Who Let the Super Fan on Stage?

Oh the sentences muttered around yours truly.

Asshat alert!

Living in Nashville, chances to see fabulous live music always present themselves. This past Friday Willie Nelson, along with Alison Krauss and Union Station played at The Woods at Fontanel.

The Woods concert prep on a gorgeous Tennessee day.

It’s Nashville’s only amphitheater and a pretty kick ass venue.

Pre-partiers.

Arriving just as the sun set, I was immediately put in my place among the riff raff at the venue. While I wasn’t important enough to be a Big Deal, I was above being a Groupie and found myself among the Blue Collar folks.

Blue Collar all the way.

While settling in to hear Willie croon my fave song “Crazy,” (did you know Mr. Nelson wrote Patsy Cline’s biggest hit?) I was enjoying the crisp spring weather along with a Skinny Pirate. Typically at live shows, I’m on my way to losing my shit the second the first note creeps out of the speakers but at the start of Willie, I was uncharacteristically calm.

Cool kid concert attire.

Calm that is, until my eyes spotted a t-shirt that I needed and somehow sweet talked its male owner out of (he went to his car with his girlfriend, mind you, to get another shirt).

How would my life have been complete without this top?

As the evening wore on, I found myself falling in love with Willie’s unmistakable 81-year-old (yes – 81!) voice and when the encore was complete, I found myself not wanting the evening to end.

Ask and you shall receive.

One of my buddies asked if I was coming up on stage as they loaded out equipment.

Who, me? The stage? RUN!

I almost ran right into the Big Deal trailer park (due to the twinkling camper lights calling my name)…

If you’re behind the barricade, you’re a Big Deal.

…but was kindly strong armed directed to the stage.

I belong here. On stage. Duh.

Now who’s the big deal?

Being that I work in the music business, it’s never cool to show any emotion while experiencing anything out of the norm. So there I was on stage in a stolen Shotgun Willie shirt, a plastic concert bag of swag and my mouth hanging wide open.

Co-workers ignoring my fanatic ass.

Who wants to claim this fool?

Luckily for me, my buddies decided to throw me a bone but not before one of them uttered…

“Who let the super fan on stage?”

Dork sandwich.

You can always count on me to make you look cool.

CBXB

How to Make an Ass of Yourself Ziplining

Squeezing in all of the wrong places.

While shooting a sizzle reel this past weekend, one of the scenes required yours truly to zipline, which I had never done before. Being a virgin to this activity, I was more concerned with which color of cowboy boot to adorn (naturally), rather than mentally prepping for the hours of hanging by a harness from a rope.

The anguish of important decisions.

Upon our arrival to the site, two zip instructors gussied my friend K-bell and I up in their finest attire.

Sexiness not included with harness.

While I had no trouble cruising into my adorable harness that made my already ample ass triple three sizes, I made myself vocal (one of my shining qualities) about messing up my ‘do when it came time to wearing the non-fabulous head ornament.

Bitching for one minute…

…and moaning and groaning two more.

I was wondering if my instructor, Charlie wouldn’t have to wear a helmet because his hair created one for him.

Helmet head au natural.

When I’d gotten complaining out of my system (for the time being), we were ready to conquer this ziplining shit.

As you can see, Charlie was not at all excited about devirginizing two celibate zippers.

Then it was time to make the trek to our first destination, which was far enough away that I had to squint to see the platform. And of course I had something to say about it.

You want me to walk where?

I’m out of breath. My feet hurt. Anyone bring a flask?

Once we arrived to the top of the shortest mountain in Tennessee, I was beyond ready to swing from the sky like Tarzan.

Bring it, Bitch.

In case we needed to know how not to land, there was a handy diagram on our equipment.

If you love your knee function, don’t do this.

Once I’d zipped 42 times (which therefore made me an expert on the sport) I had wise words of wisdom in how to accomplish a first attempt for my gal pal…

“Don’t be a pussy.”

Upon us both conquering the bunny hill of zipping, it was time for different camera angles. And while Ian, my camera dude, was placing the camera just so, I’m pretty sure he was thinking that working with me was a dream come true as I talked at him…

My feet hurt, can I sit down?

That’s too tight on my head.

Watch the aviator shades, Son!

When it came time to zip while wearing the lovely head apparatus, Charlie apparently thought I’d be able to hook myself up to the line all by my lonesome since I’d watched him do it for me 926 other times. It was then that I had to clue him in on my fingernail mantra, “Jewels, not tools.”

I’ll just stand here and not break a nail while you hook me up again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again.

After zipping for four hours straight, not only were my thighs screaming due to overuse, my crotch was numb from being the sole bearer of my body weight.

Take 1,479. Ice pack, please.

It’s a wrap! Hallelujah. Do you think we’ll ever be able to have babies after this?

Making it back down the hill and posing with our studly instructors, Forest and Charlie, I ripped my harness off faster than a dress hits the floor on prom night.

Mission accomplished.

We made it.

We did it.

I made an ass out of myself and it’s captured on film.

But, I survived.

Wish I could say the same for my shit kickers…

Casualties of ziplining.

Oh, and my crotch is still numb if you were wondering.

CBXB

How to Create a Pissy Portrait

You know those fancy paintings rich (and/or famous) people have hanging of themselves in their homes?

Well, I took it upon myself to recreate one. At least in photo form.

My mom recently accompanied me to my holiday work party at Fontanel Mansion, the former home of country superstar Barbara Mandrell   (I cried when I saw her at the grocery store like a teenage girl seeing Justin Bieber – no shit). Not only is my mom fun, she is quite the elf and party assistant, helping me look good in front of my boss man.

That, and she indulges my need for making a complete asshole out of myself in front of others (co-workers in this case).

This gorgeous mother-daughter painting by Dick Zimmerman hangs in the Fontanel Mansion dining room for visitors to ogle when touring the manse.

Barbara and her daughter, Jaime captured in a classy piece of art.

Since my company had the entire mansion for our party, I seized the opportunity to recreate my version of this painting. It only made sense (perfectly to me).

Before you view our rendition I must tell you that the serious picture expression (insert image of any model/actress/dignitary/politician) is not something the ladies in my family do well.  When I try to look ‘sexy’ in a photo, I just look plain pissed.

But regardless, here’s how our impromptu photo shoot turned out…

It was nothing but laughs as we were assisted in posing.

And then Mom started to take her role a little more seriously than I did.

I just couldn’t help myself.

And once I started laughing, I just couldn’t stop (like when you’re supposed to be quiet in yoga but somebody audibly farts and you turn into an 8-year-old and giggle ’til you cry).

This is just so f’ing funny.

But seriously.  There’s a reason my family is predispositioned to smile because when we don’t, we look like this…

Yeah. That’s right. We’re pissed at you.

Which is why I prefer my mother-daughter rendition to be remembered as this…

All smiles by a sparkly tree.

Duplicate fancy, rich people portraits at your own risk – I speak from experience.

CBXB