8 DAYS TO HONG KONG

MONDAY

Things I still need to do: cancel my car insurance, cancel my gym membership. Oh, I need to sell my car… do I have the title? Also, I should start packing. One week to go.

It’s 9. No, 10. His hand is around my waist as we tower 550 feet above the glittering lights of Las Vegas. We kissed for the first time while waiting for the High Roller to load.

I’m determined to love my home again. All of my friends have changed, things have shifted. No, I haven’t dealt with it well. I refuse to leave Las Vegas hating it—it’s my only home, my saving grace. I have one week to fall in love with it again.

We run hand-in-hand through the Flamingo, getting lost among the flashing slots. Out of breath, laughing, looking for reality-show cocktail bars. We collect ourselves as we enter the overpriced lounge. We sit at the bar, gazing at the flamingo décor around us. We talk about art, photography, pottery. We talk about life, travel, work, and passion. Time disappears.

TUESDAY

“I’m off at 8:30ish. I’ll text you when I’m off?”

I still have my to-do list. Can’t deviate from the list. Start packing. Did you call the car insurance company yet?

We went to sleep far past 3 a.m., and I have a suspicion the sun hasn’t been up long. I have to pick up my car from the Arts District before I get a ticket. I sit on his bed while I call an Uber.

Is my shit even going to fit in the suitcases? How did I accumulate so much? Can I just not pay the car insurance, or does that hurt my credit? Does my credit even matter now? I really wish people would stop texting “ARE YOU EXCITED YET?”

“See you later, sweets.”

WEDNESDAY

Twenty-four hours later, we repeat.

“Are you sick of me yet?”

“Absolutely not.”

I drive off into the desert, my dearest Nevada. We talked about how it takes a special person to love the desert—the desolation, the brutal heat, the vast emptiness of it all. It didn’t take me long to fall in love with it. I have to soak it in now. When will I see it again?

THURSDAY

I lay my head on his chest, slowly bobbing up and down with his breath. I look up to see his brown eyes and long lashes flicker as he talks. I grab his hand—my milky skin contrasted against his olive tone. I tell him things I normally wouldn’t tell anyone else. I’ve known him for four days.

A mess of timing, but it couldn’t have been written better. Just when I think, “Is it worth it?” Just before I embark on the journey of a lifetime—one that very few people get to experience—and I’m tempted to trade it all for the normalcy of a life everyone else gets to have.

Or am I just playing pretend for a week?

FRIDAY

The text “When can I see you again?” swirls around my mind more than it should. The reality of this ending is starting to hit.

SATURDAY

The last-minute details are handled. The suitcases are packed, minus what I need for the next couple days. My airplane bag, full of remedies for a 16-hour flight, is ready to go. But I don’t feel ready. I don’t want this pretend life to end. Maybe if I could just delay it for a week. Maybe if I could have 24 extra hours with him- would it be worth it?

Goddamn circus.

SUNDAY

“Give me your phone. Let me take your picture in your car so you can remember.”

My car is almost gone. I’ve signed the paperwork, now all I have to do is drive it into the garage. He knows how sad I am and sits with me through all the infuriating steps of CarMax. The adventures I took in that car, the places we went. The people who rode in it with me, some of whom I’ll never see again. It’s silly to be upset over a car, but after my apartment and my home, it was the last vestige of me. I’m a full nomad now. Nothing left to my name. Some will say it’s freeing. I find it, in some ways, depressing.

I take him to his first Cirque du Soleil show, Mystère. There’s a pang in my stomach, knowing I’m returning to work tomorrow. That’s what I wanted, right? Don’t think about it. Enjoy this moment.

We later return to the Velveteen Rabbit, where we first met. I insist on jumping into the photo booth, and he obliges. Cocktails in hand, giggles abound. Two short minutes later, a little photo strip: a bright red background, us looking bewildered as the camera starts, and kissing in the third frame, a painful reminder of what was never to become.

MONDAY

It’s six minutes to the airport. He’s tried to hold my hand, but I refused.

I was up all night. Was it crazy to think about starting a long-distance relationship with a Tinder date I’ve known for a week- just hours before boarding a plane halfway across the world? His rational thinking sent me over the edge. I left the bed and curled up on the living room couch, burying my face into my bony knees as tears dripped down my legs.

