There is nothin' like State Fair season. It's the perfect opportunity to indulge in delicacies like cardiac-failure-on-a-stick (AKA giant corn dogs) and artery-hardening-goodness (AKA deep fried hostess treats), and to walk among the severely socially challenged, who are released from the trailer park once a year just for these particular festivities. It is certainly an experience to relish. I especially look forward to wandering around the poorly sectioned-off parking lot in hundred degree heat, unsuccessfully trying to ignore the parking attendants who either assume by my media pass that I am there for the sole purpose of hanging out with random famous people ("You's friends with that boy playin' tonight, ain'tcha?") or who are so hungry for fair food that they resort to begging passersby for scraps ("Baby, bring me back some of that deep fried chicken, wudja?").

You think I'm exaggerating, but both phrases were uttered to me during State Fair week (AKA the longest week of my life) - not just once, but multiple times - and since I don't "get" Fair mentality, I'm always taken aback by such long-voweled, barely-intelligible verbal detonation.

Predictably, I do a lot of smiling and nodding at the State Fair. It's the safest form of communication under such circumstances.

Switchfoot was one of the Fair acts this year. (I wonder if they mind that? I've always been curious if bands booked to play State Fairs hear the news and go, "Cool, that'll be fun." Or, if they hear the news and go, "It's been real. Later. I'm going to go kill myself now."

Switchfoot are very easy-going, laid back musicians, though. I imagine they could make themselves at home on just about any stage.)

The original plan for my PCC interview was for Tim Foreman to call me. Phone interviews are my faves. It eliminates the stress of speaking face-to-face with an unnaturally attractive person, and it takes away the added potential complications with the road personnel.

As in, oh...say...a jerk of a tour manager. I've never quite figured out what the deal is with some of these touring employees. And don't get me wrong. I'm not saying that they're all a-holes. The Click Five's guy, Steve, is wonderful and a credit to tour managers everywhere.

Unfortunately, he is the exception rather than the rule. Nine times out of ten, I wind up dealing with some power-hungry person anxious to exert their minimal authority at any given opportunity. And I'm still a bit of a child when it comes to dealing with authority. I'm sure there are issues there that could stand to be worked out in therapy, but as it stands, I simply do not like to be told what to do.

Ask my mommy. She will back me up on this.

The phone interview with Tim was set up, he called at the designated time, and we had a lovely, relaxed little chat. He is a very nice guy, and he didn't even seem to mind that I was more curious about whether or not he'd ever seen a shark while surfing than I was curious about his musical process.

"We recorded the album at various stops all over the world," Tim said enthusiastically. "So, when I listen to one song, I'm reminded of Africa and working with the children there."

"Uh-huh. Cool. Surfing, though. Dude, do you see sharks out there?"

(Silence.)

"Sure," Tim answered. "Sometimes."

"Oh, man. Doesn't that, like, totally freak you out."

"Well. Um, I don't know. No. I mean, if you surf, you see sharks. You know, actually, we did this cool surfing charity event for underprivileged kids out in Cali called the Bro Am - "

"You just accept that there are sharks there? You don't worry about losing a limb?!"

(More silence.)

"What? No...well, you know, there are sharks. And then there are sharks. You learn to tell the difference."

"You're crazy. Sharks are sharks! And they're mean! Oooh...have you ever been bitten?"

Eventually, people just learn to go with me on these things. One can hold out for a bit and hope that I'll shut up and get back to the point, but it almost never happens. Tim learned more quickly than most interviewees do, and that made things more pleasant for all parties involved. We talked about Switchfoot's new CD for one minute, and sharks for six. He thanked me, I thanked him, we hung up the phone, and that was that.

Until our promotions guy decided that we needed a guitar signed by the band, anyway. He called me into his office, pointed to the acoustic sitting in the corner, and suggested that I take it to the meet and greet at the Fair - something I hadn't planned on attending.

"Where's the guitar case?" I asked.

"Oh, there's not one."

"Just...the guitar."

"Yeah."

"You want me to lug a guitar out to the fairgrounds, sans a protective case?" I inquired, fearing the answer.

"I do, yes."

"It doesn't bother you that, not only will this new acoustic guitar be dragged through yards of dirt and manure and fried twinkie particles, but that I might look somewhat suspicious carrying an instrument through the FFH pavilion?"

"Nah. Tell them you're with the band," he casually suggested, returning to his oh-so-important task of looking exceptionally busy while doing absolutely nothing.

I glared at him, snatched the guitar up, and ran by my apartment to borrow a guitar case from myself for the task. As it turns out, though, a guitar with the case is just as suspicious as a guitar without the case when you're weaving in and out of cattle competitions and elephant ear stands. People flocked to me, convinced that I was, indeed, "with the band," and I couldn't convince them otherwise.

