Drum Roll…. (no pun intended)

Okay, guys, here’s the thing.  I have no video recordings since Phyllis can’t figure out how to get it from her camera to the Web.  I do have the sound recordings, and although I’d like to put them all up here, I just can’t.  Too many MB’s.

So, I couldn’t figure out how to get them on the blog, either.  I instead put them up on one of my sites.  I hope you guys don’t mind.  Before I give you the link, let me just explain a bit about the recordings.

They are all live, so the sound quality is not the best.  Plus we have some nuts hooting and hollering in the background.

The Drum Solo belongs to me and Ron.  He more or less put the beat together and I took it from there.  It was something we’d been playing with during practices and Don decided at the last minute that we should do it, just for fun.  We call it Ron and My Drums Solo.  😆

The Porno song, was another gag thing that happened during a practice session.  The audience seemed to like it, though.

“Rehab” has no real words.  If you pay close attention, you can tell that our lead singer, Don, is just making up words.  The music is good and will stay, but the guys haven’t written lyrics as of this date.

That’s it.  Here’s the link:  http://www.grumpyoldhag.com/music

I hope you enjoy this.  I’m a bit nervous about letting you listen because I am NOT a professional musician.  I was just having fun that night, and the results were just that.

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Recordings Coming Up

Don’t know if you guys are interested, but Bryan finally came through with the recordings to the show we did on the 10th at the Vampyre Club in Dallas.  I think I’ve figured out a way to get them online for you to listen to them.  Give me a day, two at most, and I’ll have them up for you.

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Update: Husband and Father

About The Husband:

OK, here’s the thing.  I’m still alive and that’s a huge plus.  The husband got back from his company trip and had to immediately turn around and fly to Atlanta for his cousin’s wife’s funeral.  This gave me an additional two days to think about things.

When the husband got back home Sunday morning, we talked.  Or rather I talked and he listened.  I basically fed him the guilt trip about how I “used” to be somebody and now I’m just a lowly Mrs. Maisel, nothing but a poor, lonely housewife…how life has just passed me by when I probably could have been a somebody, but nooooo he just had to make me quit work and stuck me at home with the kids, and now I’m old and ugly and what have I got to show for it?  Nothing, that’s what!  Nothing.  And then I went and bought this lovely drum set because it made me feel better about life in general and he comes home and what does he do?  He stomps all over my dreams and rains on my parade and digs the knife in deeper letting me know just how much of a nobody, non-entity I really am.  Is that any way to treat a loving and attentive wife, I asked him?  Is it?  A poor down trodden housewife?  No, I say.  No!

That’s about it.  He caved.  Everything’s fine and my beee-u-ti-ful drums are sitting right where they belong in one of the rooms upstairs.  I still have to pay for them, though.  Although I really don’t see why because I bought them with what I thought of as my money, but husband doesn’t agree and since I’m so far ahead, I thought I’d better not push it.  I’ll just “forget” to pay every month and life will once again be good.  Aaah.

Yeah, I know that was hitting below the belt, but then strong measures call for strong tactics.

About The Father Bastard:

 I have very mixed feelings about the visit with my stupid father last Saturday.  I thought it would make me feel better to let him have it, but it didn’t.  I still feel a lot of anger and hate.  Yeah, hate.  Something I don’t do well.  I had made up my mind to go and just sit there like a bump on a log and basically do and say nothing (showing my disapproval of him and the whole charade), but the more I looked at him sitting there all smiles and happy and shit, the angrier I got.  And my brothers weren’t helping matters by fawning all over him like he was some kind of… some kind of… father.  So I ahemmed, stood up, and announced that I had something important to say.  Then, I looked him straight in the eyes and said, “I hate you.  You know that, don’t you?”

You could have heard a pin drop.  Even the wicked witch bitch came out of the bedroom part into the sitting area of the hotel room.  I told her I hated her the most.  I told them both they were selfish, moronic people, and the only reason I was wasting energy hating them was because I couldn’t kill them.

