When would I have to know how to spell Thesaurus?

Let me tell you something you may not know about me.
I’m a dreamer.
I go through life plans about 5 times a week.
If you ever hear me say, “I’m going to…” Chances are, I won’t, or I’ll get side tracked. Like going to Europe after college. That was like… 8 years ago.
I’m also impatient.
I’m a hard worker but some things are just too hard.

For as long as I can remember I’ve been singing. I was a back up singer in 3rd grade for Bob Schneider. I got all the solo’s in school and never had to audition. I did theater in college and didn’t get into the 3 year program because of my immaturity, which at the time was b.s., but looking back, so true.
I started singing in bands not long after I started my backup diploma and have been doing that since.
I have wanted to be a rock star since the moment my foot hit my first stage.
Since April, not so much. Once I thought about; actually thought about all the stuff I’d have to sacrifice like sleep, my bed, freedom and so forth,  I decided to be a recording engineer…

So I bought a bunch of books. Read up on it. Started volunteering at a recording studio. Started editing and setting up mics and listening to someone that knew better than I did about what works and what doesn’t.
My A.D.D. kicked in right around the 1st hour of editing drum tracks.
So, I thought to myself that I like the music business, why not start a record label?
Again, I bought a bunch of books, talked to other label owners, and was totally interested until I read that I’d have to get a bar code and a name copyrighted, and the company set up so I wouldn’t get sued, and make contacts with other companies to get what I wanted, and how hard it is to get c.d.’s on the shelves…

Then I said, fuck it. I’d rather someone else do it for me.

One day I woke up in my tiny ass crappy apartment in Hamilton and thought to myself, “Man, do I hate it here.”
So, I started looking for places to live out West, where the mountains are, and fresh air, and people that seem to be way more relaxed than I was at the present time.
And then I did the math.
2 weeks later, I bought a house in downtown Hamilton.

What. The. Fudge.
Who does that?

I’m way too wishy washy. How can I ever expect people to keep up to me if I can’t even see where it is I’m going?

Things have to be black or white. Easy, or hard. No grey areas. Nothing in between. If there’s any hint of grey than I have to find something easier to accomplish. I don’t know why or where this trait came from, but my step dad has the same thing, which is weird and I could go into a whole other argument of nature vs. nurture here, but I digress.

Know this. Amberley. Is. Confused.
Confusing.
Muddled.
Discombobulated.
Perturbed.
I love google thesaurus.
Until next time.

Another Christmas Miracle. Batteries Not Included.

This is not your standard run of the mill Christmas happy, well to do post, so if that’s what kind of mood you’re in, than I highly suggest googling happy looking cows. Actually, here, I will for you:

I’m not too sure what to think about that picutre… I can’t believe people honestly have that much time on their hands, then again, I’m totally writing a anti Christmas blog.

Having no children of my own, (that I know of) and no one young enough to still believe in Santa, Christmas has lost its allure. It’s lost the magic that came with watching my little bro open tons of presents and going for the empty box it came in instead. It’s no longer as fun as being dragged place to place to open countless gifts from aunts and uncles and finally, that one year being able to sit at the grown up table.
But now I’m a grown up. I have to make the turkey. I have to stuff that stuffing up a turkey’s ass. I have to do all that and not burn it tomorrow morning with my mom.
I love my mom, please don’t get me wrong, that’s not what I’m saying. In fact, my mom is the greatest mom that ever lived. I’m so happy she’s mine and you’re unlucky cause she’s not, although I hope you can say the same thing about your mommy too.

I just don’t like Christmas. I don’t. The shopping for others, the opening gifts, the surprises; it’s all so glutenous. Who needs more socks? Seriously, if I needed socks, I’d go out and buy socks. Plain white ones. Not goofy looking striped ones with toes. And I don’t want anything expensive either, cause that just makes me feel bad that you spent all that money and then next year, I’m going to have to out do you with a more lavish gift than the one that came before it.

Chirstmas sucks. You know what I think Christmas should be?

Cheerios, The Grinch, Candy Cane ice cream and some wine.
Or maybe Reefer Madness, Cigarettes and a board game.
Perhaps sleeping through the day and eating nothing but junk food from the dollar store.
That to me would be wonderful. No expectations, no frills, no rules.
No driving, no let downs and no panicking when I get lost trying to find my way to a relatives house I’ve been to once the year before.

Last year I stayed in my pj’s and sat on my couch and friends came over to hang out and we watched A Christmas Story. Some had never seen it before, which was wicked.
This year, after the turkey’s done and I’m full and everyone’s gone, I’m calling you and we’re going to cuddle in bed for the rest of the year. Sorry work, I’m calling in lame.