Because, hello! I have a guitar! People with guitars are with the band! Never mind that Switchfoot has never had a female member in the lineup, right?

By the time I made it to the meet and greet, my hand was cramping under the weight of the guitar and the hundreds of autographs I'd signed.

(Start watching for Switchfoot merchandise signed by "Pom Pom Hollybrook" - my first pet/street-I-grew-up-on porn name - to show up on eBay.)

A little insight on band meet and greets: these, no matter how highly disorganized and spur-of-the-moment they look, are planned to frighteningly coordinated and specific agendas. What tends to happen, though, is that the most carefully laid plans fall through because someone somewhere couldn't get their shizznit together, which then throws the touring staff into a complete tither. They'll freak out because ohmygoodness, we are 30 minutes off schedule, people! and start moving fans through the area like brain-dead herds of cattle headed to the promise of a salt lick. Hence, the disorganized, spur-of-the-moment vibe. It's really just thinly disguised panic.

And once the panic sets in, they never take kindly to some radio station jumping into the meet and greet at the last second under the official "okay" of some record rep who's states away and not dealing with the actual process. Because of the whole autographed guitar mission, we were that station.

More specifically, I was that station, because I was all by my lonesome. Promotions Man might as well have sent me into a den of wolves with a T-bone necklace on.

I didn't expect much more than the harsh reception I got from the tour manager. Still, while I realized that the situation was inconvenient for him, it was just as inconvenient for me. He had to work someone else into the event, I had to carry the guitar of shame around for the duration of the evening. This mutual inconvenience could have served to bring us together.

He decided to be a dick to me instead, though. Still driven by the strands of professionalism that had not yet broken under the strain of the situation, I managed to uncharacteristically grin and bear it the first few times a sharp word was hurled in my direction. I just beamed at him through clenched teeth, got in the back of the line, and followed everyone to the holding area.

Where we held.

And held.

And held some more.

A solid hour, we held. By the time His Tour Highness came to retrieve us, I was soaked in sweat (attractive, huh?), quite dehydrated, suffering through a loss of circulation in the guitar-toting arm, and essentially, fit to be tied. So, when he began barking orders, he inadvertently flipped my inner bitch switch.

"A single file line!" he yelled. "One item per person! Do not - I repeat, DO NOT ask for pictures! We don't have time for that! No individual conversations! I want you in and out, people! In and out!"

I glowered from my spot in line, stepped out, and marched up to him. "Look, I know pictures aren't allowed, here. But I did an interview with Tim, and we generally use a picture with the interview downloads online. Can I please take one? I'll keep it brief."

"No. They have to be onstage in half an hour."

"Yes, I get that. I'm not asking you to round the whole band up. I could take one with just Tim real quick while the others are signing the guitar."

"No! We are pressed for time!"

What made me even angrier than his lacking disposition was his instant dismissal of me. The man actually turned his back to me and folded his arms across his chest! He reacted much like a toddler who's been asked to share a toy would.

I, in turn, reacted much like the toddler who did not get equal time with the toy because of the first really bratty, unreasonable toddler.

I returned to the line, and when my turn to meet and greet came, I marched up to the table with my guitar, smiled sweetly, and asked the boys to pass it down. They, being the good-natured, obliging individuals that they are, happily did so. While they were occupied, I approached Tim under the fiery gaze of Mr. Congeniality, removed my camera from my bag, and held it up.

"Hey, Tim. I'm Mysti. I spoke to you earlier today."

"Oh, hey!" he said, extending his hand. "Nice to put a face to the name!"

"Ditto. Look, I know we're not supposed to get pictures, but if I could get a quick one with just you to post online alongside the interview, I would be ever so grateful."

"Oh, sure. That's not a problem. Come here."

I turned around, grinned widely and victoriously at the tour manager, and handed the camera to a security guard. I fought the urge to yell, "Whatcha gonna do now, tough guy?! Tim said yes! Try to override him!" I didn't, though. I held my tongue, Tim and I said cheese, and while one would think that was triumph enough, I wasn't satisfied. I wanted to suck up even more of his precious seconds, just for spite.

"I know this is a little weird, but I have this Hat(TM), and it's sort of a joke, and...well, could we take a picture with it, too?"

Tim glanced at Hat(TM) and laughed. "This is great. Yeah. Let's do it!"

Oh, snap.

I thanked him, shook his hand, and moved on to Jon. Obviously, I was being watched like a hawk by now. The rays of hate were burning into my back, but I just winced against them and struck up a mini conversation with the lead singer. Just for the meanness of it.

Jon and I conversed pleasantly for a minute while I got the Switchfoot-adorned guitar back into the case. When the last clasp was firmly in place, I gathered my things, thanked the band for their time, and then I did what any smart-ass with such a gorgeous (if immature) conquest would have done.



I ran.