So okay, that was a bit much, I have to admit.  But I wanted to say that.  I felt like I had to because the amount of anger I have inside…there are no words for me to describe.

Anyway, so the room went back to hushed casual conversation, and I went back to sitting in my corner.  I didn’t feel better.  I felt childish.  I felt stupid and wished I hadn’t gone to their little reunion.

After a while, the father came over to me and tried to make conversation.  I asked him, “Why did you do that?  Why did you just abandon us, threw us away as if we were so much garbage?”  And he said, “It’s complicated.  I didn’t feel as I was throwing you away.  It’s just that I knew you were all in good hands and would make your own ways in life just fine.  Me, I had to ensure my old age.”

Selfish beast.  May he rot in hell.  No, wait.  I take that back.  I don’t wish anyone that; but I do wish him a miserable existence, and a not so happy afterlife.

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I’m As Good As Dead

The husband went out of town for a couple of days to some special ops testing thingy which I’m not at liberty to discuss on account it is classified and all that rot.  But that’s not what this post is about.  It is about what I did while the husband was away.

I have my good ole Ludwig drum kit which has served me well for going on 9 years now.  I love the darned thing.  All 17 pieces which I hand-picked myself.  Now you might wonder why in the world I need (or anyone, for that matter) 17 pieces.  I don’t.  It’s just that I go crazy every time I enter a music store.  I sort of go into this crazed trance and always end up oohing and aahing my way into bankruptcy.

So, having nothing better to do yesterday, I decided to take a trip to Guitar Center.  No, I don’t play the guitar, but they do have awesome kits there among other things which I love.  I had made up my mind to just look this time.  No buying anything.  No spending.  I was going to be SO good!

I walked into the store and like something out of a supernatural thriller, I was drawn — no, pulled into the drum area of the store.  Unerringly I walked straight to the back until I was face to face with IT.  The thing sparkled, glittered, such brilliance I had to pull my sunglasses out and wear them just to take a look at IT.  I then had to do a double take to see who was calling my name.  Shit!  It was the drum set!  IT was calling to me, pointing at the sticks just lying there on the floor tom.

I was moving in slow motion, until I was seated in that oh so comfortable stool.  Yup.  Heavenly.  I picked up the sticks, hit the heads a few times, tried out the cymbals for the hell of it and 20 minutes later, I had dropped $3,000 plus for this:

Of course, that was just for the drums.  There were cymbals and pedals and hardware I also needed to go with IT.  These kits don’t come with snares, so of course I had to add that to the shopping list.  $2,000 more, and I ended up with this:

 

I got home (minus the drums, the store is delivering them) and then the crazed trance wore off and reality hit.  The husband is due back tomorrow and since it isn’t my birthday, Christmas or my anniversary… yeah.  He’s gonna kill me dead.  My only excuses are:  1)  I’ve been really really good lately; and 2) I’m almost a professional drummer now.  Do you think the husband will buy it?

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Pardon Me While I Freak

So my biological father and his bitch wife, the wicked witch of the east, are coming to visit.  To me, this is news from hell.  I can’t stand either one of them, they have no place in my life, and I do not want to visit with them.  What kind of term is that, anyway?  Since when do strangers visit each other?

I’ve written about him before, and I got all sorts of mixed comments.  Mostly ones about how I should try to meet him half way and all that shit.  Meeting him half way and trying to be a daughter to his father figure would be fine and dandy if only there was some sort of history between us; but the pure and simple fact is, there is none.

My mother passed away when my brother and I were 17 months old.  Soon after (and I mean within weeks), my “dad” took off and left us (all seven of us) with my grandparents.  A couple of years later he returns all happily married to the wicked witch of the east.  From day one, that bitch has hated me.  She never even tried to befriend me, let alone become my stepmother.  In fact, she made it quite clear there was no room for us in her life with her new husband.  So, my grandparents decided to obtain full custody of us, and I remember being 5 years old, listening by the door to my grandfather’s study, and my grandfather telling my father that once the paperwork went through, he was to leave us alone and not subject us to the bitch any longer.  I didn’t fully grasp the meaning of the conversation then, but I do now.  That bitch was pure evil, and some of the things she would do to us, more particularly me, should have been criminal.  But that’s a story for another day.

