Back in Black.

I’m sick. Literally this time. Sore throat, coughing, especially in the morning. What I Should do is get some rest or something, but come on. Holding still is the last thing I want to be doing, and I haven’t taken anything but aspirin sice I was 12 or so.

So, instead, I just get up early and go to work. I’m not as energetic as usual, but I manage fine. Actually it’s a great relief to be working again, it’s been quite a while. I missed it, a lot: The feelings of "here we are let’s build this shit" when we arrive in an empty room, the amazement when seeing what crazy stuff comes out of them trucks, the satisfaction of seeing it grow and come to life, and even the "Are We Done Yet??" kind feelings at the end of the load-out.


Thursday was pretty boring: 2 and a half hours work to take down some nerdy Microsoft presentation thing in the middle of the night. As a result I had no bus back home and I had to bother my friend (again) sleeping over.

Now Saturday, however! Rise and shine, off to Brussels to build the set of no one other than Jamiroquai. Jamiro who?? Jamiro Quai, the little funky dude from the Godzilla soundtrack ‘Deeper Underground’ (which, by the way, fucking rocked most of all), Little L, Space Cowboy and so on. Why are you explaining? Because SOME PEOPLE claim they don’t KNOW him because "THEY HAVE A LIFE". Shame on them. Double shame. They’re missing out.


There’s always people coming home from a concert going "..and for a split second, I totally had eye contact!" but the truth is, and they know it but they’re just in denial, that the crowd is just a grey mass for the artist. BUT, if you’re actually standing Right In Front of the stage, where security and press are, and he looks down straight at you, THEN you can say you had eye contact. Heh I’m starting to sound like a squealing wannabe groupie.

Anyway the reason why I was there (that’s usually off limits for sagehands during the show) was, I was "cable bitch" that night. What’s a cable bitch? Well, in front of the stage are 2 camera’s, riding around on tracks. They’re not wireless, so there’s always a cable in the way, sometimes even under the wheels and there’s no need to explain what a bitch that is. So, Someone has to be tonight’s cable bitch and feed the cable, and pull it back so the cameraman doesn’t have to worry about it. Quite a daft job, with the front 3 rows watching your every move (when they’re not screaming at the artist) and the speakers, able to make every whisper of the artists audible right to the other side of the room, right next to your head. Speakers, bigger than you. Stacked. 3 cheers for earplugs.


Tomorrow, "some scaff job". I’m quite worried because the less info you get from your boss, the more of a bitch the job will be. And I got nothing but "scaff" and a location. I’m proper fucked. In a bad way. As in, not good for me. Also not pleasant. In any, even unpleasant, way. Bad kind. German kind. Blond German kind.


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