; before we get our room keys, a man in a van shows up, our bags are hoofed into the building, and we merrily bring them to our rooms.
For the upcoming European dates, there are to be many days like the above, and so, fine reader, it must be said that if anyone expects to read any sort of intelligent narrative on check-out-bag-coach-plane-coach-bag-check-in every other day, they’re nuts. You’ve been warned; June might be a little light on diary entries.
Today’s flair, the piped pink icing on a repetitive gateau, is laundry. And even THEN, dearest reader, we are getting into stuff you’ve read before: after finding [place name] I put my clothes into a washing machine and wandered around [city name]. I found [a thing] and did [a thing] before putting my wet clothes into a [spinning thing] and went out again to do [more of a thing]. When it was all done, I went [to the thing I sleep in] and folded my clothes, placed them into a suitcase, and started typing this wonderful thing.
Let me know when all this becomes too much; just say the word, and I can start writing about psychotic ballerina cats with machetes.
Speaking of the mildly absurd, I finished reading a book, Hope: A Tragedy by Shalom Auslander. It was a very fine fictional read, both funny and philosophical, suggested by my friend Vicki Woodyard who knows a few things about hope and tragedy.
Vicki’s own book, Life With A Hole In It follows a real-life journey of the author losing loved ones before their time, and is coupled with an introspective, spiritual look at the process of finding one’s self in a position of having to deal with it all. It’s a mixture of sadness and despair, with sprinklings of hope and some you’ve-got-to-be-human humour.
Having finished Auslander’s work, I was lucky enough to find, in an airport, a copy of Warm Bodies by Isaac Marion, and finished it in five days. Now hear me out on this one — yes, it’s a first-person narrative centred on a male zombie; and yes, it’s kinda crazy that any zombie, regardless of sexual orientation, might fall in love with a living, breathing girl, but Isaac Marion’s prose is just too damn good to write this story off… that sounds crazy, but I stand by it. There’s a film adaptation of the story and I’m really looking forward to seeing it now.
As an aside, reading back on the previous paragraph, I danced a google on “lesbian vampires”. Sigh… it’s been done.
So, we’re in Winnipeg now and we have two shows remaining in North America before hitting the warmer climes of Paris in June. Coming to the end always feels a little weird I think. It feels like so much has happened; speaking me-centric, I’ve read a few books, finished writing two myself (loosely speaking) and I’ve shared some of that process with you fine folks. It seems like it should have been an eternity, but it’s only been two mortgage payments. I turned 40, puked, streamed some highly refined diarrhoea, got bollock-frozen in the prairies on hiatus, survived Local 1 in New York, achieved royal fucked-up-ness in Halifax, enjoyed Newfoundland immensely, hung out with family in Montreal, and would you believe it, TODAY is my mum’s birthday; but now this whole thing is almost done, right back where we almost started. I should have been home by now; we all should have been, but this calling of musical follow-around-osity occasionally determines our paths with a heavy hand. Yeah, it kinda sucks having a week of home-life whipped from beneath us like a tablecloth under delicate china, but that’s life. You know what isn’t life? Lesbian zombies. “It’s life Jim, but not as we know it — it’s sexy.”
Night night all.