I was so shocked when my brother Milton called to tell me that good old dad had decided to come visit us.  I thought the old coot was dying from a brain aneurysm, but according to Milton, the thing has been shrinking (???) and dad wants to see all of us.  Have a family reunion for Christ’s sake!  We were never a family to my knowledge.  I’m sure my older brothers remember him in a different light because for several years he was a father to them, but for me, I never knew the man.  He never once, not once, sent me a birthday card.  He never called on my birthdays or holidays.  He never came to see me.  And it wasn’t because of what my grandfather had told him.  He could have visited at any given time — just not with the bitch in tow.  So, I guess he picked her over us.  No biggie.  I got used to the idea without going through too much pain, but I still resented him for being such a coward and not standing up to her.  But mostly, I hate him for not coming to my twin’s funeral back when we were only 15.

Now, when he’s close to death, he wants “his family” around him.  I don’t think he deserves it, in my humble opinion.  I told my brothers, all 5 of them, they can do as they please.  They can suddenly become his children and form a loving family, but it ain’t gonna happen with me.  I cannot forgive him for way too many things.  I cannot, at this late date, start thinking of him as my father.  To me, my parents passed away when my grandmother and grandfather died, and I’m an orphan.  Period.  End of subject.

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Twilight

My daughter (the DQ), gave me the entire set of the Twilight Saga, with a warning that they were infuriatingly addictive.  Naturally, I didn’t pay much attention to her, and the books have been sitting on my nightstand since Christmas — hadn’t found the time to start reading.

Two days ago I decided to start reading the first book because I was bored, had nothing better to do, couldn’t think of anything better to do.  About  three pages into the book I knew I was a gonner.  Hooked.  Line and sinker I was in for the entire saga.

I really should be doing something more productive than reading for hours on end, but I can’t seem to stop.  Even when my eyesight blurs just as if my eyes had been dialated by the eye doctor.

Stephenie Meyer’s books are quite long.  Each totalling approximately 600 pages or so; yet, I’ve managed to down two of them in the space of two days.  They move unbelievably fast.  I’m not a terribly fast reader.  They are compelling — sometimes painful to read.  I never cry through movies or books, yet I found myself crying in several places through the second book, “New Moon”.  How awful is that?

And yes, just like so many readers have said, I did want to throw the book against the wall a couple of times.  Maybe three.  I found myself hating Ms. Meyer.  I felt betrayed even.  But will I put the damned book down?  Hell, no!  Not even to sleep.  At the rate I’m going I’ll have them all read by this weekend.  Which isn’t good because I’ve already exhausted all my author sources and so, I’m out of reading material.  Egad.  For me, that’s a really bad thing.  I hardly ever go anywhere without a book to read (just in case).

 

P.S.   I haven’t yet seen the movie, but I’m sure I’ll like it.  And that little fact, according to The Ego Chronicles, makes me barely a teenage girl!

“And of course, its probably still the bestest movie in the world if you’re a barely teenage girl.”

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Taking a Bow

The show was amazing. After the first set or two, I started to relax and have some fun. I thought the audience wouldn’t take to me like they do William, but I was totally wrong. They accepted me just fine and there were no hecklers like I thought there might be. Huh.

Anyway, we played 2 1/2 hours straight, and even when it came time to do the song “Falling From Grace”, I didn’t mess up. That’s one of the numbers I had been having a bit of a problem with. Instead of playing it like William, at the last minute I decided to do it my way, and it turned out great! Woo Hoo!

The Club asked the band back for another show, so I guess we didn’t do bad at all.

A few of the regulars at the band’s shows took pictures and one girl (don’t remember her name), I think took a bit of footage on her cell phone. Bryan said he would ask her for copies so I can put it up here on the blog.

