Sexual Harassment: The Upside, by Whitney Farmer – Un Pop Culture

April 21, 2010 Whitney Farmer 8 Comments

I was warned that the show would be complicated and dangerous. The demands from the band exceeded any that we had encountered before. Our offer sheet for the terms and arrangements we had agreed we would make were completely ignored, except for the part that we would pay them.  The singer had connections to a motorcycle gang that was deeply entrenched in other states on the East Coast, and the gang was unofficially at war with another that was originally founded in California. We were instructed to dedicate a minimum of two guards to the tour bus because of two previous bombing attempts from the rival gang. And if the singer made it inside alive, he was known for singing racist lyrics and songs that extolled the virtues of bar fights. As I was being briefed, I kept waiting for the punchline to the bad joke but was only given an additional contractual demand that I would need to make sure was fulfilled.

I planned on arriving for load-in to make certain that all conditions were being met, or the band would demand full payment and had the right to leave without performing. One of the conditions for the night was that the singer would allow no air conditioning to be on in the venue, and no doors open under any circumstances.  Only once before when the air conditioning system failed had we unexpectedly encountered these conditions. With 450 people and full sound and light production but no ventilation, the venue develops its own strange internal atmosphere.  The moist breath of all those people mixes with the heat and creates a mini-raincloud. Inside. By the end of the night, a fine misty rain made from the breath of strangers drips on you from above. I knew it was going to be uncomfortable, so I put on a cotton sundress with a pair of cowboy boots. I wanted to be as cool as possible so I wouldn’t faint from the heat, but didn’t want my feet crushed by drunken bigots. It was the best I could do under the circumstances.

I arrived for the load-in and shook the hand of the mullet-haired roadie who was coordinating the first stages of the show. Smiles all around, to my surprise. I was relieved as preparations continued to go smoothly and graciously.  As I came out to open the registers, more smiles all round. Lots of greetings of “Ma’am”. Then a booming voice asking if I was the venue manager everyone was talking about.  I shook the hand of the hairy bear and gave him my name.  He said, “Darlin’, can I borrow your hoodie?” Not quite sure if it would fit, I unzipped it to hand it to him as a gesture of hospitality. As my sundress made its appearance, an explosion of catcalls and applause began.

“Woo! She’s the one! Boys, she just won the Betty Crocker Award!!   Darlin’, I declare that you’ve got the MOST beautiful cupcakes and the sweetest buns around! They told me they couldn’t remember your name, but that I’d know ya when I’d seen ya!” And then the mauling hugs began…

No one cared about my college education or my professional credentials.  interestingly, the sharp edges on the contractual obligations became more rounded.   Everything became more companionable and workable for everyone, including my staff. The crews laughed with each other. The door opened on time. The band didn’t leave. Everyone made money. There were no bombings. Near the end of the show, the last law-breaking moment occurred when I was asked, “Darlin’, what are the chances of you taking them girls out tonite so’s I can see ‘em?” I responded, “Sorry, Darlin’, but that’s not gonna happ’n. But thanks fer askin’” (Since when did I develop a drawl…?)

At the end of the night, I was still pure as snow and dateless but wondered about my ethics. If I had known what would have happened, would I have dressed that way as a weapon? Everyone was expecting it to be one of those road-kill nights, and my objectification had weirdly expedited smooth operations and therefore a solid show. Rather than giving anyone within earshot a lesson in labor laws, I instead laughed along with the joke while dodging gropings.

Feminists would say that women can’t have it both ways.  Still thinking about that one. But I’m not certain if I care more about that moral lesson than about our cream/brown/black security guards who have to show up and protect racists, our production team who make magic that makes the audience forget about the indoor cloud of strangers’ breath raining on them, or our sober bar staff who work three jobs to buy groceries for their kids.

Quote of the Blog, from Sun Tzu’s ‘The Art of War’:

“…By means of these seven considerations I can forecast victory or defeat…

1. Which of the two sovereigns is imbued with the Moral Law?
2. Which of the two generals has the most ability?
3. With whom lie the advantages derived from Heaven and Earth?
4. On which side is discipline most rigorously enforced?
5. Which army is stronger?
6. On which side are officers and men more highly trained?
7. In which army is there the greater constancy in reward and punishment?…”

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Whitney runs a rock music club in L.A. She has an MBA and no one cares.