The plan keeps coming up again

I missed a band meeting tonight (for Band A), which band meeting produced a to-do list—a sketch of concrete things we'd like to get done in the coming months.

Most ominous on the list was the last item: "10) Get Stanley fired [from his day job]", targeting the ongoing scheduling mindfuck that comes with with being the only band member working a traditional 40-hour-a-week office-type job.

We all had a good laugh at that, but I'm a little worried about Dijon Bray's stated plan to drug my drinks so that I can't get up for work in the morning. For two days straight.

For now: I'm cautious and vigilant. I, too, would love to do music exclusively. But that upcoming $3,000 bill from the dentist (dental insurance claim: denied!) ain't banking on T-shirt sales to fund itself.

So your ex-roommate drives a Honda...

Oh! Almost forgot: the ex-roommate is blogging again on a new site, but I don't know if she wants links just yet. Anyway, her car got stolen. So if you have her contact info send some good vibes her way.

Better yet, send her a car.

Telephony

For reasons not entirely within my recollection, I have a Semi-Famous Musical Artist's cell phone number stored in my phone. I think I'm supposed to call Semi-Famous Musical Artist [SFMA] if a somewhat unlikely set of circumstances comes to pass, but those circumstances have not yet taken place, so I've never called SFMA.

I emphasize: I have never called her.

Which cannot be truthfully said of my fearless co-blogger, Ryan, who, while inspecting my cell phone yesterday made two observations:

1. "You have a lot more contact numbers in your phone than I have in mine" and
2. "Holy shit! SFMA's phone number! Is this for real? Let's call her and leave her an obscure message ostensibly from someone named Ramón."

Fast-forward to this morning, when my phone rings and who is it? but of course, Semi--Famous Musical Artist. Who's returning my call directly from her voicemail, so yes, she definitely has the right number, and no, I didn't leave her a message, I swear. Must be some mix-up. Ha! Anyhoo, have a nice day, stranger, who doesn't know that I know that she's Semi-Famous Musical Artist calling me back.

Thanks, Ryan. That was awkward.

Someone's getting incense for their birthday

When I was in high school, I worked at a pharmacy, which was sweet. I learned (a) which of my friends' mothers were on antidepressants, (b) which of my friends were on birth control, (c) exactly how well Viagra works, and (d) that for the pharmacist, it is illegal to leave the store during your shift, lest the high school pharmacy technician kid take seven hundred class A narcotics and stuff them into his cargo pockets (for example). Which meant that if the pharmacist were a smoker, he or she would have to go smoke in the bathroom, because he or she can't go outside (illegal) and he or she can't just light up in the middle of the Advil aisle of an Eckerd (taboo and also illegal). So my boss was smoking in the bathroom a lot.

As a result, I learned to very easily sniff out a bathroom wherein somebody had just smoked and then spent ten minutes spraying Febreez and lighting matches and washing their hands and just generally trying to disinfect the entire room of all smoke and smoke-related smells. I also learned this in my college dorms. It's kind a sweet, lemon-y, very subtle Camel Light/Pledge/whatever-kind-of-hand-soap-is-around smell. And I'm not against the smell of cigarettes - when you catch me in the right mood I would say that cigarette smoke smells absolutely wonderful - but I am very much against the smell of paltry attempts at de-smoking a recently smoked-in bathroom. I should mention, though, that I love the smell of Nag-Champa, which to most people makes me a rasta.

Which is why I'm kind of annoyed that the coworker whom I have spent the past month training in the ways of Ryan At Work - I'm annoyed that he keeps taking little one-hitter hits of weed in our bathroom, and then tries to cover it up. It only barely bothers me that he's getting all high at work, because that's retarded and by association makes HIM retarded, and it really bothers me that I even care that he's getting all high at work, because it makes me feel old, and shouldn't I have better things to worry about while at work? But what REALLY bothers me is that whenever I have to take a piss I have to deal with his half-assed attempts at masking the smell of what I would pretty confidently call shit, middle-school weed.

Una receta fácil

A friend passed along an exceedingly easy (and delicious) salsa recipe:

• One 15 oz. can tomato sauce (he specifies Hunt's™, but I'm not sure it matters)
• 1 small white onion (or half a large onion), diced
• Jalapeños to suit (he says ten, but that's just way too hot; I tried seven—too hot for me; tonight's batch had three)
• Pinch of salt & pepper

The key step seems to be boiling the jalapeños for fifteen minutes (leave the tops on; just clip off the vine part) and then blending/food-processing them into a purée. Combine ingredients in a bowl, stir, and chill overnight. Serve with margaritas in my kitchen. Because I could go for that.

