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, August 25, 2006
Monthly Newsletter: Month Forty-Nine?
You’re asleep in the next room here at the Hampton Inn & Suites in Valdosta, Georgia. We spent the day (well, four hours of it) at Wild Adventures to celebrate your birthday. Tomorrow, after we wake up, take in the complimentary “hot breakfast,” and repack our belongings, we’re gonna swing by Wild Adventures again for a hopefully longer session of fun before making the 90-minute drive back to Tallahassee. Sunday is the family “party” and the many presents.
You “officially” started preschool two weeks ago, and you’re already asking about kindergarten. Which kind-of worries us, as we’re really torn about the various schooling options that lie before us . . . the overly diverse magnet school (focus on the arts) we’re zone for, the “charter” school that may or may not be run by hippies, or the school your mommy’s office is zoned for (demographically resembling the city as a whole and a solid performer). I feel like a racist worrying about these kinds of issues, but your early homecare had excluded African-American children as a business decision*, and the subsequent preschool years have been overwhelmingly whitebread.
(ASIDE: I really tried, just now, to be fair in the battle of Pepsi vs. Coke as manifested in the third-floor vending area. Of course your mommy was gonna want Diet Coke, so that was a given. But I tried to get Sierra Mist instead of Sprite, and Aquafina over Dasani, and the fucking Pepsi machine would NOT take my dollar bills. The Coke machine sucked those things right in. So we’re drinking their horrible corporate water over Pepsi’s.)
Look, Mia, we really couldn’t ask for a better daughter. Is what I’m trying to say. Sadly, you’re cursed with imperfect parents . . . your mother, who won’t eat ketchup because it’s made from tomatoes but loves barbeque sauce (denying that it’s just spiced-up ketchup), and your father, who until a year ago thought that wasabi was, like guacamole, made from avocados, and just earlier this evening uttered the phrase, “I bet Tallahassee is gettin’ tore up by rain right now.”
Rise above, sweet Mia. Rise above.
Imitation/Flattery • Roadtripping • (6) Comments closed • Permalink
Friday, June 09, 2006
Bring Yo Dick-Suckin’ Friends*
I’ve been very busy at work, as I think I’ve mentioned. And, almost like a real editor, I have my first-ever freelance job. So, I bet it’s not too hard to guess how I spent my lunch hour. That’s right, I went out and got a slice of pizza as big as my motherfuckin’ head and then I typed a shitload of people’s picks into my World Cup pool spreadsheet.