It’s all a blur; 17 hours, no sleep. He came and sat next to me, held my hand, and fell asleep beside me. I got up to finish last-minute packing, shoving the dirty socks I wore that night into whatever crevice I could find in my suitcase. My eyes, swollen from crying and exhaustion.

Fuck. I never finished that whiskey. He can have it. Shit, I have to throw away the oranges I bought and didn’t eat. Did I get the boarding pass on my phone? I wish I had made more dinners while I had this kitchen.

It’s five minutes to the airport. We sit in silence. Tears slowly slide down my cheeks. If only the well-wishers of my journey could see me now, they’d be so disappointed. But they’ll never understand the other side of the coin, the dark and jagged side. The one we don’t talk about often. The loneliness. The nights spent crying with no one to turn to. The normalcy we all long for from time to time. The life they have, a home, a loving partner, is the one I fear I’ll never find.

It’s four minutes to the airport. It’s now or never. I may never see him again. Get over your pride and just grab his fucking hand.

I reach over, wordless, and hold on as tightly as I can. He does the same, his fingertips turning white as they clasp around mine. I have four minutes to enjoy this: the life I gave up so I could follow a dream. One I hope is worth it, as we pull into international departures and into the great unknown.

HERE, WE'RE ALL JUST CIRCUS PEOPLE

I’m desperately asking her to let me have this job. It’s cold and rainy here in the suburbs of Seattle, but even through the pixelated haze of this Teams call, I can tell it’s sunny where she is. We’re discussing the needs of the Front of House team for a two week set up stint for Echo in California. She’s practically pleading with me to take the position because she needs the help, and I’m pleading with her to let me have it because I need the money.

It’s a very polite standoff.

I can’t possibly be off for seven weeks. I don’t want to be off for that long. I’ve never been in a situation where my workplace needs to be packed into storage containers and shipped to Asia. So, with nothing left to do until our shit gets to Hong Kong, here I am. The day before, a colleague assured me, “The world is your oyster! Go travel! You can go anywhere!!!” But I don’t share her enthusiasm. I don’t want oysters, I want somewhere to belong. I thought I’d need to play it cool in this interview, but it turns out, it’s not an interview at all, it’s just us begging each other.

It ends with, “We’ll see you in San Jose!”

***

I leave for San Jose tomorrow, but I wish I could pack everything up and leave tonight. How much would it cost to change my flight? I can pay for an extra hotel night, right? Anything to get me out of this town. During this solitary week, I’ve been contemplating just exactly why I am here. I just lost a friend, someone I thought I could trust, only to have them throw me aside without a second thought. Many other texts and phone calls from others go unanswered, and even though everything here is familiar and comfortable, I feel completely alone. I think I’m done trying to fit into a place I’ve been desperately trying to fit into. I want Las Vegas, but I don’t think she wants me back. What a volatile beast this city can be.

Who in the history of San Jose has ever wanted to get there this badly?

***

I crane my neck to see out the window of the plane. I recognize those rolling green hills from last year. Far below, I spot the swirl of a blue and white circus tent, and I smile.

***

It’s sunny, and the site is warm. It feels oddly recognizable from last year, but the faces are all different. The GEX team heads off to pick up their PPE, but already equipped with my steel toes and hardhat, I’m left alone. I can’t stay put, I start to wander through the swerving forklifts and men carrying giant pieces of canvas. I make a big loop, and even this show and kit are not mine, I feel like I know exactly where I am. I spot James from afar and skip over to wrap him in a giant bearhug, our hardhats clunking together. I’m not sure what the next two weeks will bring, but after the past week at home, I’m just so happy to be back here.

***

I have no idea what time it is, but I know I probably should’ve gone home a while ago. The beer in front of me is lukewarm at best, and I’m on my second bowl of Cheerios - nothing compared to James’ serving bowl of Lucky Charms laced with Cocoa Puffs. The festoons hanging above us provide a soft, warm haze, making this kitchen feel so familiar, like a giant metaphorical hug.

I throw my spoon down into my empty bowl. I’ve washed my hands so many times today, but dirt has sunk into the cracks, worn dry from lifting chairs (2,500 of them), pushing road cases, hopping in and out of semi-trucks. They’ve shaken a lot of other hands today, meeting the new faces on this tour, all of them so welcoming.

“THENKS YOU GUYSSS. THENKS TO KOOZA!”

I mean, it’s a drunken welcome, but that’s commonplace around here. I’m glad to know the Echo BBQ is just as debaucherous as back home. I was afraid I wouldn’t fit in, but I think it’s all working out just fine.

The marshmallows of the Lucky Charms are starting to turn a pale brown from the chocolate. “Fucking gross, James”, as I throw back the rest of my warm beer and get up to search for a string cheese.

***

“Here, we’re all just circus people, y’know?”

I’m sitting atop an empty ropack, an oversized road case blanket warming my bare legs. The Modelo in my hand is making it hard for me to remember why this Irishman is saying this to me, but I do know there’s a hint of disdain in his voice. He’s told us this is his last transfer, soon to be a regular civilian again. “Ohhh,” we sympathize, with a look of sad compassion towards him. Who would be this down about moving into a house they bought? And waking up in their own bed every day?

Circus people, that’s who.

I look around; there aren’t many of us left. The glow of the giant Big Top is casting a light shadow of the tired and unhinged who have decided to stay on site, going on 14 hours. What a bunch of lost, kooky souls. And how incredible it is that we all found our way to one another, here.

***

“Of course Ross would order the party Uber.”

This minivan is lined with flickering LED lights, flashing every which way. Our driver blissfully ignores our drunken chatter. Is it 2 a.m.? 3 a.m.? We’re the last stragglers from Premiere night; what was once a bustling 54 filled with cast and crew, is now just the four of us. My mind is refusing to leave, even though my body, tired and frail from the past 10 days, desperately needs sleep. I know my time here is coming to an end, but I don’t want it to.

I tear my eyes away from the sparkling ceiling of this minivan to look out at the dark lights of San Jose. Moments from the week keep popping up - seeing Ross for the first time, working with a bunch of strangers who would later turn into friends, James screaming my name from atop a state-of-the-art giant cube inside the Big Top, joyriding in forklifts, perfecting the art of the ratchet strap. All these small moments culminate in one giant realization: maybe Las Vegas isn’t home anymore - it’s here.

I hate the term “home.” I’ve spent the majority of my life searching for it - in Chicago, London, Nashville, Kansas City, Las Vegas - but I’ve never quite fit the mold that the word “home” creates for so many people. It’s a maddening concept I’ll probably chase for the rest of my life, but maybe I just need to change the terminology. What is home, really? A place to put your shit? Or a place where you’re comfortable, a place where you can be yourself? It’s a place where you’re happy. Whatever the word is, I know it’s here. Maybe not in this LED-charged party van (although I wouldn’t mind), but where there’s a circus tent and people who feel just as lost as I do, I am here.

***

“I love how life gives us what we need when we least expect it sometimes.”

I read this message with a sullen expression at the San Jose airport, my flight back to Las Vegas ready to board. I don’t think anyone has ever been this sad to leave San Jose. But this message from Ross rings through my head over and over. I arrived in California completely defeated. Over the past two weeks, I’ve experienced delirious laughter, new faces, and artists in white animal costumes spinning inside a giant cube. I also faced many goodbyes—saying goodbye to the followers (which sent me behind a trailer to cry), and to Fernanda, Ross, and Marie-Eve (which made me cry openly). I know these are temporary and I’ll see them all down the road at some point, such is the fickle nature of our profession.

I didn’t realize before this trip just how much I needed it. The money, sure, but more so I needed the people, the laughs, the indescribable feeling of belonging. I didn’t really know I was searching for it, but I’m happy I found it—

here.

CATHY

Who’s your person?

No, not in the romantic sense, but the one who unequivocally changed the course of your life in the span of ten minutes?

Mine is Cathy.

I remember that night so well. It was a warm October evening in Las Vegas. I was approaching my two-year anniversary in Sin City, but I didn’t feel like I had much to celebrate. I felt defeated—emotionally battered from a job that wasn’t fulfilling, stuck in a never-ending cycle of torment with some boy, and even in the pale green glow of the MGM Grand, my sullen expression was hard to miss. It was happenstance that Cathy came along, meeting me in the employee smoking section just outside of the KA Theatre.

“Duuuuude,” she exhaled, “You gotta go on tour.”

This wasn’t the first time I had heard this from her. She had mentioned it multiple times over the course of our two-year working-turned-besties relationship. However, Cathy had never been on tour herself, having spent the majority of her over decade long tenure at Cirque primarily at KA.