{Note: recipe can of course be tweaked. I added fresh cilantro to the first go-round. Also: cumin. I might try garlic next time. 'Cause I'm crazy like that.}

Weird Conversations with My Boss Edition

[Context: I called into work yesterday morning, informing them I'd be late due to illness.]

Boss: So what was your affliction yesterday?
Me: I had a sinus headache when I woke up, so I took some ibuprofen and lay down for an extra hour.
Boss: You could just have your sinuses removed.
Me: Yeah… But it's a cavity. How can you remove it?
Boss: …
Me:I guess they could fill it in. But with what?
Boss: Heh. They could fill it with cocaine.
Me: …

Out of Order

Having played a fair amount of shows out-of-town, I've come to group bands using an overly simplistic, yet not entirely unuseful, taxonomy. This ingenious system describes itself in my head in the following brilliant terms: some bands "get it"; some bands don't.

The specific "it" (which I will henceforth cease to place within quotation marks, because they're annoying me already) in-question is hard to define, but basically it means band courtesy and reciprocity. Simply put, the way you treat bands from out-of-town, and the way you expect to be treated when you're the out-of-town band.

To be sure, I'm talking about shows with no obvious headliner—shows where you might have two local bands of comparable notoriety and draw, and an out-of-town band with perhaps less local draw but comparable notoriety in its hometown. So, smaller shows and house parties.

With the line-up mentioned above, the proper arrangement would be

1. Local Band #1
2. Out-of-Town Band
3. Local Band #2

The idea being that the locals will pull more fans, and with a "sandwiching" arrangement, the out-of-towners benefit from the exposure to both bands' fans. And that when Local Band #1 or #2 hits the road, the favor will be returned in-kind.

Yet, many bands don't seem to get this, whining incessantly about getting stuck playing first or last {I'm looking at you specific band in Richmond}.

Well, fuck a buncha noise. That's how it works best for everyone. Also: you get to sleep on my couch, and I'll even cook you breakfast. If you're nice to me.

[/soapbox]

Um, yes, actually.

I did not expect to be asked the question, "Hey, would you object to me putting out some Ron Paul materials on our merch table at the next show?"

Word to Your My Mother

I've never really cursed around my parents. Not that it would be a huge deal. They certainly do their share of swearing (my mom, when driving? namely en español, which is obviously how I learned the language). But even after growing up and moving away—and even though around my friends, I swear quite a bit—I've always seemed to have an automatic filter that turns on when I'm around mom 'n' pop.

And we're certainly not a buttoned-up family. Standard dinner conversations can cover some pretty risqué material. (At a recent dinner, my brother told a story that prompted my mom to inquire, "What does 'bust a nut' mean?" Ah. Classy.) But no swear words from me.

That all changed yesterday. Talking to my mom on a cell phone, I dropped the F-bomb. It was completely on-accident. And followed by several seconds of awkward silence.

Based on reception interference, she may have thought I said "mucked it up", but deep down I know that she now knows the dark secret about her progeny: I'm a bad person.

Kids: drunk

Saturday found eekbeat and Jordache and me at a local vineyard (co-blogger Ryan's, in fact) for a pig roast.

Not of the pig-eating ilk, I, sated on cole slaw sandwiches, was left to observe the masses as they milled about, chalices in-hand, taking in the music and sun and wine tastings. I was looking for drunk people.

See, I had it on good authority that some people might indulge themselves to such a degree that things (and perhaps, maybe, body parts) I wouldn't normally see would suddenly bear themselves to the light of a lovely Saturday afternoon. But lo, the strong pull of propriety prevented such depraved activity. Nary a stumble among the group.

But then! I espied the wee ones. The two-to-five-year-old set. And? Completely wasted.

They stumbled about with not a destination in mind. One kid quizzed a nearby traffic cone, no answer to be had. Another managed a few steps before falling on his rump, clearly hammered. Yet another: totally aimless wanderer. And that foppish lad pictured above? He fell asleep in that other kid's butt. Which I've seen drunk people do like a million times.

Yes. I put forth: kids are drunk all the time. Just watch. It's weird, but true. Mm hmm.

Hi, hello, internet

Part of having the internet is having a place where that internet is accessible via a plug in the wall, in this case a phone line, and we've chosen Sprint's DSL service, which connects to a wireless router, which makes us all (read: me) happy with its electromagnetic waves of internet goodness.

In my particular household, that plug in the wall lives in the middle bedroom, previously uninhabited, but now ("now" meaning after said internet connection was initially established) home to J&B, who chose that bedroom, what with its access to the upstairs, which they've converted to a quite-nice second living room.

Which means that I'm poking around at 2am with a flashlight in their bedroom, because HOLY FUCK THE INTERNET BROKE. And that wakes up B, who is too nice to be designated with a mere letter but hey, I'm tired, and who also suffers my internet-saving efforts with a resolve of a true house-patriot.

