The venue almost seems deserted after the abject chaos that unfurled yesterday. The interview panel setup on the Landing. Men in blue shirts and headsets scuttling about like cockroaches, steering wheeled boxes of equipment from the immense conglomeration of metal we call an elevator onto the Ballroom floor. At one point a rather massive fellow wandered into the Landing, strode purposefully into one of our promoter’s offices and hissed, “When are you gonna be done with that computer? I need to send an e-mail.” We locked the doors from that point forward. Other than that, your typical fare for a Ballroom live broadcast of a world championship fight.
Tech N9ne this evening (no idea; don’t ask) so I pulled in to three towering black semis backed against the loading ramp and various tour-clad gentlemen striding around pretending they’re important. Everyone’s a rock star – just ask them.
The weather has regrettably dipped to an extent that precludes my beloved evening bike rides. Sigh. I always enjoy playing Paperboy – weaving past the woman who walks her yippy Sheltie every night at 6:30, and the smattering of skateboard-toting teenagers who generally slink and snarl and unleash their angst upon the universe. Most of all, gawking at the houses and admiring the yards. Hopefully this weekend.
Our art fellow produces rather fantastic stretch canvas photographs, so I enlisted his assistance to decorate my office subsequent to replacing the deafeningly white walls with a deep teal color. At this point I have Joni Mitchell and Walt Disney on either side of my door, a show jumper coasting over a Swedish oxer and the Castle from Walt Disney World on my left, and a giant spread of horses grazing in a paddock amidst morning fog on my right. A few more photographs and some Christmas lights crisscrossing my ceiling, and I believe I shall have stamped myself upon the structure. Have I mentioned that I adore this non-toxic atmosphere? It seems as though I upgraded from Preppie to Hippie.
As I type, the stagehands have elected to check the PA system in the Pantheon by blasting the Hell Freezes Over version of “Hotel California.” Sometimes you live right.