I didn’t listen to her all those times. I didn’t want to give up the "dream life" I thought I had in Las Vegas- the comfort of home, the countless battles I fought to get to where I was. I had the stability of knowing what was coming next. That, of course, was more disappointment- from my employer, the dream job at Cirque I was chasing but would never get, that damn guy who just wouldn’t leave my head… but at least I had the comfort of knowing all of this. Yet that night, with tears welling up in my eyes, I felt like it was finally time to listen.

She pulled out her phone, frantically scrolling through the internal job board.

“Here, look. Kooza. Duuuuude. How fucking sweet would that be?”

“I’m not sure…”

“No, you’re applying. Tonight. This one right here—Guest Experience Supervisor. You’re perfect. Let me know when you’re done.”

Not one to disappoint, I did go home and apply that night, not expecting anything to come of it. However, a series of fortunate circumstances and one Teams chat between Cathy and my future boss Cath led me to Canada just two months after our serendipitous meeting at the MGM Grand employee smoking area.

This adventure into Big Top traveling also meant giving up Cathy, who I grew to admire in so many different ways. Her door is always open, her couch always has an inhabitant (though she’ll simultaneously be on the phone, checking emails, and giving life advice all at the same time). Artists come and go, in full costume and make-up, needing help with anything from resetting their email password (“Duuuude, you gotta write it down!”) to showing one particular artist the 7 p.m. show footage where her pants were falling down during the boat (“That shit is hilarious”). She knows everyone; their spouses, their kids, their lives. She sets up KA Kamp every summer with various activities, creates outings, and celebrates milestones like engagements and U.S. citizenships. She once turned the Sand Deck stage, a multi-million-dollar technological and theatrical accomplishment, into a giant Price is Right Plinko board. She brags about everyone’s achievements (“Jim used to be in charge of the elephants for the Big Apple Circus, fucking rad”).

She’ll give the world to you, even if you’re kind of a dick. She has zero free time, between running the largest show on the Las Vegas Strip, planning charity circus events, and attending her daughter’s dance recitals, but she’ll always make time for you. And it doesn’t matter what you do - you are family when you're at KA. She doesn’t know it yet, but she’s gonna end up running this whole dog and pony show someday.

She’ll insist over and over that it was entirely me, and all she did was open the door. But it was a massive door, and she practically shoved me through it when I was inexplicably hesitant to move forward. So often, we fail to recognize those who have truly changed us. So Cathy, in your own eloquent words, you’re the fucking best.

HOW I TRIED TO GO HOME BUT ENDED UP CRYING IN THE PARKING GARAGE AT THE RIO

PARKING GARAGE

It’s hot. Refreshing after three months in the cold rain. But the tears streaming down my face are making my already damp skin even stickier than it needs to be. It’s only been a few days, but the culmination of everything has finally hit me, and I just happen to be in the parking garage at this pivotal moment. There’s no way I can walk through the Rio, a Las Vegas staple since 1990, with these red, puffy eyes. Against my better judgment, sunglasses inside it is.

The beautiful thing about Las Vegas is that I can do this, and no one will bat an eye. Really, I could walk through the casino floor crying and no one would care. Honestly, I could probably walk through the Rio—crying, in my underwear, with a parrot on my shoulder—and no one would even look up from those slot machines. This is why it’s so hard to quit this place.

1 HOUR EARLIER

I’m carrying three cans of beans. They’re for my ex-boyfriend and his date tonight. That’s right—a can of kidney beans, black beans, and pinto beans, just for the girl going out with my ex-boyfriend. I’ve been gone for three months, and I come home to do this, help this man with his grocery shopping. I think he calls it cowboy dip. He’s made it for me before, just before the exact same date he’s taking her on tonight. I’m only slightly humiliated.

But do I repeatedly tell myself I’m the bigger person? Of course. Do I constantly remind myself of the same night, the same date, where he got mad, started screaming in his truck, and I sat there silently because I was too scared to say anything, thinking it would only make him angrier? Absolutely. I wonder if there was another girl that night who carried the beans for him, too.

I hate to spoil it for you, but he’s the reason I left Las Vegas.

24 HOURS EARLIER

My leg is being pummeled with incredibly uncomfortable needles. I’m sitting through a four-and-a-half-hour tattoo, and I’m trying to be a big girl, but it’s tough. I knew it was going to hurt, but… My God. My artist is trying to talk me through the pain. She’s genuinely interested in this little circus life of mine and has a lot of questions that I don’t mind answering. Some answers are fun:

“Yes, meals are provided for us. The sous chefs travel, too!”

“It’s such a cultural hodgepodge. We represent 35 different countries!”

Some answers are not fun:

“Oh, I gave up my apartment. I’m never home. All my shit is in storage.”

“Yes, it’s always weird coming back.”

I say that last one as lightheartedly as possible, but it’s hard. It is weird coming back. Everything changes. I have no safe space to call my own, so I have to depend on the mercy of others. Which, as it turns out, aren’t exactly thrilled to host me. Who can blame them? Who wants a freeloader hanging around, complaining about existential issues like not having a home while living an extravagant lifestyle on the road? At the very least, they’d want to hang out, right? I mean, I already had one plan canceled as I sat there in physical pain during this tattoo session—might as well add a little emotional pain into the mix, too.

2 DAYS EARLIER

I’m already 20 minutes deep into this line at check-in, and we’ve barely moved. How many times did I walk past these check-in lines and think, “Poor souls, wasting away to check into a second-rate Las Vegas hotel. Pathetic.” And here I am. Wasting away at the Rio, as the sound of buzzing slot machines and cigarette smoke swirls around me.

“Did you drive in?”

The guy behind me is now bored and needs to pass the time.

“Yes. Well, sort of. I drove my car here,” I reply.

I drove my car here? I know you’ve been alone all week, but girl, what kind of response is that?

“Erm, well, did you park in self-park?”

“Yes, well, I’m a local,” I boast. “It’s all I know.”

“If you’re a local, why are you checking in at the Rio?”

I start to explain, but I think he lost interest almost immediately. I always say I’m from Las Vegas, but I’m not. I wasn’t born in the hazy desert, nor did I grow up surrounded by glittering casinos. But what else am I supposed to say? It’s the only home I feel like I have, yet I have no home in my home. I’m a fraud.

3 DAYS EARLIER

I’m sitting in Yreka, California with a busted tired, half-way to Reno. I arrive in Vegas tomorrow, where the fuck am I going to stay? What’s the cheapest hotel I can find?

1 WEEK EARLIER

I reluctantly pack my bags. Work ended yesterday, but I’m not exactly thrilled about a seven-week vacation, much like everyone else. I really want to go home to Vegas, but I also, you know, don’t. I don’t want to face the changes that have inevitably happened—the favorite spots that have closed, the new places I don’t know anything about. I don’t want to face the friendships that have shifted since my departure, probably never returning to what they once were. I don’t want to fall back into the same shitty patterns, which I always do. But I’m also looking at not returning until next year—a whole year without the glitz and glamour, the shows, the crazy people-watching, the endless rays of sunshine. I feel like I’ve lost every aspect of home, but I don’t want to lose Vegas, too.

10 MINUTES AFTER THE PARKING GARAGE INCIDENT

I remove my sunglasses once I get to the empty, mirrored elevator and realize my eyes weren’t really all that bad—but the mascara had run all the way down to my chin. So, I suppose the sunglasses did nothing, but no one seemed to care. I return to my room and plop down by the window, fresh tears gathering in my eyes. I have an amazing view of the shipping and receiving dock, but beyond that are the northside mountains, now starting to turn a pinkish hue from the setting sun. They’re the same mountains I passed through when I left Vegas the last time, driving to Seattle. I have a memory of crying then, too (seems to be a great strength of mine). And in this moment, I’m reminded that there’s no other place I’d rather come home to—shitty men with their beans and all.

THE ART OF SAYING GOODBYE

Saying goodbye takes on a whole new meaning when you head out on tour. You forfeit the comfort of a normal life and create a new home every 6-12 weeks. As a result, you'll find yourself saying 'au revoir' far more often than most, so here are seven unique ways to bid farewell:

1. GOODBYE

   A classic way to express good wishes when parting. Starting a new chapter in life often means leaving behind the comforts of home—saying goodbye to the friends who were always there for you, the apartment that provided solace during difficult times, and the city that shaped your life in just a few short years. A formal goodbye may be required, as you don’t know when you’re going to see them again.

