Friday, August 8, 2014

Story 44: But I Don’t Want to Play in a Kids’ Band!



This is it: my career has sunk to the rockiest bottom it can get, and I don’t see any way I can ever ascend to the surface without a severe case of the bends.  After years and years of playing guitar until my fingers literally bleed, trying and almost always failing to get into nearly every venue you can think of (including my local synagogue), playing backup to any group that would have me (most wouldn’t), and my parents kicking me out of the house three times, I finally was “hired” last month on a semi-permanent basis by a group that actually has steady work.  I knew I had sold my soul when I auditioned for – and was accepted by – a kids’ band.
            And no, it’s not a band made up of kids: I’m 37 years old, so at this point most of my peers are starting to look like kids to me anyway.  Belonging to a youth band actually wouldn’t have been so bad, since the audiences usually are made up of at least teenage-level people.  Nope, this band plays for kids, with kid songs and kid choreography.  I don’t know which audience is more unruly and unappreciative: the drunks and drug addicts who throw stuff at you just because, or the crying babies and wandering toddlers whose parents let them crawl everywhere and mess up everything.
            Another blow to the ego is that I was told by the always-peppy lead singer/songwriter who wears overalls and pigtails all the time that I had to “clean up my act” when we’re performing.  What, I always wear a nice T-shirt!  But that wasn’t good enough: I had to cut my awesome hair as short as if I was in the Army, I had to shave my awesome beard just as it had reached my belly button, and I had to wear long sleeves so the little tykes don’t see my awesome tatts (one is a beautiful mermaid, I don’t see what the problem is) and become “negatively influenced” because I “clash with the band’s image”.  Whatevs – long as I don’t have to get my tattoos removed, `cause then you’d be paying for it, sweetheart.
            The first gig I had with the “The Littlest Sea Turtles” (I kid you not) was OK: the songs were easy to memorize since they used the same chords over and over again.  The leader kept sneaking me dirty looks `cause I wouldn’t sing with her and her doofus co-lead singer/first guitarist, who is either her brother or owes her money (I thought it would be rude to ask which).  I also wouldn’t jump up and down, wave my arms, or chirp like a bird/moo like a cow/etc. whenever she commanded us and the brats to.  The kid whose birthday it was had already checked out so he could get his face painted as some superhero, so really, what was the point?
            I couldn’t even sneak a cigarette: the moment I pulled out the pack, every pair of eyes that was over the age of 7 shot in my direction.  I was afraid for my life, so I put it away and bummed a bottle of beer instead.  Apparently, polluting your body with liquor is OK, but polluting your body and the shared air with tobacco is not.  Safe ride home, moms and dads!
            Our second gig was not much better – the leader threatened to fire me if I didn’t at least bob my head in time with whatever motions she was doing, so I figured that was a small sacrifice that required minimal effort.  I somehow forgot some of the notes between shows, so I had to improvise during two of the songs; she sure knows her stuff, `cause she shot me with a stream of bubbles during those times, laughing as if it was a joke but glaring daggers from her eyes, as if she wished she had been holding a flamethrower instead.  I like my band leaders stoned, not psychotic, thank you.
            As punishment, at the next gig we landed she made me hand out the props to the kids wandering all over the place, which took me forever and killed the show’s momentum (I didn’t care anymore – my professional pride had long left me by that point).  She also made me go back later and collect them (those things ain’t cheap), and the amount of drool on them made me feel like my hands will never be clean again.  Also, one kid of course didn’t want to give up the thing (I think it was a salt shaker with rocks inside), and mom’s yelling at me to let him keep it that by then I almost punched both of them in the face, I was that far gone.  The lead singer cheerily called me back to the stage in order to keep me out of prison, so I’ll give her that.
            Next week, we’ve got a preschool graduation party (really?!) and already the ungrateful audiences are getting me down.  They don’t even pretend to pay attention, and they’re constantly going on potty breaks, and their adult keepers seem to be more into it than the kids are.  Half of them leave before the show’s over, and they’re talking and/or crying through the whole thing.  I’m sorry, but I’m an artist, and I would like to have some kind of acknowledgement during the show!  The better crowds sing and dance along and clap after each song, but most of them are jerks.  I want to scream at the end of each set “You’ve been a terrible audience!  Good night!”, but I think the lead singer would then strangle me with the microphone cord.
            For now, I endure as all do, for – you guessed it – the money.  And the music: it really is all about the music.

