Skipping past Writober and Nanoblomo . . ? Shit, I dunno. I'm as bored as you are.
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
Because I’m Not Successfully Copycatting Unless I Post a Picture
I remember way-back-when and I used to write posts in the style of some other blogger (but, honestly, it was mostly just Estella-turned-Erin). Like I only had one thing that seemed like “mine,” and even THAT was ripped off. The last time I did the imitation/flattery thing, Styro commented that my Dooce-aping wasn’t funny. So, I guess we’ll go with the anti-Dooce . . . SJ at I, Asshole. (I’m like a dog with a bone on the fucking blog-whoring, right?)
Scene One: Guess Who You WON’T be Seeing at the Women’s World Cup in 2023
Despite my enthusiasm about soccer, our daughter was not named after Mia Hamm. Michelle was genuinely trying to pick a name that had no connection to anyone in either of our families. Which I think was an all-round great idea. Still, I’d like to see Mia grow up to be a soccer player.
But that will never happen.
She’s been on the princess/ballerina kick for a while and, after watching some soccer with me on T.V., said that she didn’t want to play soccer because she didn’t like getting knocked down. Which is understandable. But her preschool has started doing some semi-organized soccer training in the afternoons, and they had a “game” last Friday.
The “field” was set up on a hill. There were supposed to be two teams of seven, but it turned out to be four on four. Mia was great with the running around after the ball, but I think she only TOUCHED the ball one time . . . and that was because someone kicked the ball at her.
Time to start researching those ballet lessons.
Part Two: Gwen Step-on-Me, Indeed (Alternately, Summer Turds in the Cell-Whore, and How Not to be a Total Motherfucking Douchebag Asshole)
Out in the fringes of the Indie-Rock Galaxy, our band exists as a very small planet orbiting an unimpressive, dim sun. This is the Tallahassee music scene. When you play a “locals only” show with other bands with no “following,” it can be a soul-crushing experience. But when out-of-town / touring bands come through, and you get put on the bill, it can be somewhat more exciting.
A week ago, we were lucky enough to land on a bill with three out-of-town bands and another local. Not huge names, but interesting and compatible. The headliners were from Athens, Georgia. Our band was slotted to play second to last. Cool, right? Fourth of five bands (the fifth band was another local).
The first band (The Winter Sounds . . . also from Athens) were fuckin’ great (and very nice). I bought their CD and chatted them up a little. The other local band was next, and here’s where the problem starts: Two guys plus shitpiles of equipment. It took them quite a while to set up and break down. I didn’t give it a lot of thought until much later. During Dear and Glorious Physician, I was beckoned outside for an impromptu band meeting. It seems that the headliners wanted to switch slots with us. Not an unusual request at a “locals only” show, but kind-of weird for a touring band. We cave a lot in these situations, but I knew our drummer (Mr. ADD) wasn’t gonna go for it, anyway; plus, there seemed to be a strong “no” consensus. So, that’s that, right?
Wrong. Our band diplomat passed along the news. The negotiator for the headlining band says something along the lines of, “Well, we’re the headliners, so we’ll talk to the manager and have you guys thrown off the bill.” LUCKILY, this detail wasn’t reported to the rest of us until days later. As it was, Mr. ADD called them cocks under his breath as he stormed out of the club with his drums and we were talking to the club manager. I guess our Power Play trumped theirs, because we ended up playing next anyway.
Look, don’t be that band. If you’re (still) a relatively unknown touring band and you’re billed as the headliner, don’t cause a scene when you have to play after 11 . . . even if you want to go to an after-party with the other touring bands. Because, even though you were a tool, the band you attempted to dick over stayed to see your set and liked you enough to buy your CD (anyway).
Part the Third: Distraction Over
Every time we sit down to watch an episode or four of “24” in one sitting, I comment how happy this must make our cats. Well, sorry, kitties. Because even though we’ve started watching the recently purchased Season 3 (and didn’t even wait until it arrived; we rented the first two discs because “24” is to us as heroin was to Jack Bauer back in Season 3), it’s time for “Heroes,” again. After several weeks of being without it, I can finally live again. Unlike Isaac, apparently.
