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Posts Tagged ‘rant’

Because life couldn’t just be OK for a little bit, right?

No, this morning I’m greeted with one celebrity backing out of the festival entirely (but they didn’t contact me or Jared to tell us…nooooooo, they sent word through a 3rd party who shouldn’t have to deal with this crap) and another celebrity having a very public meltdown on Facebook. I’m about ready to kill them both with my bare hands. Come on people, it’s a goddamned holiday weekend. Couldn’t we leave the crazy in the closet for a few more days?

The one celebrity backing out…unfortunately is not a surprise to me. This person has a history of being a flake when it comes to the festival. Thankfully this time it’s early enough that we aren’t going to lose money on their flake. The bad part is having to break it to the fans. It was ugly the last TWO TIMES we had to make this same announcement. This won’t be any easier, being that it’s the 20th anniversary and people expect good things, not bad things. Oh how I’d love to grab this person by their arms and shake them vigorously and tell them what a disappointment they are as a human being. It wouldn’t make a bit of difference, but at least I’d feel better.

The other celebrity…we knew they were nuts. We knew they were a bit on the crazy side, and we took that chance when we invited them to the festival. But the fans love them and wanted them so badly, we invited them anyway. And now we have nutty goo-goo all over our shoes. Right now the Facebook Crazy is up to 81 comments and counting. The worst part is that the celebrity is now accusing other celebrities (who are all coming to the festival) of some really nutty shit. Like, peanut log. That’s how nutty this shit is. And fans who are also friended to this celebrity are showing up to defend the nutty celebrity as though these claims that are being made could even have a shred of truth to them. Oh my head, it hurts. THE STUPID, IT BURNSSSSSSSSS.

Already I’ve received an e-mail from one of the accused celebrities asking me for help in putting an end to this public bashing. How is this my problem? WHY is this my problem? I’m so glad that this is what I get to deal with today.

For all those people who like to tell me how lucky I am to be running this festival and how much they envy the things I get to do and the people I get to meet…you so don’t even know the half of it. The last time I enjoyed myself was around four or five years ago. I don’t get to drink, I don’t get to party, I don’t get to hang out with celebs, I don’t get to do whatever my little heart desires. Running the festival is akin to running a business. Jared and I are the first to arrive and the last to leave. We are up until 3 or 4 am working on last minute details, and up again at 6am to get the day started. If we’re lucky, we actually get to shower at some point. More often than not, we just spray ourselves with Febreze and put on extra deodorant. Our cell phones ring constantly with calls from celebs, town car chauffeurs, hotel managers, caterers, staff members, and even festival attendees (our Google Voice number forwards directly to my cell phone). We don’t get to tell people exactly what we thing or how we feel because we have to exercise extreme levels of diplomacy to keep the ship running smoothly. I don’t get to tell the flaky celebrity what an asshole they are. I don’t get to tell the crazy celebrity what a douchebag they are. I don’t get to send out a note to all festival fans and tell them the absolute truth about these two celebs, that they’re lying jerks who give very few shits for their fans. I get to bite my tongue and pretend that things are copacetic.

Why I keep doing this year after year is beyond me. It’s not because I’m afraid to let go. Trust me, I’m more than happy to drop this in someone’s lap if it means I get to finally have a good night’s sleep. There isn’t anyone to really hand this off to. And those that we could pass it on to are terrible people who would ruin the experience for fans because it would become all about their own stupid ideas and not about what is good for the fans. No, what it comes down to is that Jared and I will have to be the ones to end this festival. We’ll be the ones to finally pull the plug and say “Look y’all, we had a good run but let’s face it…the show is over 20 years old and this is getting tiresome. Time to quit beating this dead horse.”

Keep your eyes peeled for 2012. 20th Festival. Like Babe Ruth, I’m pointing towards the outfield and taking aim. And I will most certainly knock this one out of the park.

I’m not even sure how to tell people to shut up about their damn kids without sounding like a crusty old man waving his cane from his porch rocker.

The fact that I will never have kids eats at me every single day, and it’s tough to maintain a sense of humor about it. Oh who am I kidding? I have ZERO sense of humor about it. There’s nothing funny about knowing that there will never be a little piece of me running around out there, wreaking havoc on society and enjoying the gift of life in every single tiny way imaginable. There’s nothing even remotely amusing about the fact that I will never get to read to my child the same bedtime stories my father read to me, or show them how to blow the fuzzy seed pods from a dandelion stem, or teach them how to laugh when they’ve tripped over their own two feet because life shouldn’t be so serious.

I will never get to put funny Band-Aids on scraped knees. I will never get to hand down family recipes or objects that are dear to me. I will never get to impart my love for camping, nature, cooking, animals, painting, writing, reading, soccer, roller skating, cross stitching. I will never get to see which of my funky little traits will get passed on…will it be the hair-twirling? The leg fidgeting? The nail biting? The weird OCD way in which I alphabetize anything and everything around me? My compulsion for list-making?

There are smells and sights and sounds that I love that I will never get to share with my child. Fresh-cut grass, pressed garlic, new soil, rainstorms, thunder, lightning, sunsets over the ocean, wind through a redwood forest, tiny towns in remote places along the coast, the strum of an acoustic guitar, the lilt of a fiddle, the pulse of a synthesizer.

I have boxes of old clothes and toys and books from my own childhood. I have no child to bestow them upon. Tiny lace-trimmed dresses from infancy, funny little t-shirts from toddler days, an entire set of Little Golden books, my favorite Richard Scary tales, the weird squeaky rubber fork with the happy face painted on it that my gran-nonna brought me from Italy, Raggedy Ann and Andy dolls that every kid should have, the recorder with its little corduroy slipcover and tattered songbook.

I will never get to see if I can get these freckles and gray eyes and horrible dishwater hair to finally be attractive when mixed with someone else’s handsome genes.

In the end, I have nothing. There will never be another version of me. No mmdc 2.0 to keep the world on its toes.

Wait, that’s incorrect. I do have something. A large empty space in my heart that will never be filled. It will never close up. It will always be this horrible, gaping wound. It will always be this painful part of me. I will go on to live a good, full, happy life, but I will never forget the sting.

If you have children, or you’re expecting children, or you are planning to have children, you’ll have to pardon me if I don’t congratulate you. You’ll have to forgive me if I pretend that that facet of your being doesn’t exist. You’ll have to excuse the fact that I can’t even stand to attend your baby shower or see your photos or hear how wonderful your offspring are. I don’t want to know about how your pregnancy feels. I don’t want to know how much you’re glowing or how you cried when you held a brand-new pair of tiny baby booties in your hand this morning, or even the ugly woes like blocked milk ducts and swollen ankles. I will never get to experience that for myself, and for that I am angry and sad. Hearing anything from you only makes it worse. Believe me, I am honestly happy that you have yours. But I am equally bitter that I will never have mine.