Thursday, July 31, 2014

Story 43: The Silent Conversation



This is a tale told in e-mail.  In the interest of saving space, in the headings for each item the Date is Today, the Time is Now, and the Subject is Question.

            To: Employee
            From: Boss
            Is that report ready yet?

            To: Boss
            From: Employee
            Almost.  When do you need it by?

            To: Employee
            From: Boss
            In an hour.

            To: Boss
            From: Employee
I thought I had until this afternoon………..???????

            To: Employee
            From: Boss
            No, I had said by 11:00.         A.M.

            To: Boss
            From: Employee
Actually, you had said 1:00.       P.M.  Here’s the e-mail.  [Screenshot of the
evidence]

To: Employee
            From: Boss
            Still need it by 11 A.M.

            To: Boss
            From: Employee
I don’t think it is humanly possible that I can finish it by then.

            To: Employee
            From: Boss
            This should have been done last week!

            To: Boss
            From: Employee
I was a little busy.

            To: Employee
            From: Boss
            Busy?  Doing what?????

            To: Boss
            From: Employee
Working.

To: Employee
            From: Boss
            You were not, you’re always playing on your phone or talking with other people. 
            YOU ARE NOT WORKING.    

>:[

            To: Boss
            From: Employee
DON’T ALL-CAPS YELL AT ME.

>:/

            To: Employee
            From: Boss
            I’M NOT YELLING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

            :{  

            To: Boss
            From: Employee
All this typing is keeping me from finishing YOUR report.

;(

            To: Employee
            From: Boss
            Then stop winky-frowning me and start working already!

            To: Boss
            From: Employee
Then stop interrupting me with e-mails!

            To: Employee
            From: Boss
            Your productivity is down the toilet and you contribute NOTHING to this
company!

            To: Boss
            From: Employee
I’m CC’ing H.R. on this conversation.
           
“No!  Don’t CC H.R.!”  He ran the five steps to her computer and ripped out the network cable.  “There, I fire you before you have a chance to quit.”
            She stood up slowly, dignified. 
            “I could totally fight this, but I respect that you had the decency to do it in person.”

Thursday, July 24, 2014

Story 42: The Professional Student



            I have achieved my life’s goal at last: I have been hired by my local university to be a professional student.  I am finally paid to do what I do best, which is taking notes, writing papers, and sitting for exams, month in, month out.  I take 15 credits a semester and am slowly making my way through the course catalog.  At the end of each semester, I have to submit an extra evaluation on how engaging (i.e. not boring) the professor was, how much I increased my knowledge, things of that ilk.  It gets a little tricky in the years I “major” in the sciences, especially since I barely had passed the basics on my first go-round.  Not looking forward to when I have to focus on math, either.
            My favorite classes so far have to be the ones for physical education – favorite because they’re the easiest.  Sure, I have no stamina and can’t throw a pitch to save anyone’s life, but there’s usually minimal thinking involved on my part and one paper for the one credit I “earn”.  My lowest point was when I was thrown off the volleyball team for hitting my mates every time I served, but that was fair.  I’m looking forward to when I get to take golf – I’d really like to improve my swing and stop consistently getting triple bogeys.  I also applied to be the football’s team mascot, with the best view of the games paid for only with the constant stench in the costume of mascots past.
            One downside I’ve noticed is that, as the years go by, I have less and less patience with my fellow students.  Call me an old fogie, but when they reference “The Internet” the same way one would reference “the encyclopedia”, you know their train has left the station without them.  Specificity, please!  Use journals in addition to you-know-what-ipedia!  They’re online, too!
            Anyway.  School is fun, I get all the holidays and breaks the kids do, and my future doesn’t hinge on whether I pass that final.  I even get to attend the social events for free, although I don’t fit in the student or faculty categories so I hang out with the employees.  All in all, I have found my life’s purpose: there’s something extremely satisfying in submitting papers on time and being told you did a good job.
            Everybody likes the pat on the head.