His Master's Voice

I got me a job. At the HMV. For the xmas season. About time.
I had a very good interview at about 6:10 p.m. today. They called me to offer me the job at about 6:45. My favorite part? Getting to use my standard line:
Them - Where do you see your career going?
Me - Well, should Rock Stardom come knocking, I'm answering.
I also got an email back about a--no--2 gigs (with the same person), one playing upright bass in a live hip-hop band, the other running sound for an 11 piece soul-funk-hiphop-other band.
I gotta say it was a good day.

Don't Stand So Close To Me

[in a divergence from standard operating procedure, very few names are changed in this post]
Okay, so the plan was to sit down at the iBook, think about my current infatuation with the works of Dr. Dre, and write a post about his genius. Instead, as I tend to do quite frequently, I sat down and looked up some of my history, namely my old guitar teacher Jerry. He used to co-own a store called Bethesda Music. He doesn't anymore (sold his share years ago), and thank goodness for that. See, thinking about him, I thought I'd also look up Bethesda Music (they used to have a website, so I thought I'd check to see if they still did). This is what Google had in store for me:

Bethesda, Maryland
... G. Scrivener also ordered Fritts name to be listed on the Maryland sex offender's ...
A Bethesda music store owner will serve 18 months in prison for victimizing ...

Ah-wikka-wikka-wikka-WHAT?!
Sparing you the further details, my first guitar teacher (who I ditched for Jerry), Mr. Carl Fritts, is a very very bad man. This makes now the third teacher I've had (that I know of) who is a very very bad man. Jim Misenheimer (who I thankfully only had to suffer one semester of Stage Design in high school with, as he mostly taught choir) was one of the others, the third being my old English and DRama teacher, a fan of TOM-foolery, who was known to BOGARt the white powder, but he was never formally charged in any way, so far be it for me to name names on someone who's never been, um, caught. All three of these men were also teachers of the arts (Misenheimer and Number 3 using their positions as directors of plays and musicals to take advantage of young girls' desires to gain significant roles. The performing arts were a big deal at my high school), which makes the whole thing just that much more creepy to me.
Basically, I wanted to take this opportunity to say
WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE?
I mean, seriously now, this shit just ain't right. In the cases of Carl and Misenheimer, both had their 10-year sentences suspended down to 18 months in prison, which I can't even fathom since in both cases they were only being charged in regards to one out of many many victims (in Misenheimer's case, many parents were unwilling to allow their children to be involved in the case, due to his exalted status in the community. No, seriously, mufukkas was trying to help this sicko out. I even seem to remember something about some parents banding together to try and get a legal defense fund going). Lock these fuckers up and throw away the key I say. Nothing they could do or say justifies them being given any lenience in their sentencing (both did also plead guilty). Release some weed dealers to make room for them if necessary.
I gotta say, the thing with Carl hit me a little harder, just cuz I never had any idea. With the two school teachers, everybody knew about it long beforehand. In fact I was shocked that no one else from Misenheimer's history stepped forward, not to mention that no one lodged similar allegations against Number 3 (well, not that shocked. Would you want to be known as the girl who slept with the teacher for the lead in the show?). I'd always known Misenheimer and Number 3 were sleazeballs. I caught Misenheimer in the act once, and I was friends with people who sold coke to Number 3 (students again). But Carl always seemed on the level, if not a bit childish. I wonder if the other people at Bethesda Music had any idea. I certainly didn't.
Shit, seriously, why y'all gotta go and give us artistic types a bad name like that.
Keep it in your pants, hands to yourself, and stay out the kiddie pool.
So in closing, a big FUCK YOU to Carl Fritts, Jim Misenheimer, and my high school english and drama teacher.
You sick fucks.

I've been found out!

I knew I couldn't keep this a secret for very long. My dear friend Elephant has discovered this little window in to my soul. We went to school together. He says I've always been better than him at math. Well, he's always been better than me at writing, so go read his blog at www.sunmoonstarsrain.com especially his story Johnny Zap (which I have yet to read but I have no doubt it's brilliant). Past my bedtime now, more words tomorrow, including an essay on the cultural significance of "Ain't Nothing But A 'G' Thang".
Drop it like it's hot.