If I Got a Quarter Every Time Someone…

Hi.

So, heads up, I moved. I moved to East Hamilton. Well, it’s more East than I was before and far more East than I was before that. Wait.. no… it’s more West than I was before that, but still more East than I was before.

I now live near and around the corner of Steven and King. You know that one. The Pearl Company is on that very same corner and there happens to be a convenience store with an ATM one block up on Tisdale. Oh come on, you know the one! The one with all the pretty ladies standing on the corner. Ok fine. There’s only two. And they don’t stand on the same corner, they stand one on the West side and one on the East side and for all intensive purposes, they don’t like each other. They own their respective corners and no one shall interfere with their money making scheme.

Perhaps that’s not the proper term. To scheme would imply that they are taking something from someone underhandedly. hee hee… hand… Which brings me to my next informational piece:

They. Are. Prostitutes.

(Disclaimer: Everything else in this blog has a sexual content and not intended for some readers, so mom, stop reading nowish)

Seriously. I live by a corner that probably, and assuming-ly makes far more money than my entire block, or at least I hope they do, cause really, if you’re not making a BUTT LOAD (hahahaha) than what would be the point?

I’ve lived here for 2 weeks now and these ladies are busy. The kind of busy that makes the phrase “in the weeds” look bad.  See, the fact is there’s only 2 of them and I’m only around so much so it’s pretty easy to keep tabs on them and their dirty jobs.

Especially when they get dropped off at MY corner from a beat up Oldsmobile that looks like it was found in someone’s front yard near Kennilworth and Barton.

OR, when I pull up to their place of employment and stop at the stop sign, and they take that as a sign that I’d like to wang chung that afternoon. That’s right, you read it, the freakin’ afternoon. I worked at 10am the last two days and both of them just glared at me with lust in their eyes.

Even when I am sitting at that stop sign when traffic sucks cause now enough time has passed that their inching forward in hopes that I’ll take both of them instead of just one and some dude saves me by offering her a cigarette. Next thing I know, they’re on their way to an apartment off King St. for a jovial time, discussing politics I’m sure.

If that weren’t entertaining enough, I happen to be having a smoke, (ew, I know Trevor) on my front porch, so happy that I finally can say that I have finished painting ONE room in my house and how satisfactory that feels, and also how excited I am to watch the season finale of Dexter on my laptop in a very comfy bed. .. where was i ? Smoking… right…. so, yea, anyways, I was smoking on my front porch and along came one of those… working girls, and she turns down my street and is on the other side, and walks up the path to the dudes house that lives across from me and rings the freakin’ doorbell.

Like… really? How much do you have to pay them to make house calls? I know that a veterinarian is about $120 flat fee, so.. like… what does that make hers? And how did she know what time to go? Is it like a set schedule? Can she rely on that money month per month to save for vaccines?

Sorry.. no, we’re talking about people, not cats… right…

But seriously.. Prostitutes make house calls? I find that rather ludicrous! Doesn’t that defeat the whole thrill of the cat and mouse game? I mean, I’m going to assume here that hookers aren’t that hard to pick up regardless, but still. I thought part of the fun for them or you was to have that whole, awkward moment before the business meeting.

And how much does that creepy lazy eyed man over yonder spend per month on frivolous activities? He’s wasting his money on whores just like I’m wasting mine on a monthly membership to Premier Fitness.

I’m not really looking for answers here people, no no. I am merely stating what I see and my opinion therewith.

And don’t think I’m keeping a career change in mind in case I loose my job, or my bank account implodes. That’s gross.

You Get What You Pay For

One of the hardest lessons I’ve ever had to learn is that you indeed get what you pay for.

Think about it, compare Ikea crap to Pier 1. One will fall of the wall in about a month and the other will hang gracefully for centuries if you let it. Trust me on that one… my walls look like swiss cheese due to the many hangings and re-hangings of Ikea shit.

So, I bought this house. REALLY good deal and let me tell you, it’s everything I could have ever wanted and then some. I mean, 3 bedrooms, PLUS a loft AND a basement and the kitchen is retardedly amazing.. I would sleep there if I’d clean the floors, but I won’t…. OH! AND the best part… Pocket doors. Yup. I’m spoiled.

I moved in last Saturday with the gracious help of many of my friends that made my life so much easier. It didn’t take very long and the beer was plentiful. Upon waking up in my brand new, new to me house, the first thing I did was make coffee, and oh, how the smell was 10 times better than it was in my 1 bedroom apartment. As I was pouring my first cup in my first home, I heard an old man cough in the basement. Now, that would have been understandable had the house been attached to another, or …. if I had a tenant…. or… something, but no. The house is completely empty and I swear to God I heard a man cough.

