Don't jump to conclusions about this title's post. Meth Party is the name of a band I started with Bobby (guitar) and Colby (drums).
The three of us jammed for the first time on Friday afternoon, in a garage. Bobby and I had a few ideas, so we just let Colby put his creative mind to use. It was good to play with a full ensemble again. Bobby was super psyched. Colby worked up a sweat even in the sub-50 degree garage. Playing longer than I have in some time, I developed blisters on my strumming fingers. It's good to have them back.
We talked about our goal: to play live shows, no more than once a month for "marketing" purposes. We agreed we want to be a band, and Colby pitched Meth Party as our name. He told Bobby and me about this solo act called The Alcoholic Freshman. I guess at Colby's high school, this guy distributed fliers for a show. Needless to say, a concerned parent called the school principal and said a party was planned to give alcohol to freshman. Awesome.
We want to see what will ensue when we distribute fliers that say Meth Party. And we're all from Missouri, home to the most meth lab incidents par none. Bobby represents Columbia; I'm from St. Louis; and Colby is from St. Joe (we really should have somebody from Springfield considering its area code, 417, is slang for meth). Well, we're all excited with the prospect of playing live music.
Ah, music.
(Sorry this post is in no way aesthetically appealing. Maybe I'll put up pictures of our practice space?)
Any loyal readers (ha ha, the thought of me having loyal blog readers makes me laugh) will recall my New Year's resolution: read 100 pages of a non-assigned/non-class related book every month. I've done well.
Before my holiday break ended -- hell, before 2010 was upon us, I finished a fictional zombie book (yes, I have to say "fictional" because ... well, that's not important. I think zombies will walk one day). Anyway, my parents gifted me "The Good Soldiers," which is a painful, well-documented narrative. It chronicles a battalion's occupation in Iraq after "the surge." Finkel is a Pulitzer-prize winning staff writer for WaPo. The book was organized well, too. Every chapter started with a quote from G.W. Bush (sorry, I can't put "President" in front of his name. It's embarrassing). At times, Finkel incorporated the quote, but never made a partisan argument.
Reading the book is made easy not only by top-notch storytelling, but with chapters limited to 20 pages. Each chapter introduces you to a new story, more or less. Rest assured, each story has the potential to make you cry.
Alright, enough about that book and its 270 plus pages that I loved. Finishing it forced me to amend my resolution. A friend asked if I could "spend" the "extra" 170 pages from Finkel's book on February. I cannot.
After I finish 100 pages in a month, I cannot "roll over" pages to the following month. That said, I started February on page 40 of "The Omnivore's Dilemma," which I received from my sister. I read about 30 pages this week, so I'm right on track. Yay for reading.
Note: I linked to these books on Amazon because you can use the "Look Inside" feature to get a taste of each one. Enjoy.
The risk didn't bother him, not after the cuddling. Him: quick to trust and spoil; her: quick to pretend and ruin. Neither cuddler knew, for this was the first, this was the last. Not a thing would he change -- not even the reservation -- about that damp evening. Flower stayed by his side, so safe and secure, but only to humor him. Lover savored her attention, so rare in his life, and played to her strength: a love of bottled, aged nectar. It was a success, he thought, headed for more, more hooch, sour and sweet, just like this fine Flower. Perched high on aphrodisiacs -- music, booze, dim light -- figurative sparks flared higher. The bed called to both. So far would they go, despite chemical rage. "We'll jinx us, we will. Let's make this last." "Satisfy me still, without being crass. For now I can wait. I know you can, too." Good things and bad, they come to an end. More nights had to fall for them to give in.
These guys produce quality, sing-a-long tunes with every album. I saw them in December 2003 at Mississippi Nights. My dad bought us tickets to see None More Black, Rise Against (way before they got radio play), Against Me! and Anti-Flag. There was a local act before None More Black, too, but we missed it. Five bands for $15. Ah, how the economy has changed. Anti-Flag went with it, too. They're on RCA Records now. Ick.
My digressions today, yikes.
Anyway, Against Me! has some wicked stories from the road when they first started touring. They seldom had enough money for food. They got by on condiments from fast food places. Dedication. Well, I'm trying to start a band with my buddy, Bobby. He rocks the guitar, a lefty one. Late last night, a fellow named Colby texted me. He said he has drums and practice space.
That emotion started Friday afternoon and lasted for about 10 minutes. I didn't get the job I wanted with Mizzou publications and communications department. I would've been a reporter there. (Note: The "F.U. Song" is not directed at anybody in particular. It's a fun, silly song that helps you express an inkling of frustration.)
Since I had a fun Thursday night *throat clear* I stayed in Friday night and got back to my new vice. Judge me if you want, but I still think pseudo-wrestling is better than "Twilight," "Jersey Shore" and "Gilmore Girls." Actually, I could add hundreds of programs to that list. I digress.
After "SmackDown!" ended in grand fashion, I got some reading done for a class and crashed. Saturday was a great day. Bobby and I planned to jam at 1. We did just that. After we felt we wrote a song -- or enough of something that could be played without interruption -- we posted an ad on Craigslist for a drummer. Last night, I got a response. That's a super quick turnaround. Here's hoping.
And Saturday night was almost perfect. I kicked it with a delightful, bright couple at Ragtag. We all got a tad drunker than planned, made it to Shakespeare's, had another pint and nibbled on some delicious pizza. Our drunk discussions were more intellectual than our sober ones. As I recall, we debated the electoral college's worth for quite some time.
So the convenient inconveniences? Last night I got a virus on my computer. It's my fault for haphazardly clicking on a fake Active X link. (And don't worry, I'm not posting from my computer. I'm at the library.) I have a plan to defeat the fucking thing tonight.
Somehow, I cut the roof of my mouth right behind my two upper-front teeth. Biting my apple sucked. I suppose the job rejection was the third petty shortcoming.
Who am I to complain? I do my best to check myself, knowing full well people suffer everyday without a fraction of the fortune I have. I try to give thanks. I do. For all the menial shit I -- and probably you -- go through, I cannot imagine the pains others overcome every day.
Just to end the post on an upbeat note, enjoy a bit from Paul McCartney, a fellow vegetarian.
