Thursday, January 20, 2005
I’m No Rock Star
I think it’s been well-established that I’m not even the biggest rock star in my own household. Shit, looking at this picture, I might even rank third.
Anyway, we had a show the other night. You didn’t hear about it? Yeah, big fuckin’ surprise. As far as music scenes go, Tallahassee is right up there with the Peorias and Albanys of the world . . . meaning several orders of magnitude below Austin or Seattle or Omaha. And no-one in our shit-ass town even knows who we are so. All this means we’re batting 0.000.
To illustrate my point, here’s a timeline of a night in the life of a non-rock star. (And no, there aren’t any fucking pictures. Why? Because no-one takes pictures of non-rock stars!)
5:25 p.m.: Leave work to pick up daughter from daycare. (So many things about that sentence should clue you in to my non-rock-star status.)
6:05 p.m.: Daughter shits diaper, which I smell from two rooms away. I had just asked her if she needed to “go potty.” Bath time!
6:20 p.m.: Watch news while eating dinner (leftover pizza) and drinking a beer (Michelob AmberBock).
6:22 p.m.: Run a roll of toilet paper to wife who has been screaming for me from the bathroom at the other end of the house.
6:45 p.m.: Decide to have that second beer while eating popcorn and folding clothes (“the whites”).
7:05 p.m.: Leave house.
7:30 p.m.: Arrive at practice space. Break down and load equipment (ourselves) into our own cars / trucks / SUVs.
8:05 p.m.: Arrive at venue for “load-in.” Promptly load-in.
8:20 to 10:10 p.m.: Talk idly to band members, members of other bands, and venue staff. Call friends to see if any of them are actually planning on coming to the show so I can put someone (anyone!) on the guest list. Make several trips to the car to listen to the FSU / Wake Forest basketball game that is, coincidentally, taking place two blocks away. Have a cider.
10:10 p.m.: The first “band” starts . . . a guy with a guitar, lots of guitar effects, a video projector (locked and loaded), and a screen. The next 35 minutes is an aural Spectre of Doom . . . a mindfuck in about five movements. Wish we had some pot. The next band is a reformation of a (much-hyped) broken-up local band that I comment to anyone who will listen that I really expected more. The third band (from out of town and old friends of one of my bandmates) plays a straight-up emo-rock set . . . very tight. They play for a long time, though. Or maybe it just seemed that way; reportedly, it was 45 of “real” time. My fourth and fifth beers/ciders have started to wear off. I’m getting sleepy and anxious at the same time. It’s after 12:30.
1:00 to 1:35 a.m.: We play our set to a crowd of about 12 to 15 people. This isn’t a modest approximation, by the way.
After we finished, it was time to break down, load out, and go home. The venue manager handed our singer two twenties as payment, which is $10 more than we got for our last show. I was in bed by 2:15, after setting my alarm to go off at 6:22 a.m. Because I had to get up for work. Because I’m not a fucking rock star. The End.
In other news, Mia threw up at daycare yesterday, so Michelle and I are switching off with her. I’m at work for the moment, but I’ve finished what I came in to do, so I’m leaving. Actually, I got to see Bush’s Coronation Address at noon. Very nice. There were so many disturbing things about the speech, but nothing made me forget seeing Santorum’s face over Bush’s shoulder while he took the Oath of Office™.
Pray for our Future™, the Internet.