Which is to say: sorry, B. I'll try to fix the internet the following morning, next time that happens.

Legally Lit

Since my bike headlight got stolen, I borrowed one of those I'm-a-miner-type headlamps for my ride to and from the Corner last night. Verdict: very awesome.

The big advantage is having the light move with your head, which seems obvious, but it's very cool in-practice. Example: as I pedalled down Main Street, a car began to inch forward, as if to pull out in front of me . I trained my light on the driver and bobbed my head around sort of, well, maniacally, and car dude slammed on his brakes as if to say, "Dear lord, the final attack of the light-bearing bike monsters is upon us!"

Which is not to say that I'm all about terrorizing motorists with my biking antics. Rather, when I bike, I try to be (1) safely visible and (2) safely assertive. And the headlamp helped me accomplish both better than your standed mounted headlight. I'm definitely going to buy one.

Finally, as a thirty-second snipe to my co-biking friend from last night (and to anyone, really): dude! get a helmet! get lights! what are you thinking?! cville can be dangerous for bikers!

{cross-posted at cVillain}

I's Not Funny

I posit: there exists a joke with a punchline "Hungary ayes," to which joke I cannot fathom the appropriate set-up.

Wherein I sound like the moral police, but still, ew.

My mom made it back from China safely, and aside from a cool wood sculpture from Qufu, she brought me a solicitation card that was slipped under her hotel door. Apparently, Jen is hooking in Shandong province. Who knew?

(Also, my mom tells me that prostitutes are also fond of knocking on your door at 2am and calling your room randomly. I found this amusing, if sort of creepy, since I'm guessing it must work if they keep doing it.)

Somehow perhaps related, a restaurant-working friend of mine was recently working when some skeezy dude handed her this hotel card:



Yeesh. Gross.

DMV

Her: Hello and how can I help you today?
Me: I wanted to register my car. Register it and get the title. Both of those things.
Her: Okay, I'll need all that paperwork.
Me: . . .
Her: And your license.
Me: . . .
Her: . . .
Me: . . .
Her: It says here that your license was revoked on two two oh five.
Me: It says where?
Her: Right here?
Me: Two two oh five?
Her: That's what it says right here. Did you ever have your license suspended for any reason?
Me: No. Two two oh five is two years ago.
Her: . . .
Me: . . .
Her: You've been driving with an illegal license for two years then.
Me: I've never even had a speeding ticket.
Her: It says here that your license was suspended on nine two oh four, and then revoked on two two oh five.
Me: I mean, I've had a few parking tickets. But I think I've paid them all. Would this be for like an outstanding parking ticket?
Her: What you're going to have to do is go see that officer over there.
Me: Can I still get my title and registration?
Her: Honey, I don't think so.

Changebad?

Apropos of that band-name thread I've mentioned before, there's a new facebook group in town:



Twenty-one members strong. How long can the masses go unheeded?

Teh Saccharine

I've a nasty penchant for getting sweet, sugary pop songs stuck in my head, a tendency I attribute to growing up hypoglycemic—it's pernicious and detrimental to my character, but it's right there, waiting to KILL MY INSIDES.

So sitting near the new co-worker who plays a top-twenty satellite-radio station all day long, it's all that I can do not to get off work with these damn songs as a constant soundtrack to the rest of my day:

Plain White T's - "Hey There Delila"

and

Boys Like Girls - "The Great Escape"

Send help! I may not make it through the week.

Ye Olde Healthe Cayre

As a lover of freedom, I'm spending my Independence Day at work, keeping the cogs and gears of the new economy humming along at a patriotic pace. Sure, I'd rather be throwing horseshoes and drinking beer, but it's not so bad—I earn a full paid day-off to be used a later date of my choosing.

I do, however, object to having to endure this crap:

Co-Worker: You know I was reading about America's early history, and man, those Indians sure have some stuff to complain about.

Me: We certainly did awful things. You know, that's interesting; I don't think many people think about that on the Fourth of July. Good for y–

C-W: Nah, man. It was diseases. It was gruesome times, but you know, it was God's plan, to, ya know, pave the way for the Europeans.

M: Well, sure diseases played a role, but I'm sure the blankets helped.

C-W: Blankets? Yeah, that wasn't until right at the end. That never would've happened if it hadn't been part of God's plan from the start.

M: [blank stare]

C-W: Gruesome, man. Gruesome… Anyways, Happy Fourth!

I guess I'll tune in next week to find out 3/5 really is a whole person, if you round up.

Sneak Peek

It appears the stars are aligning such that we're playing with The Peekers on July 25th at Saxx Lounge. Click through to the Peekers' myspace page and fall in love with the song "Close My Eyes." So, so good.