I''m not the kind of fly on the wall kinda writer.
I'm more in your face.
Fucking move the props, more lighting over there, where are the Colombian lap dancers for the next shoot?
They say we are masters of our own destiny.
The invisible writing means directing your own show.
I need conflict.
I'll follow something through to the end, even to my own detriment, for example, to find that perfect ending.
I was accused of taking drugs at work.
It was a concert, for crying out loud.
If there were random drug tests, the show wouldn't go on.
It wouldn't even get started.
He is the kind of Afro American you really want to bond with. Smart, witty, a body anyone would die for, even an old fag hag like me. We were helping out KY, originally from Jamaica, but now a resident of New Jersey, set up a recent concert.
It doesn't matter which concert, that never concerned me, contrary to what the majority of shit kickers thought. It was always about helping the touring crew get their shit done.
'It's all about the drapes,' says KY who has these amazing dreadlocks that he puts up in a bun when he's around the drapes. It would look bad if he soiled them with his hair. He even has to wear orange gloves when handling them.
'All appearance,' he says, as I point out the stains at the bottom of one drape.
He's doing all the work and we are just looking pretty, I tell him.
He appreciates that I can see that. His muscular body is dripping with sweat. And all the girls are drooling. You'd think he was the star of the show. In some ways, he actually was.
The Americans are in town and I'm going to be a shameless groupie.
He directed us in the draping department.
And one of the many chiefs, who really were just Indians, was telling me not to be anywhere near him.
Apparently I was distracting him with my amazing conversational skills.
A little bit later, this same guy tugged a heavy 3 phase cable underneath the stage with KY holding on the end.
It nearly pulled his head through the scaffolding. It was his thick dreadlocks that saved his head from a serious impact with steal.
Go figure. See, just a fucking common Indian.He and another worker, had it in for me.
Here on the Eastern States, it's not unusual to see many companies flying under the same banner.
The problem with that, it's really hard to decide who has the power and who hasn't.
Yes, too many chiefs and not enough Indians...
I'm not liked.
I don't know who to suck up too.
I don't care.
And that riles them.
That I have no sense of the pecking order.
I want to be your right hand man, I tell KY. Yes, the same shit you use before fucking your gay partner up the ass.
He's a seasoned roadster, the rest of us are pretenders.
Yet it's the touring crew who are always impeccable in their speech and behavior.
Not like their local counterparts.
I get a tap on the shoulder.
It's the Admin Man.
A creep of the highest order.
And is easily yielded under the manipulating palm of my hand.
He wants me off the premises.
Word has got out that I'm off my tree.
Well, to be honest, I was. But in situations like this, it's always best to deny.
Especially if wanted to fuck him.
In the best way possible.
Legally.
Binding.
'You'll pay me for the hours tonight I missed out,' I said, before telling some of the more important roady crew, the ones that loaded and unloaded trucks with tonnes of meth in their system, that this dickweed, admin guy said I was on drugs.
Well fuck a goat, they knew I was but that was beside the fucking point.
Deprive a man of his stimulants in this game and nothing ever gets set up.
That's one thing the admin guy didn't know.
His polo shirt was ironed, his steal cap boots still fresh as the day they came out the box.
I'd fuck this asshole up, very soon.
(Read the previous post for that report.)