I gotta get me a job

I meant to post this yesterday, but stress got the better of me.
I've just had an interview today with a local music store. This is the 3rd time I've gotten past the first step (dropping of a CV, british for resumee) with a music store. The first was at a large west-end chain where I could barely understand the manager I was interviewing with (to the detriment of my employment prospects). The second was being asked to fill out an application at the Sam Ash of Scotland (which has since purchased the aforementioned west-end chain). No word since, despite a follow-up email from me.
So today was the third. At the guitars-trumpets-pianos-no amplifiers shop a hefty walk from my flat. I spent all of yesterday stressing about it, mostly because I saw it as a step down from the other two shops, as well as my prior employer (that big Guitar Chain in the states). Now I am still stressed because, while the interview went well, I fear I am 1-becoming too much of a capitalist and 2-too high on myself as far as my employability and social worth.
All this ignores the fact that I need a damn job. I have the studio, but we need some more mic stands and a cable snake (loom in British) to be band-ready. And, like it says in the profile, I have more plans for bands than actual bands (Mike Gordon of Phish in an interview talked about being a kid and generating all these complicated plans for clubs, but never actually executing them. I know how he feels). My better half has also been writing quite a bit of music of late, so I'm feeling some pressure/jealousy. But all that aside, I mostly spend my days posting to message boards, chasing down groceries (y'all in the states don't know how good you have it that the grocery store doesn't sell out of things regularly. When our local store runs out of potato waffles, it's like a week before they refill), and making tea. I'm realizing how much better I feel about myself and the world when I have a job. It makes me miss working at Guitar Chain. I always miss the people (some of them), but rarely the actual job. Now, I miss the job.
Why can't someone just give me money to make music all the time? I'm good for it.

Always happens in 3's

So I originally planned on starting this blog on the 2nd, but found myself deep in the bowels of depression since then and ultimately unable to come up with anything to write beyond the title of "Fook yoo ye fookin' fook" (directed at John "Eddie Munster" Kerry. The other guy's been the target of my bile plenty enough, but the punk bitch sissy quitter has been the one getting my feathers ruffled of late). But today is different. Today I am feeling more committed to living up to the job description I use on my tax returns ("Musician"). Today I feel hope, and appreciate my fortune of not currently living in the Fourth Reich, I mean, the US. And today, I must tip my hat and observe a moment of silence for a great warrior in this fight for freedom who has been taken from us far too early. No, not John Peel. He was on the old side, and plenty has been said in his honor already. And no, not Yasser Arafat either, although I have always admired him, and strongly feel that the Palestinians have every right to their own sovereign state. But nothing I could write about him would beat the work of journalists at the New York Times or the Beeb. No no, I am paying tribute here to the third man to fall in this ever predictable pattern of three great losses at a time.
That's right, it's time to pour our 40's on the ground for a man who went by many names.
Dirt McGirt.
Osiris.
Big Baby Jesus.
Mr. Jones (usually followed by "...you're under arrest").
And most famously, Ol' Dirty Bastard.
For those of you who don't know, ODB died suddenly at a NY recording studio last night, while finishing up work on his Roc-A-Fella comeback album. There's no official cause of death, but you gotta figure some hard living and the rock took it's toll on the 35 year old rapper. Much like the sad death of Layne Staley, this is likely the last nail in the Wu-Tang coffin. Sure, they could go on, but it's just not the same without Dirty. Gone now is one of the most genuinely wacky, truly independant, and creatively talented MCs of our time. How many rappers would you have to combine to get one ODB? You'd need the flow of Busta, the lyrics of Doom, the rap sheet of DMX, the zaniness of Flav, and the combined insanity of the entire Dirty South just to come close. He was one in a million, and he will be sorely missed. If you'll excuse me, I have to go find a copy of "The Return to the 36 Chambers" to throw on the 12's.
"The O.D.B. couldn't have possibly committed all those crimes.
Coolio did some of that shit." -Chris Rock