Category Archives: Love

Attending a chichi wine event.

Music,

In which I go out and have a lot of fun. And FAR too much wine!

Saturday afternoon Syl texted me; she and C were in town. Turns out RB had gotten a recording gig and had hired the rest of the band to schlep gear. C worked while Syl and I hung out Saturday night. When C was done, I invited them to crash in the front room to save them sleeping in the studio, which is filthy.

Sunday I made brunch and we had a lovely lazy morning. Syl & C left. I read and took a nap and generally lazed around. Gramma took me to Applebee’s for dinner that afternoon.

Sunday night C & Syl picked me up and gave me a comp ticket for night two of the recording event and we all went downtown to see the Randy Oxford Band.

The hostess tried to get RB to introduce the band. He didn’t feel like it, so I volunteered because I knew he would strip it out of the recording later and do a voice-over. (I hadn’t realized at the time that they were filming too.) I forgot to tell the crowd to turn off their cell phone ringers, and had to read both the venue’s and the band’s names off of a post-it note, but it was fun anyway.

Jazz The band opened with a jazz funk chart, then moved into Motown and blues. I liked them a lot, especially the rhythm section. The bass player was a monster player, with a lovely doo-wop falsetto he broke out on some Marvin Gaye covers. The drummer was solid as a rock; he also sang a medley during the third set.

The band leader, a trombone player, was a solid player and fun to watch but primarily his gift is in coalescing a kick-ass band around himself. Everybody got a chance to solo, and he invited a few local players up to sit in. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t hope to be invited up myself, but it didn’t happen… a good thing in the long run, ’cause I was shitfaced by halfway through the second set.

I befriended their vocalist, a fierce little black chick named Patty. After the first set (during which she did ‘Dr. Feelgood’: omfg I love that chart!) I explained that the mic she was using needed her to get right up on it or she’d sound thin. “Why didn’t they tell me that?” she asked, tilting her head toward the guys behind the board. “Because they’re men?” I said. She laughed and hugged me. I bugged her in between all her sets, and at the end of the night she gifted me with a heavily sequined blingy shawl she wears around her hips for gigs. “It’s very sparkly, so you don’t have to move that much,” she told me. She’s been singing for 40 years and had a lot of presence. The local folks told me I have way better chops, but chops don’t always matter. She had the gig, not me, and I thought she was wonderful and gracious.

The bass player said, “You’re the chick in that recording R played? Yeah? So when you movin’ to Tacoma?” It’s so nice when a monster player says something like that to a girl, don’t you find?

Later in the evening I met a flaming creature who danced with me and then invited me to a gay bar in the Tri Cities for his birthday in a few weeks.

After the gig, I packed microphones and ran around being a friendly, stupidly drunken spaz. Then C and I went to Shari’s and ate, then went back to the house where Syl was already asleep from when we’d brought her home between sets. I went to bed…

…and stayed in bed pretty much consistently until I had to come to work this morning. Wine hangovers? Suck.

What I Did This Weekend

Music,

In which there’s a brief overview.

Saturday morning I slept in. Then Gramma took me grocery shopping, and I spent $50 on things like bulgar and red lentils and canned chickpeas.

When we got home, I cleaned out the jeep. I put the few things I’d left in it into the basement, and filled a large bag with garbage. I left its key with Gramma because a kid was coming over to buy it at five. The jeep is dead, long live the jeep!

(Now I really don’t have a car, but at least it’s out of the damn driveway.)

At a quarter to three C came and picked me up, and we went to RB’s and recorded a demo. You can listen to ’em if you want – they’re fucking awesome and once RB put compression on me I liked the mic a lot better. (The linked MP3s are roughs, which means the engineering and production isn’t finished. I think one of the solos is going to be re-done, too. I’ll post the finals when they’re ready. Your job is to listen and tell me how awesome I sound, k? K.)

I had a totally transcendent moment when all four of the guys were singing back up on Get Ready. I’ve always, always ALWAYS wanted my own male backup singers! Oh teh happinez!

