Saturday, January 28, 2006

 
May Petals Update

We finally got a song up on The May Petals myspace page that is an actual May Petals song. We've been working on an album with my brother doing all the producing/engineering what not. The album is going to be called Regina and will have eight or nine songs on it, I did all of the songwriting except for one tune which I co-wrote with Josiah. I think everyone involved with this project seems pretty stoked thus far.

Our first gig is this Friday at State Grounds Coffee Shop with headliner Lonesome Dan Kase, and we've got three more shows booked after that.

Tuesday, January 10, 2006

 
I Got One Of Them There MySpaces

A few buddies of mine and myself have began work on a country/bluegrass collective commonly referred to as The May Petals. A few days ago we finally got around to settting up one of those myspace thingies people are always raving about. There's only one song on there, and I'm not sure it's a proper representation of what the band is about. Contrary to the novel nature of the song, the band is a fairly serious project. The song was written by my buddy Josiah, who's the bass player in this band. We'll have some other tunes on there eventually. I do the vast majority of the song writing, with Josiah and other random people chipping in here and there. We're going to start recording, Lord willing, within the next few weeks and our first show is in March.

 
Let's See If I Remember How To Do This

It's been a long time since I just sat down and wrote about what's been on my mind lately. That's mainly due to the fact that I'm not going to write about anything unless I can be as specific as possible. No metaphors or vague stream of conscious what nots, if I'm going to put my personal turmoil online for anyone to read, then I want everyone to know exactly what I'm mulling over.

Let's start around the time I stoppped writing.

It was Marchish/Aprilish...I guess. It was a Friday night and I was home from East Lansing just sitting in the living room wondering what the evening would bring. My brother walks in and informs me that the Sciba twins have expressed interest in a night of bar hopping in beautiful down town Grand Rapids.

"I'll be the designated driver."

Those are the first five words out of my mouth.

Designating myself as designated driver is the only way my mind seems capable of finding the peaceful assurance of a sober designated driver. Not that my friends are a bunch of irresponsible tits. But, relying on myself to get the gang home safely is the only way I seem to find any true peace of mind. I have fond memories of the last time I went out drinking, just a couple weeks ago, and the driver declaring "wooooooo, I'm a bit tipsy!" as we pulled into the Taco Bell drive thru.

But, I'm extra paranoid this night. It's Friday, and it's been a whole three days since the last time I had been to confession. My obsessive little mind was mulling over everything I had done since the previous Tuesday. What I had done Wednesday evening was especially bad. And don't get me started on Thurseday afternoon. The mere thought of it made me nauseous. I had to drive tonight. It was compulsory that I survive till 4 PM Saturday, when Father Russ would be hearing confessions.

So we pile into Jon's car and make our way to downtown GR. The first stop was the Black Rose, a charming little Irish pub about a block and a half south of the Van Andel Arena. On our way in we notice a sign that tonight there would be live music from American Accent. For those who don't have the fortune of living here in West Michigan....AMERICAN ACCENT FUCKING SUCKS. Imagine if the Spin Doctors were raised Baptist and thought they were funny. Not only do these guys suck, but they seem to be following us. We go down to the local coffee shop to hang out with the locals, American Accent is playing. We go the Intersection to see the Rockit King, American Accent is opening for them. A buddy of mine is playing lead guitar for some really hot girl that sings hokey worship music and Sarah MacLocklin covers, American Accent is on next. What the fuck? Now I have to start out my night as designated driver by listening to these ass clowns.

I don't even order a beer. Usually when I'm the D.D. I'll start the evening out with a couple of beers and then drink Diet Cokes the rest of the evening. Not tonight. I only have one thing on my mind, surving till four o'clock the next day. To be frank, I don't even give a shit if my friends all get alcohol poisoning and die. I had always been preoccuppied with death, but now...it's especially bad. And for some reason, I only seem preoccupied with my own death.

This is all uber retarded. I'm aware of that. But, at this point, I am under a lot of stress. I'm studying for finals, making arrangements to spend the summer in Peru studying the natives as they dance around in commemoration of various saints that native Peruvians for some reason find especially fixating, and working on applications for graduate school. I'm not exactly having a lot of fun.

We leave the Black Rose two songs into American Accent's set, becaue they fucking suck, we fucking hate them, and there's other fucking bars to hit up. We progress towards Flannigan's. A charming little Irish pub about a block and a half north of the Van Andel Arena. This pub is only like a quarter Irish, so they try to compensate by giving themselves a really Irish name and serving $1.25 green beers everyday of the year.

After that we make our way towards some really expensive bar, who's name alludes me, just half a block west of the Van Andel Arena. Apparently this bar's selling point is how expensive their drinks are. We can barely contain our excitement. But, they're closed. So we make our ways towards some other bar, who's name alludes me, about a quarter of a block east of the Van Andel Arena. We hang out in the basement of the bar, which is quite quaint if I might say so, and I end up sitting out on a round of Jager bombs.

The end of the evening found us in the Steak N' Shake on Clyde Park wondering where Randy has been for the last twenty minutes. I'm on my third Diet Coke and about half way through my fries by the time he finally returns to the booth. We ask him where's been.

"Lying in the parking lot looking up at the moon.....I'm beginning to think that last shot of Jager was a mistake."

Randy's remark would become the title of a country song I penned just a week afterwards. It's been about nine months and Randy has yet to hear this little number to which he can claim co-writer status.

The entire ride home I'm clenching the stearing wheal with both hands just meditating on what a shitty person I am. I remind myself of what I had been telling myself for the last year or so. I need to either take this whole Catholic thing to the next level or I might as well just give up. The following week I begin talking to people about my intentions of joining the priesthood.