Tour Whore, August 26, 2012

Night of the Living Deed
by Cameryn Moore

I don’t like to make sweeping generalizations about Fringe artists’ experiences. We have different ways of living and working and playing out here on tour. But at this point on the tour, I think I can safely speak for us all:

We are all sleep deprived.

It’s worse for me, I think. I have to sign in for my phone shifts at 7am Pacific time, which means when I’m on the East coast, I don’t have to even crack my eyes open until 9:55am. The further west I travel, though, the earlier I have to get up, and that doesn’t change the fact that Fringe makes me stay up hella late. Not “makes” me, scratch that. I’m a willing participant. I don’t really deserve any sympathy, because I lose my own sleep, I toss it right out the fucking window, of my own free will. 

I made the bright move of introducing Two-Buck Smut

Between the late-night performances (11:45 on a Tuesday night, really?) and the decompression sessions at whatever semi-official Fringe watering hole and the tearful Skype conversations with a loved one back home and the eating, because shit, I haven’t eaten since 10 this morning, and the drunken hook-ups and the preludes to same and the pot smoking in the parking garage and the last-minute flyer updates that have to happen TONIGHT in order to get to the printer on time… there are lots of ways that the night can slide by into morning without us even noticing.

Like last night. I wasn’t performing, just flyering a few opening-night line-ups here in Victoria, caught a show, and then I headed over to the Fringe club. I’ll set up my Sidewalk Smut stand after the musical guest, I thought. Maybe I’ll get a commission or two before people head out. The Victoria club winds down pretty early, I thought. I’ll be home by 12:30am.

No. The musician got a well-deserved encore, and then I made the bright move of introducing Two-Buck Smut—three or four lines typed out on an index card, perfect for the cash-strapped Fringe artist on the go—and it seriously sold like buttered fucking hotcakes. People stayed around waiting for their turn, and I finally packed up out of there at 1:35am.

And that’s not even late, by Fringe standards. There have been nights in Montreal where the sun comes up and we’re not even done.

For the artists, and probably for the staff and volunteers and tech as well, Fringe time is different.

This is the way nights go out here. They just go, on and on. For the artists, and probably for the staff and volunteers and tech as well, Fringe time is different. It does not obey normal laws of causality and time and space. It stretches and compresses, yawns long in between festivals and then snaps together like a rubber band when you’ve done two, three, four shows in a row and now you have 20 new beautiful scintillating friends to talk to and have loud political or artistic discussions with, and fuck second wind, you are well on your way to fourth or fifth. 

Audience members are buying you beer and someone is rubbing your neck and shoulders, you don’t know who, but it doesn’t matter, and a rumor spreads like wildfire about a 1am outing to what is supposed to be a great skinny-dipping spot, and a whole crowd of new beautiful people is gathering out on the back steps, smoking and flirting, getting rust smudges on their clothes from leaning and looking beautiful up against the rusty fire escape and RIGHT NOW I’M SO HUNGRY I COULD EAT YOUR FACE OFF, there’s a good little joint just a few blocks away, they don’t serve face, but they do some fantastic noodle dishes, or no, how about that pizza place where they serve soda and a shot of well liquor for $3, yes, let’s do it, let’s do that, too.

Night time, you see, is when it all goes to shit. This is time that is unaccounted for; it is not in the program guide. Yes, there are late-night performances and often some Fringe late-night cabaret, and people go to those, sure. But if you want to see Fringe artists unhinged, stay up late and go off the grid. 

Plan to call in late for work the next day, or call in sick, drink something, and maybe buy that lovely artist a drink—it’s almost as good as money to us, and even more flattering—and keep your eyes open. On the fringe of the fringe, along the edge of the evening, at the outlying tables in the club and the little clumps of people that pass each other on the stairs, plans are being laid, sparks are flying, someone wants to start a game of “Never Have I Ever…”, someone else has their guitar or accordian or a friend who knows where the good karaoke bar is, yeah, and someone’s got a van and some weed and some very friendly Fringe groupies and that could get interesting really quick.

I’m not promising anything. I’m not saying all of this will happen to you. All of this hasn’t happened to me yet, certainly not in one evening. But it could, it could.

That’s why I don’t sleep. I don’t want to miss the possibilities.

Cameryn Moore's slut (r)evolution will be playing at
Victoria Fringe August 24 - September 1
Vancouver Fringe - September 6-16

camerynmoore.com