CMJ is enormous, with scores of shows scattered across the city, and I knew that the likelihood that I would get to see anything on purpose was low. It is better not to fixate and be disappointed; I enjoy myself more when I have no expectations.
Years of performing forced me to develop a basic strategy for surviving festivals: I decided not to care.
However, the payment for performers is an all-access pass so, in between frolics with friends and meetings with my publisher, I dropped into whichever random array of sets happened to be nearby.
The only full showcase I made it to was the K records session. This seemed rather redundant since I go to K shows all the time, but on the other hand, I was feeling awfully homesick (for what, who can say).
When I walked in the the door a boy in a pilot’s cap shouted Bee! It was Kenneth, last seen on an Oregon beach.
My panel went well, although I’m sure I said many disturbing and controversial things – but there is no recording so who cares!
At some point I went to a private CMJ party and hung out with an assortment of writers and musicians until closing. When it was time to leave the bouncer stood with his arms crossed, barring my exit from the venue. He said the price to pass was a kiss.
He was perhaps a foot taller and a hundred pounds heavier than me but you know what? Nobody. Ever. Does. That. To. Me.
I’ve taken down scarier men in my time. Not quite as large as this one, but definitely more dangerous.
One strategy would have been to break his fingers, but I reckoned that was not strictly necessary.
Since we were at a fun happy party and he didn’t know that he had just violated a huge Bee rule I gave him the benefit of the doubt.
I reached out with both hands, grasped him under the arms, and… moved him out of my way. Like you might move a fractious toddler.
The big scary bouncer was completely shocked. He stumbled back, then stood, mouth open, staring after me as I stomped down the street.