Claiming Addison
By: Zoey DerrickSam cuts me off with a fit of laughter. “Oh my god, you have no idea. I heard her mumbling something about getting into porn, just to make ends meet…”
I interrupt her with my own laughter. “Tell me you’re joking. The porn industry rejected her?”
We both break down into a full on giggle fest that lasts us more than a few minutes and a couple of stomach cramps. Don’t get me wrong, bitchface, as we lovingly call her, isn’t all that ugly. But she isn’t attractive either. She has a very plain Jane style and she gives off the wrong vibe. Her name is Liz, and we really shouldn’t make fun of her, but if you knew half of the shit she’s done, you’d agree with us.
After a long night chatting with Sam, I settle into bed with my thoughts roaming around 69 Bottles and the tour. Though the tour lasts for twelve weeks, there are a lot of open dates between shows. For the most part, the shows are all on Wednesdays through Sundays with travel days being Mondays and Tuesdays. The travel time is minor considering how many cities the tour is stopping in. Top that off with the fact that all 30 of the 32 shows that have gone on sale, sold out in less than fifteen minutes. Whoever put this together did it right. I wouldn’t have put so many cities, like Oklahoma City, Kansas City, Des Moines, Minneapolis and Chicago, so close together date wise. Each city is within reasonable driving distance, I might have just expanded to multiple shows in Des Moines and drew in people from Minnesota, Illinois and Missouri.
However, the Minneapolis show has me most excited. The band is playing their smallest venue, First Avenue, which anyone who’s anyone, or trying to be anyone, plays there. In fact, 69 Bottles has played there before, just not as the big names they are now. Plus they have the coveted Sunday spot. The venue is small, so tickets are expensive. I know, I looked. The cheapest ticket was like $345. The most expensive, including VIP experience, was over $1500.
The packet contains information on each venue, including size, number of tickets sold, number of band owned tickets and number of VIP tickets available. Being a VIP means exclusive front row access along with backstage passes. Most venues limit these tickets to less than 200 people. Some have more or even different levels.
I don’t make it much further into the package because the next thing I know, my alarm is going off and it is four in the morning. Hello, hangover. You nasty, nasty bitch.
I knew when I opened that third bottle of wine that I was really going to be in trouble, and now I need to get my shit in gear and get the hell out of here. Shower, check. Hair-I flip my hair in the mirror in front of me, check. Make-up, fabulous as always. Professional attire, for today, double check.
I wouldn’t say I’m an overly attractive woman, in fact, I’d say I’m average. With ice green eyes, and luscious, kissable lips. I’m five seven and I weigh about one forty-five, a little over weight, but it gives me some nice curves and a fairly decent ass. The only thing fake about me are the D cup sized tits that enhance my chest. Believe me, I needed it. Before I went under the knife for implants, I barely registered an A-cup and with my height and size, it was awful to look at. At least it was for me.
After Dan’s death, I needed something to help boost my confidence, so I got them done. Think what you want, but it was a huge boost for my confidence. If you’re wondering if I’d do it again, my response is mixed. If I knew the pain I’d endure, I wouldn’t have done it, but because I know the end result, even a few years later, it was all worth it. Besides, since then I’ve gained a little weight and they’re no longer the super firm, totally fake tits you see in porn.
Anyway, enough about my boobs, moving on. Today I’m wearing a dark gray pencil skirt with a white button up silk blouse, open to show just a little cleavage with the sleeves rolled up to my elbows. It is March in Los Angeles, so the weather is chilly. For now, I’m planning on wearing my jacket. I have no doubt that once the press conference begins, I’ll still be wearing it.
Regardless, I manage to sneak out of the house with my luggage in tow after triple checking that I had everything I needed. I threw the fat envelope of death into my messenger bag. Since it’s still dark outside, I doubt I will get any reading done in the car on the way over. I’m taking a car because I’m not leaving my car downtown for three months. I’d rather leave it downstairs in the garage. Plus I left the keys with Sam, she said she’ll drive it a couple of days to and from work for me. I think she just wants to drive the blue devil.