After recording for about five hours, C and I hit the store and then went over to his house, where we delivered feminine hygiene products and cheap wine to Syl. She was bleeding and watching a Star Trek marathon and cute as hell. (Her periods suck as much as mine used to, poor creature.) Eventually Syl kicked us out so she could get back to James and Spock, and C and I went to The Oasis over at Stateline to see a band play. We made the singer and drummer listen to our demo; the singer looked at me like I was holy and told me I was amazing. C dropped me off at home at two and I listened to the demo tracks a few times and then went to sleep.

Today I did laundry, helped Gramma pack up some of the Santas, and cooked dinner. (Tofu, couscous, and spinach.) Then I went to my room and watched I Am Legend on my laptop. (A guy from work gave me a bootleg; it looks like an Oscar copy.) (I used to date a guy whose grandfather got to vote, and we watched several “For your consideration…” copies of movies.) It was a good monster flick but Will is far too skinny.

So, that’s it. I’m a rock star! A tired rock star. It’s bedtime. G’night, my babies.

Meetin' the Local Musicians

Music,

In which I work on becoming a big fish in another small pond.

RB came and picked me up Saturday afternoon, and we went over to his studio (which is actually his mom’s basement, but you can still record albums in it) and we listened to stuff. Then C came over and we talked about possible bass players (of course I don’t know anyone in town, so they had that discussion themselves) and then we talked about the covers we could do to start out with.

Eventually C had to leave, so RB and I sat around and listened to more music (including his album Blue Movie, which is really fun and worth a listen) and shot the shit for awhile longer. We hit Taco Bell on our way to The Oasis to see C sit in with a local country band, the name of which escapes me.

During the band’s second set, I sat in – with RB on bass – and sang Stormy Monday. The crowd didn’t really seem care much for me (they were there to line dance, not listen to the blues), but the band pretty much dug the shit out of me. And I dug them: they were all really hot players. I was impressed as hell.

After singing, I proceeded to get drunk and disorderly with C’s girlfriend, Syl. (She kept ordering tequila.) RB went home. I stayed because Syl said she and C could drive me home. I thought we’d be out of there by midnight, but I didn’t get home until two because C had to wait to get paid for the gig.

It definitely was not the type of bar I usually find myself in. There was a lady with the most amazing hair I’ve ever seen: it was a huge tall gravity-defying beehive, with a braid up the back. (It must have taken a whole can of Aqua Net to keep that where it was.) There was a wheat farmer with ink all over his throat and arms, and big smooth buttons embedded in his earlobes. I kept harassing him ’cause he let me; he was a good friend of the monster guitar player in the country band.

Everybody else was totally normal looking… if you think Western wear is normal. I wore the only nose ring in the whole place, and my usual silly drunken dancing was way over the top for the venue. I ignored the looks and danced anyway because it wasn’t my fault they think country’s gotta be danced a certain way. At some point Syl smacked me because she thought my dancing was inappropriate. I sat down for a few minutes and then started dancing in my chair, which she seemed to think was even worse. All those stiff-backed line dancers, jeez. C’mon, find your root chakras, people!

The band was playing rock covers by the time the last set arrived because most of the line dancers were gone home. I was gyrating in my chair lip-syncing ZZ Top’s Tush while a couple near my table was grinning at me and bouncing along in their own chairs. (The women at the table behind me were appalled that I even existed, probably because I was having entirely too much fun, but whatever.) An Alaskan logger tried to take me back to his hot tub but I made Syl pretend she was my angry girlfriend until he went away. I had a great chat with the bass player. Eventually I fell into the back of C & Syl’s van and they drove me home. Syl and I had a brutally graphic discussion about fellatio.

Been exchanging MP3s with RB via email, and he offered to take me to the open mic on Wednesday. Hopefully we’ll be able to run a song by then, and hopefully C and whoever they get to play bass will be there too so we can see how we all feel about playing together.

Long story short: I have managed to bypass all the self-styled garage rockers and am already meeting the actual players in town. RB, who is proud of himself for finding me, says, “Every time you sing people ask, ‘Where’d you get her?,’ and they’re already talking about you at the Blues Society meetings.” COULD MY HEAD GET ANY BIGGER?

Havin' A Good Day!

Music, , , ,

In which Thursday is just like Friday, only earlier and less cool.