Oh! And guess what? After we got through playing, we went to sit in the audience with friends of the band. Just to have a drink or two and shoot the bull (as they put it). And… a few people came up to the guys for autographs and TWO of them wanted MY autograph, too! You could have knocked me over with a feather. I know it was just a 15 minutes of fame thing, but boy did it feel good! Doing shows does wonder for the old ego, you know?

So, in conclusion, William is still out of commission, and Don asked me to play again at their next show. I haven’t committed yet because I’m not sure if I can take the whole nerves thing and because William wasn’t at all happy the entire night. He just sat at his table and I swear glared at me the entire time. But I don’t know, cause I had on my sun glasses and it was really hard to see faces and such.

I had a great time, even if William didn’t, and the rest of the guys all slapped me on the back and gave me high fives and hooted and hollered after we came off stage. Don said it was one of their better shows and was talking about maybe recording a CD with me as drummer; but, like I told him… William is a friend, and unless he’s totally okay with it, I wouldn’t consider it. Although it sure is tempting.

I’m sorry this post is all over the place, but I’m still riding high on adrenaline and just the euphoric feeling from being accepted.

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Dum Da-Dum Dum Dummmmm

Gulp. It’s time. At 2 PM we’re meeting one more time at the studio for a last practice. Check in and set up at the club is at 7:30 tonight (Central Time), and we go on stage at 10 PM. There’s a lot of time between 7:30 and 10 to get schloshed, but alas, Don, the band’s manager forbids us drinking during shows. This goes back to when whatsherface, Nikki Knibbin (?), the girl from the first American Idol, joined the band for a brief stint. If you Google her, she’ll say that she was with Downside (the band’s former name) for a while but then she broke off due to differences blah blah blah. The truth is, that Miss Nikki was going on stage all coked up out of her mind, would forget the words to songs, and in general made an ass of herself on stage. The band finally asked her to leave.

But I digress. The reason for this post, is so that I can ask you to PLEASE please, keep me in your thoughts tonight and if you’re religiously inclined, to say a prayer for me while you’re at it. I’m scared shitless. I really am. I didn’t sleep at all last night worried about all those people staring at me. What if they hate me? What if I mess up and the band goes all wonkers on the beat?

If you’re up at that late hour (10:00 PM Central), please send positive energy my way.

Thank you.

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And The Beat Goes On (or not)

Only 3 more days til the show and so far everything is going quite smoothly.  I’m really amazed at how well I’m getting along with the guys, and their play list, even though it’s mostly their own songs or heavy metal,  wasn’t as hard to learn as I first imagined.  Since I don’t need much sleep, their hours aren’t killing me either; so overall, everything is perfect with the exception of two things.  1)  I’m still sweating bullets about getting up on stage; and 2) William.

I love William dearly, don’t get me wrong — I’ve known him since the kids were in Junior High, and since he attends most of our family gatherings, over the years he’s become an extended member of the family.  However, in the past three days, he has managed to make me lose my temper at least half a dozen times.  He’s a constant fixture around the studio and I wouldn’t put it past him to hover around me at home if I gave him half a chance.  We’re practically going steady.

I don’t mind him hanging around — that’s not the problem.  The problem is, how utterly critical of me he is.  He is forever correcting me, giving me “pointers”, showing me how things go, reminding me that I’m not really a member of the band — duh!  For instance:

• I hold my drumsticks wrong:  Well hell, NOW he tells me!  I’ve been playing wrong for 12 years now.
• I’m off beat and I’m making the lead guitarist (my son-in-law) sound bad:  Funny, but the guys were just last night commenting on how great the band sounds all in sync and everything.  Huh.
• I’m playing too hard, I’m drowning out the rest of the band:  Well, excuuuuse me!  I’m the one who has to wear the ear plugs to keep my ears intact around THEIR amps.
• I’m playing too softly, the guys are having a hard time keeping the beat around me:  Well which the fuck is it?  Too hard or too soft?  And even if I’m not a regular member of the band, every piece sounds just fine to me, thank you very much. 
• My drums are not tuned properly.  The base, instead of sounding like thump, thump-thump, thump, thump-thump, sounds more like thawp, thawp-thawp:  I’m not even going to go there.  But the image in my head is of a William wearing my base.