If that had been the only weirdness, I totally would have pegged it as house noises that I’m just going to have to get used to. However, that is not the case. That night, as I lay my head down on my giant pillow (name that movie, I’ll give you a skittle) I hear a small group of children laughing.

It was 4:30am

Now, I know this is Hamilton, and the parental skills may or may not be lacking in my neighbourhood, but I don’t even think crack heads would let their kids out at 4:30am. Creepy no?

I had almost forgot about these instances as it’s almost been a week and I’m A.D.D. so my brain pushes things out to make room for more things; until this morning that is. (Side note, my coffee tastes like perfume. ew)

I woke up in my very comfy new bed, under my very comfy new down comforter and all I had to do today was to put some pictures up in my office and mend some curtains downstairs. That is all I had to do until I saw the mess in the office. The C.D. tower had “fallen” over with c.d.’s strewn about like someone had thrown them with force. I alphabetized those bitches too! Where the tower had fallen was on my desk, but if it had fallen with force, there would have been a mark, or a dent, or something, but alas… nothing…. just a bunch of c.d.’s lying uncatalogued all over  the floor.

Seriously… I’m weirded out. Thank goodness I have a chick moving into the loft this weekend, or this ghost would be getting me.

Hot Dogs and Hand Grenades

 

As most of you probably already know, I live very close to Hess Village. So close in fact, that when people get the crap kicked out of them, my street gets taped off while questioning ensues.

Upon one of my many adventures through Hess Village this past month, it dawned on me that I am not a typical “girl”. No no, I am not. And what is this “typical” I speak of? Well, I envision the stereotypical Hesslut to be of regular height without heels, which they do wear, with utter inability to walk gracefully. That might have something to do with the level of intoxication, but I have a feeling it’s because they’re impossible to walk in regardless. Stupid heels; but they make your butt look sooooo good!

I have never been one to dress up in a fashion in which my father would have announced, “You’re leaving the house in that?” but for some reason, that’s what Hess is all about from Wednesday to Saturday.

Our adventure took my friend Ro and I from the Corktown Tavern where we sling drinks and shots on a nightly occasion to the Lazy Flamingo where most of our friends tend to frequent. After a quick drink there, we headed to Che and my, oh my, did I feel old. I’m 26 and I felt old… is that old? I guess compared to a 19 year old, (and I’m taking they’re presence as that of legal age) I am old.. heck, I’m almost 30! And I just used heck in a sentence. Upon shotgunning our drinks so quickly to just get the fudge out of there I was slightly tipsy by this point as my liver has deteriorated since my drinking Olympics days. Off to Absinthe Lounge where the d.j.’s d.j. and the bartenders bartend and the atmosphere is always welcoming. I loves you for that Absinthe Lounge, and your outdoor patio bar has enabled my laziness of opening a door to get another drink for about a year now.

The best part of my evening was an encounter with a lady, (using term lightly) outside of the Caliegh House. (I’m sure I didn’t spell that right).

She wasn't this bad... but it was getting there.

Literally, STUMBLING down the side street of Hamilton’s infamous strip of bars, Ro and I check the time and it was far too early for the level of retardedness of this girl. Like really? 12:30 is way too soon to be almost pukey drunk.. just sayin. A group of her appropriately intoxicated friends ambled behind her while she raved about the deliciousness of a hot dog she was snarfing back like it was the first meal she’d had in months. Sad. I mean, not that hot dogs aren’t a meal, ’cause they are for a bread and butter budget, but you really shouldn’t be talking about how much you love hot dogs around single horny men. A word of advice.

Then, she dropped it. I still laugh as I picture this in my mind. In a pile of leaves went her beloved hot dog, with all the fixin’s as well. Falling over to where we stood, she slurs, “Do I have ketchup on my face?”

Now, if I’d been witty, I would have taken this opportunity to embarrass the crap out of her, but having realized quickly she’d already done that for me, I told her she was good and she stumbled down the street reminiscing about her hot dog and the love she once shared with it in street meat glory.

Now, this is just ONE of the many stories that I have about girls at Hess Village, and as I move tomorrow, I think I might be missing out on more random nights like these. Oh girls from Hess… If I were a boy, you’d be way too easy, and if you were a lady, I wouldn’t like you to begin with, cause that’s not what Hess is about. Hess is about getting shittered to the point where recognizing your best friend is few and far between due to double vision. Thank you Hess for all the good times and all those other times that seemed good  until the next day when it wasn’t so much fun.