Last night, when I got home from work at nine, I made myself a couple of vegetarian refried bean tacos. Gramma wanted one too (because the smell of frying corn tortilla intrigued her, and she’s liked the other things I’ve fed her so far), but the beans were spicier than usual and nearly blew the top of her head off. “I apologize in advance,” I said, “if you wake up in the middle of the night with a fussy tummy and curse my name!” She laughed and shared a Sprite with me.

Woke up this morning when my phone dinged! at me. The text I’d received informed me that my paycheck had been direct-deposited into my Netspend account. I have money again! Yay!

Got up and had an egg, toast, and tea for breakfast. Threw on my coat and let the dog out and had a smoke on the porch. (People keep telling me to quit, since I’m barely smoking half a pack a day lately, but I figure I’ve given up enough shit so far this year. I’ll keep one truly bad habit for a bit longer, but it’s probably going soon.)

I went back upstairs and pulled out my To Be Paid folder and started making payment calls. Gave the anesthesiologist $200, and I still owe him $500. Paid off that $75 in taxes I’ve owed Iowa since last tax day. Paid off one of several lab fees. Noticed that I haven’t paid anything yet on that one lab bill, because they don’t take plastic and I keep forgetting to buy them a fucking money order. After I give money to them, and my mom, my brother, and Gramma (for the DSL fees on her phone bill), I’ll be poor again.

But I’m paying myself: I have $200 in savings already. Not bad for someone who had literally not a cent only two months ago.

And while I was paying bills in front of my laptop, I had a lovely IM conversation with him. He told me a network crash story that made me laugh out loud for several minutes. Made bill paying nicer, at least.

Work is going well and I still really like the people I work with. Sometimes the office politics get a little thick, but nothing too terrible. It’s not really ‘politics’ as much as normal human personality glitches; the actual working environment is quite comfortable. They even rescinded the turn-computers-off-at-night policy because so many employees bitched about it, myself included. Management that actually responds to staff needs is refreshing. (They’re still making me take that idiot sales training course, but nothing’s perfect.)

Observation: one of my co-workers pronounces “emoticons” eh-MOSH-eh-cons. I’ve always said ee-MOH-TIH-cons, but considering how it’s spelled, either could be correct. Opinions?

In other VERY EXCITING news, I got a call about music today! When Jayrob Jethro and I went out and jammed at the local open mic a few weeks ago, I met and played with the guitarist and bass player of local blues band Coyote Kings. The guitarist called me at work and proposed we get together and jam, with an eye toward maybe starting a side project with me as front woman. (“A blues band with a woman singer is a hot commodity around here,” he said. “We could gig.”) If schedules permit, we’ll meet on Saturday and play together and see how it feels. I could be gigging soon! Whoo-hoo!

Update: This image – from one of those emails one’s female relatives circulate among themselves – amuses the hell out of me.

Catamount rocks!

Music

In which my time in the studio was soooooo fun.

RecordingThursday morning I got up at seven and bathed and dressed and packed, and BvB’s husband dropped her off and we loaded into the jeep and drove to Cedar Falls – about three hours away. We were singing about half an hour after getting to the studio. They gave us coffee and everything!

I got to sing into a reproduction of the mic Aretha Franklin uses; I did one track with the mic Streisand uses but it didn’t make me sound as cool. Let me tell you what: a six- or nine-thousand-dollar mic is a wonderful thing.

After my fifth or sixth take, the producer said, “You’re gonna give me a good take every time, aren’t you? Unless you mess up the words or something?” When I said, “Uh, yeah. Basically,” he said, “I haven’t had a singer like you in here in a long time.” It made me feel awesome. I mean, the man’s a gold record recipient and he told me I have a great voice. He made me feel like a genius, which he probably does to all the talent if he wants good results, but still. Who doesn’t like to feel like she’s talented and fun to work with?

We got the backup vocals (and my one verse of lead vocal) arranged and recorded for all nine songs on the album. I sang on every track; BvB sang backup with me on five and Snow sang with me on four.

Thursday we were in the studio until about one in the morning. Friday we were there until four. The first night BvB and I shared a motel room; the next night – all three hours of it – I crashed in a tent with the guys at a nearby state park.

