Tour Whore, March 25, 2012

You Can't Have a Bad Day in a Tutu

So what’s a broke-ass, nomadic Fringe fatshionista to do? 

by Cameryn Moore

How cold does it get in Nashville in November? How wet does it get in Edinburgh in August? What are the odds of finding a pair of red, mid-calf, fully ruffled bloomers in my size? 

Bizarre questions, but not random (answers at the end of this post). These are the sorts of things I ponder as I pack my bags for the road.

Bags. I say “bags” like I have a four-wheel coach with a maid behind me, or even two checked bags allowed on the plane, but not even that, lovies, no, no. After everything else is in my car, the set pieces and props and kitchen bag and toiletry bag and merch bags and manual typewriter and pillow and box with all my phone-sex note cards, I have room in the Deerinator for … one roll-on suitcase. Maybe two. And I am going to be nomadic for 18 months. I can leave a small box of hard-core winter wear where my winter base will be, but it does not do to trespass too heavily on the kindness and square footage of friends. 

Maybe you can help me FIGURE THIS SHIT OUT

So these questions I ask are not vain ponderings, oh, no. They are philosophical in depth and logistical in scope. Here, take a look! Maybe you can help me FIGURE THIS SHIT OUT:

• Two different pairs of pajama pants. I sleep naked, but in a billet you usually can’t just stroll on out to the bathroom like that. Intermediate ground of necessity, who cares what they look like? Oh, god, what do my pink pajama pants with kitties and hearts say about me to someone who already knows that I drive around and do theatre for (kind of) a living? Maybe I should go for the generic flower print…
• Black crinoline petticoat. I layer a skirt over the top (usually zebra print), yank it up under a long-line bra, strap on a garter belt and some fishnet stockings, and that’s my outfit on days when I don’t have any shows or got some media snark from a sexually repressed reviewer and need some Bucking Up. You just can’t have a bad day in a tutu. But it takes up so much space!
• Speaking of stockings, I have 12 pairs of them. Plus four pairs of cut-off thermal underwear legs for winter wear. I CAN’T DECIDE! The white ones are so girly, would look killer with my Mary Janes, but what about those purple-and-black ones? I never know exactly what mood is going to sweep over me out on the Fringe. I NEED TO BE PREPARED.

That’s the thing, right? I want to be prepared, for whatever happens. With a settled home base, that’s easy. I have a costume box, maybe a few, where I keep that big, gold-painted seashell bra and eight feather boas and three pairs of ruffle butt panties and four sundresses and those strappy gold-colored dress sandals and the reversible red/black satin cape. If all else fails, I am intimately familiar with four thriftstores in a five-mile radius. 

...it was pure luck that I happened to have a plus-sized baby girl dress...

Of course, I never NEED any of this when I’m at home. But Out There, oh, god. The way I self-promote at Fringes, I DRESS every day, with the same deliberateness that upper-class people used to “dress” for dinner. Some of my favorite Fringes have theme days (hello, Calgary!) or after-parties with themes (w00t, Montreal!), and I always want to play if I can. Last year Victoria Fringe threw a Kids’ Fringe for Adults at their after-hours club; it was pure luck that I happened to have a plus-sized baby girl dress, denim bloomers, and a sippy cup in the car. Luck, I tell you! And a little bit of kink. But mostly luck!

And it’s not just at the festivals. I like to dress a little bit rock-star, even at 2am driving through Saskatchewan, too. Yeah. That’s not about drawing attention, it’s self-defense through offense. The too-glam-to-fuck-with approach has turned out to be very effective in rural parts. Cowboy boots and lipstick, I’m telling you. It confuses the fuck out of people.

Well, for daily slut wear I pick one skirt every summer, and that’s what I wear.

And the weather extremes, can we talk? When I hit Montreal in early June, I mean, with global climate change and all, who the fuck knows? Usually the weather is quite pleasant, but one year the rainstorms knocked over the beer tent. In Winnipeg, I inevitably want to crack the tops off of fire hydrants and dance naked until I get arrested because it gets so damn SWEATY there. By the time I finish the loop and get back up to Philadelphia and New York in early to mid-November, it’s time for my winter boots and faux fur coat to make an appearance.

So what’s a broke-ass, nomadic Fringe fatshionista to do? Well, for daily slut wear I pick one skirt every summer, and that’s what I wear. Every day. I have a spare for laundry days, but otherwise, it’s one skirt. (This year it’s a miniskirt made from denim that could have easily been hammered out on an anvil. A sexy, sexy anvil.) Five tops, max. If I get bored, I can usually find a goodwill somewhere and mod a t-shirt. One sweater. All my underwear. The zebra-print skirt and the petticoat, definitely; I begrudge the space the whole way, but it actually packs down all right and it is kind of A Thing. My garter belt. Faux fur and winter boots go in a garbage bag that gets wedged in between the set pieces in the back of the trunk.

And then… whatever else might fit in the suitcases, or in a spare bit of space. Maybe not all the stockings, just half.  Not this dress, it crinkles. Okay, which pair of red underwear has a broken elastic? This one? Bye bye. Bit by bit I pick through these last few dresser drawers, and find those pieces that I think I will need to keep my energy high, my body comfortable, my persona intact. 

At some point, I have to throw up my hands and admit that it’s impossible to guess 13 months out. But the baby-girl dress with bloomers? That’s one of those timelesss pieces of fashion that I’ll just find occasions for.

(answers: colder than you think, wetter than you want, slim to none)

camerynmoore.com