Saturday, September 8, 2018

I'm Done

I'm done with music. It seems that nobody in this shithole town wants to work with me. I guess I'm too demanding. Too much of an asshole. How dare I expect people to practice on a regular basis? What fresh insolence of me to presume that musicians would want to write and perform songs on a regular basis! How arrogant of me to want to play gigs on a regular basis in more than one town!

What-fucking-ever.

The bands that have any sort of ambition don't need me. And all the other wannabes and poseurs in this fucking town are perfectly happy to dink about and play pretend rock star in front of their WAGs and a handful of alcoholics. And everyone closer to my own age is burnt out. No time for balls-out rock. Weak, wimpy folk music pays. Flatulent white-boy blues is approved. Inoffensive background noise for senior citizens is appropriate.

What-fucking-ever.

So I'm done. Joy doesn't want me to sell my gear, but came to the realization that she can't stop me from doing it. Part of me doesn't want to do it either, but sometimes it feels like an anchor around my neck. I'm going to be fifty soon. I have a sick wife. I'm up to my eyeballs in debt. And I have no outlet left for my anger and frustration. So why bother keeping things around that I'll probably never use again? So if you're looking for a well-used but well-cared for drum kit with a full rack, a mess of cymbals, the gear needed to convert acoustic drums into electronic triggers, and all the cases and bags to keep that gear safe? You know how to get hold of me.

I don't need it any more.

Saturday, August 18, 2018

And The Special-Needs Band Played On

I had a nice conversation the other night with a friend of mine. He's a bartender and server at some of PA's local bars and restaurants, and he'd stopped in at the Safeway I was working in to pick up some groceries after closing time. He told me something rather illuminating about the special-needs band I used to be a part of:

"They were always a joke band."

In retrospect, I should have known that from the beginning. But I tried anyway. And inevitably the Menstrual Clot and Fuckboy lashed out at having an actual professional musician in their band, someone who actually wanted them to be more than just a joke. And they finally river-danced on my last nerve after months of stalling, delaying, and one tired excuse after another to avoid any sort of progress. Those two deserve each other. They can go pretend to be rock stars in their manbaby-cave all they want, or until the Fire Marshal shuts them down once and for all.

I know that over the years I haven't had the best of luck with local bands. And sometimes I think that the problem, the thread that ties all those failures together, is the one I look at when I look in the mirror. After nearly twenty years of playing in working professional bands, perhaps I asked too much of the locals. That said, I only expected them to be capable of maintaining a minimum standard of professionalism, and to be true to their words. And the special-needs band failed miserably at that. There are some good bands up here, to be sure - guys like The Bangers and Jack Havoc. But they have no need or want for my services, nor would I want to disrupt the chemistry those bands have.

I know that when it comes to music, I can come off at times as arrogant. Sorry, not sorry. It's an arrogance born out of time and accomplishment - raise your hand if you've played in front of a crowd of over forty thousand people - and not simple ego run amok. I don't think I'm God's Gift to anything. My friends list on Facebook contains more than one drummer that can blow my doors off any day of the week without breaking a sweat. But the talent I do have, and the willingness to put in the work, they've gotten me the opportunity to go a lot of places, and do a lot of things. And I've got the physical and psychological scars to prove it. To be honest and sure, it's apples-and-oranges different from bands playing their own music in front of crowds that size instead of someone else's. But to quote Kosta (Gus) Portokalos, Michael Constantine's character from My Big Fat Greek Wedding, we're all fruit. The essential thing is that I know what I want, and how to get to that goal. And the truth is, I'm done with trying to conquer the world. I'm too old for that shit. Playing the occasional gig in Bremerton or the Seattle Metro is as far as I choose to push it. And that's what kills me about the special-needs band. With me back-stopping them, they were good enough to do it - joke band or otherwise. But the Menstrual Clot and Fuckboy blew it, and blew it hard. The band's guitarist, however, had nothing to do with my departure, and I wish him nothing but the best of luck. Considering that he's a cancer survivor, he needs all the good wishes and luck he can get.

I'm done with joke bands. I don't want - I demand to be taken seriously.

