Andare, Partire, Tornare


My fucking Saturday

Sitting at work, listening to the song "Psycho Killer" as I accession a kerosene container from 1870. Yep, it's a fun day on the farm, ladies and gentlement.

Took me an extra forty-five minutes to get into work as there was Mystery Traffic on the HOV lanes. No accident, no police, no nothing, just people slowing down for no good reason. Bastards.

Saturday sucked ass. I spent the morning (seven thirty to one) at the dog washing place. Then I went to my regular museum job in an attempt to make up a few hours that I had taken off from Wednesday, when I stayed home in a combination of grief for Bogie cat and the fact that it was snowing and I just didn't want to deal with it. However, I had forgotten that this past Saturday was the opera matinee, so getting to the 17th street ramp to park was a process that was far more involved than it should have been. I stayed until four, then headed home, changed, and went with Bemo to start the equipment hauling for their gig that night.

Eh boy. Drama abounds, especially when you have a drummer that specializes in freaky people. His sort-of-girlfriend was trying to head to the practice room (where we were all unloading) so she could come with us to the concert. Except she had gotten behind the wheel while spaced on pot and mushroom brownies (can I have a collective EWWW here?), a couple of shots of some sort of liquor, and lest I forget, a line of crystal meth. All in all, a grand prescription for driving around, don't you think? So Tuffy was trying to talk her into pulling over and staying where she was, but she kept putting the phone down, or babbling about something else entirely, and eventually she pulled into the parking lot where we were.

This was the evening of their new singer's debut before a crowd of any size, anywhere, and although he toughed it out and made it through the concert ok, he's going to have to work a lot on getting comfortable in front of a crowd and learning how to perform with a little more testicular fortitude. He kind of dragged them down, and the usual metalhead crowd at the bar, so supportive on most nights, was less than impressed. Of course, the band has to remember that they started out on a higher note than most bands manage, and this is sort of a return to where a beginning band should be in the grand scheme of things, but I think they're finding it depressing nonetheless. To end the night, Bemo accidentally took the keys of the band truck home with him, because we were both frustrated at having to stand around in the cold while watching them smoke pot with the bass player of another band. He was so angry he didn't remember he had the keys, and they weren't in any space to remember they didn't have them. Plus, Bemo, who doesn't drink, is ticked that the money for the performance is going to pay off the above and beyond bar tab that's being run up. Basically, he ends up paying for part of Tuffy and Noodles' beer. If the shit gets any more messed up, I know Bemo is going to walk and find a more professional outfit, creative energies or no creative energies. He likes what this band is capable of doing, but if the people involved don't take a deep breath, pull their thumbs out of their asses, and start acting like professionals, it's going nowhere.

So naturally, I spent all of Sunday sleeping.

11:36 a.m. - 2003-03-03


previous - next

latest entry

about me





random entry

other diaries: