Magnum Doofus

Kinda dating myself here, but…

Honeycomb’s big
Yeah yeah yeah!
It’s not small
No no no!
Honeycomb’s got
A big big bite!
Big big taste
In a big big bite!

I was six when that jingle came to be. It was obviously a good ad campaign because I remember it, um, some decades later. The thing is, though, I never really thought Honeycomb cereal was that big, even between my wee six-year-old sausage fingers. In the commercial, a kid puts a ruler up to a piece of the cereal, and at best is the cereal was ¾”. However, via thinly-veiled optical illusion, they made it look like it was 2” wide because they held it over the second inch of the ruler.

Believe me, I’d much rather be solving the world’s problems or cranking out a bestseller instead of obsessing about this kind of crap. Que sera sera.

Heel.

It occurred to me that I hadn’t posted about the benefit show I did with my friend Bob’s band a couple weeks ago. This was an annual benefit held at a country club, and it was being held to raise money for an animal shelter. It was a catered affair, and as is usually the case, dinner was served as I was setting up. That meant that I spent the night pretty much famished. By the time I was finished warming up, there was only a plate of cookies left. My first instinct was to grab a fistful of those fiiine-looking cookies and throw them down my neck minutes before we started, but I abstained because I remembered a very similar situation from about 1 1/2 years ago.

While playing at a conference in DC, I suddenly became very hungry. During a break I foraged for some nourishment, and all I found was a platter of cookies. I had no choice but to indulge in about 63,732 empty calories. Then I had beer. My pancreas and liver duked it out for the rest of the night and it was a rollercoaster ride of sensations, the most intense of which was fatigue. I just couldn’t concentrate anymore and started making mistakes. Stupid ones. Lesson learned.

At this benefit, I decided it was better to starve than throw my chemistry into that whirlwind again. Of course, playing on an empty stomach also made me a cheap date because all I needed was a solitary beer for the entire two hours we played. The show itself was good enough; people started dancing almost immediately and we were very much appreciated.

There’s something that is guaranteed when one is in a cover band, however: requests. They just come with the territory. When one has been in a cover band or bands long enough, there are standard requests that you can pretty much bank on, usually “Brown-Eyed Girl”, “Brown Sugar”, “Mustang Sally”, something bluesy, and usually some Beatles. These are to be expected, and if you’re going to play in this kind of band, you have to accept the fact that people will want to hear something familiar. Familiar to an audience member is more often than not a dagger in a musician’s side because chances they are they’re sick of hearing it and also sick of playing it. But again, that’s the nature of the business. If you’re going to complain about it, it’s clearly the time to get out.

Another curious “feature” is that when a request is made, it’s usually while in the middle of a song. An audience member will walk up to whoever in the band is most easily accessible, and they’ll yell in your ear “do you guys know ____?” One such request which I had the dubious pleasure of fielding was “do you guys know ‘It’s Raining Men’?” In no way was I ready for that request. It was all in slow-motion, and as the woman approached me, I was going through the extensive list of possibilities from which she’d pull a song. I never saw that one coming, and quite involuntarily, I laughed aloud right in her face. Visibly crestfallen, she slowly backed away, and I felt just awful about it. The mere notion of four heterosexual, middle-aged men hired to play blues-rock covers, playing “It’s Raining Men”, well, it just threw me for a loop and I laughed out of context in this poor woman’s face. That incident reminded me why I don’t do cover bands anymore.

The animals, the actual stars of the show, emerged victorious. A good deal of money was raised that night.

Ill-Placed Remembrance

I don’t consider myself hypersensitive, but check out this email I got from the Toyota dealer where I bought my Scion xB (click to enlarge):

What in the living hell does a special on an oil change have to do with a day celebrating a man’s legacy? What’s next, the Holocaust Remembrance Day Hamster and Chinchilla Sale at PETCO? I'm sure that's how Dr. King would like to be remembered--a champion of civil rights and discount oil changes.

Reeeal classy, guys. Christ.

Primed And Ready

Sunday we primed the walls. Fortunately, we were able to ply the help of Jefe, Lau, and H with beer and food. I’m sure they would’ve done it for nothing, but LF and I rather enjoy feeding people, and we reeeally appreciated the help. We started early in the day and finally stopped painting at around 8:00 or so. Cleanup is the part I always conveniently forget to account for, so that added another two hours.



Interestingly, the copper wall covered with the least amount of effort. The green walls, however, were a different story entirely. We opted to prime every wall in the place, and two coats were required. A five gallon bucket of primer was just enough to do the whole condo. So, even though all the walls are just primed right now, it’s stark white and I have a better idea of what the end result will look like because we’re just going with plain ol’ white paint. It looks great.


We still have a ton more work to do, but it’s progressing nicely. The bathroom and kitchen will get worked on this weekend, and next weekend we will start painting. I’ve replaced a couple light fixtures and continue to find places that need a skim coat of spackle. The baseboards, all 621 miles of it, might also get painted next weekend. Somewhere down the line I’m going to replace our closets’ bi-fold doors. They’re just pressboard and don’t age well. Well, they are 17 years old, after all. The screws that hold the hinges on no longer bite, and they’re just floppy and worn anyway.