(p.s. – Does anyone watch “Drive?” Doesn’t the setup of the show, the FEEL of the show, seem to be very “Heroes”-esque? I’m betting that’s why the show is scheduled [on another Network, mind you] to run before “Heroes.” It’s cooperative programming. Smooth one, Mr. Murdoch.)
"Rock Star" • Imitation/Flattery • (6) Comments closed • Permalink
Friday, April 20, 2007
When the Best (or at Least Semi-Good) Intentions Run Headlong into Conjunctivitis
I’d really been planning on getting back to this sooner . . . perhaps having “lunch in” yesterday. And then, just before lunch, Mia’s school called with the news of suspected pinkeye. So, I did what any good parent would do: I picked her and her lunch up, ran by the house to get some juice and bits of distraction (for her), and came back to work. Because, no matter what they say, your coworkers love nothing more than a four-year-old with the Eye Funk.
Hey! First and foremost, you should swing by SJ’s (at I, Asshole) for some PNW’d action. When she was making her contest-related pitch to win a trip to this summer’s BlogHer, I posted about her efforts here and half-jokingly suggested that (in return) she feature me in an installment of “PNW’d” . . . as a “well-hung ocelot.” Which she did. It’s here . . . and awesome.
In other news, I love how so much of America is editorializing about the Virginia Tech shootings and how the death toll would have been much less had the teachers and/or some students been armed. With guns. On campus. Yeah, let’s create a nation-sized OK Corral. Or several college-sized ones. Sounds like a grand idea. (On an aside, during the run-up to the 2000 election, my dad and I were arguing about Bush and Gore. I thought that while Gore wasn’t as proven a leader as Clinton, Bush wasn’t fit to lead a Boy Scout troop. And my dad thought that, if Gore was elected president, the Government would come take all his guns away. I just shook my head and laughed. “Yeah, they’ll never do that.”)
Now I’m thinking they should. I think the Government should take all of our guns away.
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
And You Are . . ?
I’m annoyed. And, really, too busy to contemplate writing some involved thing about my goings on. Which are too boring to report, if I’m being completely honest. And I am. To wit(t):
- This threat won’t carry a lot of weight, considering my total commercial-radio listening time amounts to about two hours a week, but I’m ready to remove our local adult-contemporary station from my presets. While they’re all cool with the retro/80s stuff every now and then, the increasingly omnipresent crossover-country shit is getting to be too much. Is this happening to you? I hear the opening slide-guitar notes and immediately hit the button to transport Mia and I to the local bootie station. Or whatever Casiotone, experimental tripe our local college station is pumping out. (Sorry, V-89. I’m just annoyed right now. It’s me, not you.) Anyway, it was bad enough when I had to dodge the harmonica intros from Blues Traveler. Can it get much worse?
- When I wrote the ad for a technical editor to replace MYSELF, basically (I was promoted), I’d really hoped that the position would be filled inside of two weeks.
And it hasn’t been. Not by a long shot. Dammit-it-all.It’s finally been filled . . . incidentally, with a friend of mine. (Cue Danger Music.) But she’s not starting for more than three weeks, so I’m stocking up on the knee pads and petro-jelly.
- It’s hard out there for an espresso addict . . . on Easter. Leave it to Starbucks and their Corporate Coffee Compatriots to feed the needs of caffeine-dependent pagans everywhere. Seriously, after some Easter-morning disc-golfing, I swung by the nearest indie coffee shop for my great-big mocha . . . and, ooops, they were observing the “anniversary” of Christ rising from the dead. Target (with an in-store Starbucks) was closed, and Border’s (featuring Seattle’s Best or Finest or Something-or-Other) was opening two hours late. I was literally zig-zagging around Tallahassee for 30 minutes before finding an open place. I’m not exactly sure how many coffee shops are closer to our house than that particular Starbucks, but FUCK THEM ALL. Jesus and the Easter Bunny would never want to see Their flock put through that kind of caffeine withdrawal.
- The opposite of annoying: For you creative-writing (and publishing hopeful) types . . . a friend pointed me to Duotrope, which is like the Poet’s / Writer’s Markets, but online and searchable. It’s really badass . . . user-friendly and user-updated. Seriously, this is making it that much MORE likely that I’ll send out poems for