But I'm also reaching the point where I may be done with bands altogether. I know that while I feel that I have something left to contribute to the world, I am getting too old to rock and roll. The Undisputed Champion Time is taking its toll on me, both physically and psychologically. So I need to get while the gettin's good. So I'm taking the first steps in starting a band that's truly my own: Gentlemen, Destroy. I've reached out to a local bassist, who like me is on the outside looking in, and while he admits that he has a lot on his plate these days, he wants another bite of the apple. The guitarist of his last band has approached me about his own plans, but I've yet to speak to him about mine. I have a few other guitarists I'm considering inviting into the fold. But since The Undisputed Champion Time will inevitably win in the end, I'm giving this project an expiration date. If I can't have something tangible - a lineup, a rehearsal schedule, gigs - by the end of this year, that's it. I'm done. Walk away, just walk away. I'll be fifty in six months. I have a sick wife. I have a job that is effectively full-time. I have a cute but psychotic dog. I have a life. And life demands your full attention and them some. But I still want to rock. I want to shout. I want to have fun while I'm still capable of doing it. And if you aren't willing to put the work in to make your dreams come true no matter how small and specific they are, why even bother?

Monday, February 12, 2018

A Vain Attempt At Maturity, Part Three

I think I've found my groove for booze. I like my hard sodas - my stepdaughter calls them "bitch beers" - and I've found a mixed drink I can tolerate. That said, it's times like this that I still kinda-sorta wish I was still on the road playing with either Powerlight or Steppen Stonz. Why, you ask? Taxes. That's why.

Y'see, when Washington voters approved a measure to allow the privatization of liquor sales, ending the long tradition of State Liquor Stores - which in reality were really no more than mom-and-pop bodegas selling liquor under State license - it did so because of a massive advertising campaign that was basically paid for by the founder and CEO of Costco that convinced the voters that it was a good thing. However, the initiative voters approved added on a whole new layer of taxation to alcoholic beverages. Driving back and forth to Reno like I used to would've allowed me to buy liquor there, or in a liquor store in California before heading home. It's technically illegal to do that - buy liquor in another state and bring it into the state - but it's a rule that's all but impossible to enforce. But the bottle of el cheapo Caliber Citrus Vodka that costs $4.65 at the Walmart in Sequim still has an actual cost north of eight bucks due to WSLCB taxes on top of sales tax. It sucks, but I can deal with it.

So what's my drink of choice? It's a shot or two of said vodka over ice, thoroughly diluted by about half a liter of Sodastream lemon-lime soda, then topped off with some cranberry juice. Joy found these glasses at the local dollar store that are actually vases. They'll hold about a liter of liquid, so that's pretty much fine with me. As it stands, lemon-lime with cranberry juice has pretty much been my jam the last few months regardless of what I augment it with. And with my Sodastream, I don't have to wait for the holidays - I'll make it whenever I damn well want to. And the citrus vodka adds a nice lemony tang on top of the soda and juice, so I can enjoy it nice and easy after a long night at work, or a long night taking care of Joy and Daisy.

Sunday, February 11, 2018

Antisocial Media

Just got thrown in Facebook jail again. Some whiny little Trumpanzee bitch didn't like that I compared his (alleged) political philosophy to devolution, and while I'm appealing the whiny little bitch, I'm doing so from the proverbial time-out corner. And it's my third time there. The next time, I'm out for a month. Beyond that, I might even get the permanent banhammer from Fuckerberg. And at this point in time, I don't even fucking care if I do get the boot.

It just sickens me that I get called every name in the book by subhuman Trumpanzee trolls, and they get to walk away without punishment despite my reporting them for being vile and hateful bigots, but stand up to these knuckle-dragging mouth-breathers and it's time out for you, you bad man. Death threats? I get them. I know they don't amount to a hill of shit, so I call the Keyboard Commandos out – I think “Commode-os” might be a better term – and dare them to come get me, because I know that they're bullies. I'm pretty sure that I've been doxxed once or twice as well – I just smile and say “walk it like you talk it and come get me, bitch”. They never show up. Why? Because they're trying to bully me into silence, and every bully is just a coward that acts tough to hide their cowardice. Cowards never show up.

But I'm getting tired of it. I think it's time to just stop dealing with the pond scum. Time to just stop following news sites. Time to stop following anything other than my friends and closest interests – music, certain sports, and so on. Or maybe it's just time to get off social media altogether. When I found out that Fuckerberg hired a known right-wing news site to be the allegedly impartial judges of what is and isn't “fake news”, I think that was a sign for me to consider moving on.

I remember trying to talk my dad into joining Fuckerberg's cesspool, and he told me in so many words that he'd managed to live this long without it, why bother wasting the rest of his life with it? That, and he didn't want to have to talk to his sisters any more than absolutely necessary.


I think he may have been on to something.