Anyway, you guys get the picture.  All I want to say to William at this point is “Go home, William.  Just go home and leave me the fuck alone.”

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When the shit hits the fan(s)

On New Year’s Eve, we had a small get-together at our house.  Just my immediate family and a few members of my son-in-law’s band (Stealth), gathered to bring in the new year.  We were having a good time, when William (their drummer) and Vance (their bass player) decided to challenge me.  Yup, that’s right.  Those two big and burly guys wanted to challenge little ole’ me.  They said having a black belt in martial arts really meant nothing when it came to size and brawn.

Now, I know better than to appease such idiotic challenges.  When you hold a degreed black belt, you don’t mess around with it.  But… I’m stupid, so, I took them on.  Nothing elaborate, just them, one at a time, trying to attack me.  They were taking it easy on me, I could tell.  So I told them to bring it.  I told them not to be afraid of hurting me.  They laughed at that.  Ha ha.

So, anyway, I kept blocking their clumsy punches, and dodging their full body tackles and so on for a while.  Then, Mr. William decided to get fancy on me and try some sort of pseudo-martial arts technique of his.  Then, wham!  Kaboom!  Williams “open handed karate chop” connected with my right palm and crr-aaa-ck.  William went down yowling and howling and writhing on the floor.  I just stood over him gaping.  I swear my blood ran icy cold in my veins.  I couldn’t believe what I had just done to the poor boy.  I knew better, I should have taken more care, I should have let him hit me, but it was a matter of reflex action with me, and by the time my brain got the message that the kid was going to hurt himself, it was too late.  Stupid, stupid, stupid!  I felt more than bad, and the comments from the peanut gallery around me weren’t helping.

We took William to emergency and sure enough, his wrist was cracked.  A mere fissure, but cracked nonetheless.  I can’t even begin to tell you how awful I felt.  Not just because I had hurt William, but because the band has a show at the Vampyre Club in Dallas next Saturday the 10th.  William is their drummer, and without a drummer, they have no band.

Anyway, so I left William with the doctor and nurses while they set his wrist in a brace, and walked back to the waiting area where the rest of the gang was gathered.  Just as I entered the room I heard them moaning and groaning about William not being able to play and yada yada.  Then, the DQ, helpful as always, pipes up… “What about Mom?”  The room went silent and they all turned to stare at me.

“What about, Mom”, I asked.

“You can take William’s place!”  The DQ announced just a tad too loudly for my taste.  Too much exuberance there.

“Oh, no, no, no, NO!”  I refused to feel that guilty about the “accident”.  I have a fear of being in crowded places.  I fear people.  I can’t play in front of strangers!  I’d die!  A slow, tortured death at that.

But the crowd was insistent.  I’m a 55 year old granny!  I don’t belong up on a stage with a bunch of 20 something guys!  I’m not a professional!  I’ve never played for money before!  Ugghh.

They talked me into it.  Or better said, they guilted me into accepting the position.  One grandma drummer, coming right up.

So I’ve been sort of really busy the last few days.  I only have approximately a week to learn their entire play list.  They play and dress heavy metal.  I don’t like heavy metal.  I don’t have a thing to wear!  But William assured me jeans and a t-shirt will do just fine.  I’m thinking of buying black lipstick and nail polish.  Maybe making my hair go all wild like the bride of Frankenstein, and wearing dangly rhinestone earrings while I’m at it.  Also, I can borrow Alex’s collar and wear that, as well.  Whattaya think?

So my days are now taken up with practice, practice, practice here at home, and then evenings over at the band’s practice studio with the rest of the crew.  I’ve never felt so silly in all my life.   I wonder how they’re going to bill me, or if they will go into the ghastly details of how I came to be there instead of William.  Either way, I have a feeling it isn’t going to be a pretty show.

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