Saturday we got up, packed up the campsite, and I drove the guys to the airport. They each gave me $5 for gas, thank God, because I pulled into a gas station in Mount Pleasant on fumes and that cash saved my arse and got me the rest of the way home.

When I arrived, Bghead wasn’t around and the other roommates were out of town for a family weekend thing. I went upstairs and crashed hard for a few hours. Since the roommates were out, I pointed their box fan my way so I could actually have some air conditioning for once. (There’s one window unit for the whole upstairs, and my room’s at an angle so I usually don’t get much A/C. My room’s so hot my dog won’t even sleep in there!) What with the fatigue and the sense of accomplishment and the rockin’ A/C, it was the awesomest nap ever!

Saturday night I was still pretty tired, and my voice was hashed. The house was a mess, especially the kitchen, so I moved some crap around and made falafel and hummus and tabbouli because I had had nothing but coffee all day. After I ate, Bghead had a friend over and invited me to hang out with them on the porch and shoot the shit, but I opted to crash out instead.

In other news, the producer asked for my contact information because he said he might be able to use me on other projects. It would absolutely kick ass to be a session singer!

The Next Two Days

Music

In which I warn you… I’ll be offline!

Tomorrow and the next day I’ll be here, recording backup vocals for the Seventh Ray’s second album. I’ve been told to expect ten-hour days, but since they don’t start ’til noon I guess I’m fine with that.

The project is over-budget so I’ll be sleeping in a tent. But if there’s free coffee, I’ll be fine with that, too.

Before you ask if I’ll be getting paid for putting in twenty hours in the studio, I no longer expect renumeration from musical projects. Sometimes I even pay to do music, much like people who love golf pay to do it. I’m getting my expenses covered so it’s only going to cost what I’m not making at work and when it’s all over I’ll be on yet another recording, and I’m totally fine with that!

Indirect

Soapbox

In which I’m trying to figure my own shit out by observing my reactions to others.

Let me preface this whole thing by saying I know I’m hideously flawed myself and that I’m hardly one to talk about anything, ever. I’m sorry in advance if you see yourself here and get mad at me. I’m talking to myself as much as anyone, k?

That said, I need a t-shirt that reads, “Shut up and listen.”

It drives me nuts when people – my roommates are the most ready example [but not the only ones by far and they mustn’t, when they read this, assume I’m speaking only of them, because I’m not, m’kay?] – pick at each other. It doesn’t upset me in a ‘mommy and daddy are fighting’ sort of way, it offends me because they’re communicating badly and they’re doing it on purpose. And it reminds me of my own failed relationships… He’s not hearing her subtext, and she’s not hearing his, and they’re both saying the same thing – “I need you” – but are too busy being hurt and going on about themselves to listen.

Listen.

You know what the root of virtually all communication is? It’s simply, “I need you.” That’s what we’re all saying when we’re talking to each other. I need attention, love, validation. I need you to see me.

I need you to find me clever, useful, strong, resourceful, funny… in short, lovable.

Love me.

The actual content of the majority of our talking is irrelevant. On our death beds we won’t remember the content, but the feelings. Looking into someone’s eyes while you spoke and seeing love and acceptance is what you’ll remember, not the gossip you were actually speaking at the time.

Lately I’ve been noticing a trend when my friends tell me their stories. “So-and-so was a jerk to me,” they say. “And I’m mad, so I’m not telling him. I’m telling you.”

Oh, great.

In other words, they’re upset, so they ‘punish’ their friends by not telling them what they’ve done. They nurse these hurts and avoid the one whose ignorance (or selfishness, or awkwardness, or laziness, or stupidity) caused the hurt in the first place, and triangulate another person to bolster themselves.

Love me.

And just how, I ask you, is anyone supposed to improve themselves if, when they fuck up, their victims slink off into brooding silence?

I realize that we’re supposed to say nothing at all if we can’t say something nice, but there’s a limit to this axiom, people. Defend yourselves. Stand up for yourselves! Love yourselves! And love me enough to let me improve by telling me your truth, rather than brooding silently and vibing me bad, won’t you?

If I ever hurt you, let me have it. I want to know. (I rarely try to hurt anyone on purpose, so it follows that any pain I may have given was an accident.) Give me the chance to fix it, please.