2. TALK TO YOU LATER

   In normal life, saying “talk to you later” usually means, speaking with one at a later date. In touring life, saying “talk to you later” means talking to them in…possibly 15 minutes. Now, your co-workers are also your roommates, and your only option for friends. You wake up, see them on the shuttle, share a morning (or possibly afternoon) coffee, work an 8+ hour shift, eat dinner with them, and then a simple “talk to you later” means, see you at the 54 party and then possibly at the hotel. Wake up, repeat.

3. I’M OUT

   An alternative to the standard 'talk to you later,' but with the subtle message of 'please don’t talk to me, I’ll see you tomorrow and I’m not interested in conversing until then.' Sometimes, you just need space, but be cautious—this could easily be misinterpreted, so tread lightly.

4. CHEERS

   A fun sign-off on the radio, especially when thanking a fellow colleague for unclogging a frozen toilet and you know good and well he’s covered in shit right now and this is quite often our reality when working at a circus tent and is not often posted on Instagram.

5. BYE

   Connotation is everything with this one, often carrying a frustrated undertone when speaking to those back home. When starting life on tour, it’s common to believe you'll maintain your relationships at home, thinking they’ll remain the same while you're away. But 100% of the time, they won’t—no matter how many desperate attempts you make from thousands of miles away. Once you realize that those who were once yours are no longer yours—thanks to your own decisions, btw—a curt 'bye' becomes the norm for ending these types of conversations.

6. SAFE TRAVELS

   This phrase is typically accompanied by hugs and comes before long departures, when you won’t see your colleagues for several weeks. It’s completely normal to feel conflicted—especially if you’re beyond frustrated with coworkers you’ve seen every day for months. Maybe they’ve driven you up the wall with music that makes your ears bleed or constant debates over whether non-rechargeable batteries can be charged. Suddenly, you’re having mixed feelings about not seeing them for an extended period of time. For better or for worse, they are a part of you now, so this is okay.

7. SEE YOU DOWN THE ROAD

   By far the most emotionally damaging of all the goodbyes. Not everyone you part ways with will have a concrete date for when you’ll see them again. Some will move on to new tours, others will chase new opportunities or return to their old jobs. Some may relocate to Montreal, Orlando, or Las Vegas. And some, you may never see again. These are the people with whom you’ve developed deep connections—souls who truly understood and accepted you, flaws and all. They guided you professionally, offered advice when you needed it, and traveled to the ends of the earth with you. They did stupid photo shoots, did trivia every weekend, shared inside jokes, lived with you in Los Angeles high rises, laughed with you, cried with you, and laughed until they cried with you. You have zero idea when you’ll see them again, so you say 'see you down the road'—because your already fragile psyche has left you crying in a Residence Inn stairwell so you certainly can’t say goodbye now. Yet, the circus has a funny way of bringing lost souls back together, sometimes once, sometimes many times over the years. Until then, hold onto every goodbye, and every hello, that comes your way.

INTRODUCING...

The first of many stories from the road of this crazy carny life.

I was welcomed into the world of Cirque du Soleil in 2003, upon my first viewing of Dralion. My cousin Kerry was a lighting technician at the time. Having never heard of this French Canadian circus before, I became enthralled. Obsessed, possibly. I insisted on a second viewing, and out of city comps, I settled for viewing the show from the artistic tent. Sat upon a beat up couch watching a live feed on a 15” TV, surrounded by languages from around the world and watching first class artists performing the unimaginable around me. In this moment, at the age of 14, I wanted this to be my future.

Once hitting college, I was set on my path: Theatre Tech with a minor in French; for my future with Cirque du Soleil. Flash cut: I was shut out of all French classes and the one theatre class I took I wanted to rip my eyeballs out. So, I had to change the dream slightly to…famous Cirque du Soleil photographer. That’s it, that’s the goal. It’s not a thing, but that’s the road I began to take.

As life began to take over and reality set in, the dream quickly faded. I pursued the art degree, but the circus fantasy was gone. However, my greatest lesson was, don’t be a stranger to peculiar adventures. I found myself around the world, learning photography in the UK, working in historical music venues in Nashville, setting Swedish tables in the Midwest, and one spontaneous move to Las Vegas led me to a plane ride to Vancouver BC in December 2023. The next day I started as a Hospitality Supervisor for Kooza, a show my mom and I saw back in 2007, the year it opened.

How wild life works out the way it does, and how often we never record the details that we wish to remember. So here I am, detailing my life as a fancy carny, the bizzare life I always dreamed about.