What else does this mean?

The flooring phase is coming up very soon, and I have to admit that I’m dreading it. I have a great deal of floor prep that needs to be done before I lay it down, mostly in dealing with the perimeter of the floor where the plywood meets (or doesn’t meet) the foundation. This will be done via floor leveling compound and/or shims. What I’m mostly worried about is the noise. I grew up on the NJ shore, and my grandparents owned a rental apartment that was attached to their house. It was instilled in every generation that lived or visited there that they had to be quiet so as not to disturb the tenants. That principle has stuck with me all my life and everywhere I’ve lived, I’ve been extremely considerate to my neighbors. This will be virtually impossible when I lay down the floor because I’m using an air compressor, pneumatic floor nailer, and a chop saw. This job will take at least a couple days, and as it is, I can’t even chop up an onion without my neighbor’s dog freaking out.

Northern New Year

In mid December, my comrade and fellow Rogue, Bob, asked me if I’d be interested in subbing on bass for his other band, Section 8, on New Year’s Eve. Evidently their bassist couldn’t do it, and the show was already booked. I actually stood to make a decent buck (a first for me in the 20+ years I’ve been playing), lodging would be provided, and I didn’t have any plans for New Year’s Eve anyway. I consulted my bride, and she was rather excited by the prospect. I told Bob yes, and we got to rehearse three times.

The gig was to take place at a funky little joint in Westbrook, Maine called the Frog and Turtle. The drive up was thankfully a smooth one. The threat of a snow storm had been looming for the past day and a half, but it turned out to only be just that: a threat. We checked into the hotel, hung out for about an hour, and then headed over to the restaurant to load in and do a sound check. We were lucky in that we had a very receptive and enthusiastic sound guy. I met a lot of people very quickly that night, so I unfortunately forget his name (Chris?) and many others. After we finished sound check, I met the chef and co-owner, James Tranchemontagne. As the British would say, he’s a lovely bloke. We didn’t get to chat much because he was in the middle of preparing the feast for the night. The deal was that people would buy tickets in advance and enjoy dinner, cocktails, entertainment, ringing in the New Year, and more cocktails. I met a woman named Claire who I believe was the hostess, and she was a lovely lass.

We headed back to the hotel and were to return at 9:30. After a quick burrito (surprise, surprise), we got all tarted up and headed back to the restaurant. We went on promptly at 9:45, and just rocked the joint until about 1:30. We did a hell of a lot better than I thought we would, people danced pretty much all night, and I had an excellent time. I brought a camera with me to use that night, but Boy Genius left it at the hotel.

Playing out was great, and seeing people groove on it was even better. But one of the highlights of the evening was actually after everyone left. I finally got to chat it up with James and the rest of the staff (SO sorry I forget your names, guys!), and man, what an incredibly cool bunch of people. James gave us many complimentary beers (one was even called Santa’s Butt), and as I was famished by night’s end, I asked James if he had any bread. I would’ve been satisfied with a leftover slice from someone’s table, but he instead gave me a beautiful loaf of homemade artisan bread. Nice! I told him that I grew up in a restaurant and would love to have a look around. He was happy to oblige.

All of the staff were incredibly gracious and showered us with accolades. In the music biz, one is typically overwhelmed by competition and insincerity. Playing in a Boston band is even more trying because it’s a small town and there are approximately 2,687,902 bands all competing to play the same places, and there aren’t many places. When one does get the opportunity (and this goes for any band I’ve ever played in), no matter how good you are, the audience will typically either just stand at the bar or stare at you with their arms crossed. It’s a leaden feeling of…judgment. It’s not necessarily a bad thing, because it keeps one humble and instills the desire to work even harder to win them over.

But in Maine, it’s a different story entirely. We were treated like The Greatest Thing Since Napkins. Evidently there’s a serious deficit of live bands, let alone bands that play something danceable. On top of that, reliability is also an issue. We were put on a pedestal that night, and I ain’t gonna lie; I LOVED IT. It’s a sensation everyone wants but so few actually get. It’s also very easy to get spoiled by it. I was spent from the evening and well into my cups, so I bid them adieu and talked about the night incessantly afterward. It was the best New Year’s I’ve had since…wow, it may just be the best, period.

I didn’t get to sample a morsel of what they were serving that night because I was onstage the whole time or draining pitcher after pitcher of water, but it all looked incredible. Check ‘em out if you’re in the Portland area.

Look Up. Keep Looking.

We painted the ceiling Saturday. I picked up a Wagner power roller, and not having to dip the roller in the paint tray every fifteen seconds made the purchase alone worth it. Other than that, though, it was still painting as usual. I spent the day looking up and getting the odd paint spatter in my mouth. I had on safety glasses to keep the stuff out my eyes, so I couldn't use a face mask because it fogged up my glasses.

The paint we used is true ceiling paint. It goes on pink and dries bright white, so you can see where or if you missed a spot. I really can not recommend this paint enough. It's a brilliant concept that works beautifully, and we actually use spackle that is based on the same concept.

Next: priming!