But. If your hurt is so incredibly stupid that you’re ashamed to bring it up to me? Then adjust yourself. You’re an adult. Do it. No, it’s not comfortable but it’s not exactly difficult, either. Be the person you know you’re supposed to be. It’s that simple.

Listen. Are you being loving? As loving as you can? Are you giving enough? Are you doing all you’re capable of? Or are you just being a horrible, selfish, petty little baby?

These are important questions, people. And if we don’t ask them, who the fuck will?

I read a blog post last night by a young woman who had survived surgery. She said that it had pissed her off to listen to people bitch about such petty, stupid shit all the time. The message, in a nutshell, was that life’s too short to waste.

So, shut up.

Listen.

Now playing: Kings of Convenience: Gold for the Price of Silver
(via FoxyTunes)

Taco Tuesday

Music

In which it’s just a few things.

I changed the template! (No doubt you’d already noticed.)

My nails look fantastic.

I had tacos for lunch.

Last night, in exchange for a ride home, I tried to troubleshoot Baby Girl’s wireless connection. I think the card in her laptop failed. She bought me a drink for my time and dropped me off at home. Yay!
The guy at Goodyear thinks the jeep’s problem is actually the PCM, and he’s ordering me a re-manufactured one. The part plus labor will run me somewhere between $300-400. I hope to God the guy’s right, because if the module doesn’t solve the fuel-delivery issue… well, I won’t be able to afford – for another month – another crack at the problem.

I’m supposed to be in the studio next week, either Tuesday or Wednesday, for about 12 hours of recording. Afterward I’ll crash in a tent, then drive the two-and-a-half hours back to Fairfield for work the next day. (Well, assuming I have a running jeep by then, that is. The guy running the recording project is one of those people who becomes overly controlling when he’s overwhelmed, so he gave me a lecture about how I had to let the shop know I must have the jeep ready by Monday afternoon latest. I said I’d get right on that.) A ten-hour day of recording sounds a lot like it’s gonna kinda suck, but it’s what one does to end up with an album.

In other news, this book is amazing. (If you love old pulp sci-fi, that is.)

It’s after five. Time for me to trod home.

A good first husband.

Love & Marriage

In which I feel a little stupid.

On my wedding day, my mother said, “He’ll make a good first husband.” I scowled at her before I laughed, but she was, of course, totally right. He did make a good first husband. Our breakup has been so smooth, really, considering how terribly it could have gone.

You have new Picture Mail!Last night after dinner, I drove out to the farm and got a load of stuff out of The Ex’s house. He helped me pack and load, and further offered to drive a truckload of my furniture into town and help me get it up the stairs into my room. And after we got the jeep loaded, we sat and had a nice chat.

I was driving homeward an hour later, the jeep redolent with the smell of incense, the sun setting fantastically in pinks, oranges, and purples, the humid air blowing.

I brought only one box inside the house with me when I got home – my puja stuff – because my shit is so utterly filthy that AmmZon would absolutely have kittens if I brought it inside the way it is. It’s been stored in an empty room for a year, but in order for you to visualize how utterly dirty, dusty, and cobwebby it is you’d do better to understand that it had been stored, unboxed, in a barn for a year. Everything is covered in dust, cobwebs, and pet hair (and when I say ‘covered,’ I mean there’s an eighth of an inch of dust on every single surface). Everything has to be at the very least wiped off, if not actually washed before it can be used again.

Continue reading A good first husband. →

ZzzZzZzz

Music

In which my day job gets in the way of my napping.

The gig last night was fun. (I’m a backup singer. Whee!) I got fewer than five hours of sleep last night, and there’s another gig tonight. I’m strung out! YAY!

I took series of clerical tests at a temp agency yesterday morning. I got 86% on my Excel test, a score that pissed me off because I knew the answers but didn’t understand the test itself. I was going to write a thoughtful post about how tests assume a certain style of thinking or learning and how test bias causes all tests to inaccurately measure knowledge of a topic, but it’s five o’clock and I gotta get home and rest and eat and shower, like, right now.

So just pretend this post was really thinky and wonderful, pleeeeeeeeeease? And have yourself a great Friday night!