by Cameryn Moore
On tour, every night is Saturday night, even if it’s actually Tuesday night in Tulsa. I’ve got a show, I’m meeting new people, I’m bouncing around afterward cajoling whoever I can into coming out for post-show pancakes with me. I make jokes about it, about how solo shows will have the loneliest cast parties if we don’t invite people to share, but it’s true. I just got done with a show, and I want someone to celebrate with.
And then we go there in a caravan, a cavalcade of awesome, sex-buzz energy, to whatever pizza shop or barbecue joint or pancake house or late-night diner or Chinese restaurant they decided. It is inevitably the right choice, yes, we agree noisily, and with much laughter and jostling we settle ourselves noisily down.
So I ask my local contacts: What’s good, what’s happening, where do the fun people go? Often they get this surprised look on their face. They’re not used to the weekend happening all week long, they’ve never gone out on a Wednesday before, they don’t even know. Or they don’t get out of their neighbourhood much, and so they have to rack their brains a little to figure out where would be some likely sidewalk smut locations. So they text their friends, or someone at the next table in the café—who obviously can’t help eavesdropping because my voice is That Fucking Loud—leans over and offers a suggestion. Just by asking these questions, I get to spread the weekend-all-week love around a little bit.