Yours truly, Amberley

The (Secret) Diary of Jesse Dore

Jesse Dore; General Manager and booking agent of the Corktown Tavern (Hamilton, ON) and all around nice guy. Side jobs include, door fixer, rain preventer, sound maker AND theatrical performer.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. “Jesse? OUR Jesse? Our own Jesse Dore? I had freaking NO idea! Since when?” Well.. since Saturday August 29th at approximetely 8:55pm.

I’m dishing the dirt Jesse. I’m sorry, but I feel that this new talent of yours is great enough to be shared with the world.

His grace wilst dancing is a sight to be saved on memory cards for cell phones and cameras across our great city and beyond. It’s as if his movements are captured and overtaken by the Earths elements. The passion oozes with every fluid motion. Oozes people; oozes. His ability to become any character is a feat many attempt to aquire within long careers of rejected auditions and failed series pilots.

While sitting at the Corktown on the previously mentioned date, Jesse was busy. Not too busy though to comment on the unkempt styling of Max Wray’s hair following a down pour that’s become all too familiar this summer. With several gestures, Jesse became; literally became the leader of the T-Birds, with a “swoosh” through the hair mimiking a comb running through either side of his fine coiff. Simultaneously his effortless feet barely grazed the floor mimicking the dance that made John Travolta famous in Grease.

I wish you’d been there. For realsies. All within these few seconds of displayed talent Jesse also accomplished a massive burn at the cost of Max Wray’s ego. Well done Sir!

As I sat in disbelief and awe of both instances, I requested to know the next production that he would be performing in. Without disclosure of such information, I threatened to write this blog in order to get it out of him, (as threatening is the Hamilton way to get what you want I’m told). His reply was “It makes me feel that you’re just <going to be> telling everyone that reads your blog that I’m gay.” To which Max replied, “So… what… 4 people will think you’re gay?”

Burn Max. Burn.

Keep your eyes peeled on stages across the GTA. This boy’s gonna be a star!

  

My Tattoos, Shockingly, Aren’t for You.

Hey! So! I got a new tattoo. It’s on the knuckles of my middle fingers and I heart them. Now when I give people the finger, they will get a surprise! I like surprises! Wait… no I don’t.. I actually hate surprises. It’s not so much the moment of surprise, but more the element. I hate the waiting, and most people that have attempted to surprise me have failed.

There’s also a type of element that I am not fond of in the least. Those wacky tattooed people that think that because they have tattoos and I have tattoos, it means that we’re automatic best friends. WRONG! The tattoos that I have accumulated over the years have a story, and just because you have some tribal arm band does not, I repeat, DOES NOT mean that I want to talk shop with you. Sometimes I’ll play along if you’re cute and genuinely interested, but really, at the point where my arms are almost covered, it would take hours to get through each one and the background story.

I was in Oakville last night, and some 40 year old drunk man was at the same bar as I was. He was in front of me heading up the stairs for a smoke, and when he saw me, he slurred, “Hey, nicccceee innkk ggirrll.” (I don’t know how to spell to make it sound slurry…) I thanked him and continued up the stairs. Upon hitting the patio, he asked me what they meant, and I politely replied that they all have a story, and most of them are personal, but thanks for asking. He got so mad that I wasn’t obliguing his curiosity that he asked why I would get them for…. Well…. I got them for me… not… you…. duh! He was even more insulted, not that I really cared and stomped away.
This is not the first type of incident I have been involved in. Constantly while out with friends, and usually by drunk boys, I will find myself being grabbed by the arm and demanded to spill the beans on what the map is on my right forearm. Which one is the newest? Which one has the most meaning? (Like,… really?) Which one hurt the most? “

“Oh my god! I love them all! Can I just look at you for a minute?”

No. No you can’t. You have to pay for that sort of thing where I come from. Hamilton.

So. Moral of the story is, that anyone you see that has a tattoo, doesn’t mean you can touch. You may look, cause it’s hard not to, but enough with the grabbing. Please. I’m liable to break the ligament that does the touching. For realsies. Thank you.

EAT THE FOOD!!!

I often am hungry as I rarely plan out my eating routine. What with work, the gime (gym for all you non Simpson’s watchers) music and drinking, I hardly have time to cook, bake or take out. HOWEVER.. when I am desperately hungry and my stomach can no longer take the empty feeling inside, I oblige with my favourite meal. Sandwiches.

When I was a kid, my mom had a record player. Yes. I’m THAT old.. Now, I remember distinctly one song in particular on my very favourite vinyl. It was “Sandwiches” by Fred Penner. You all remember him eh? Judging by your confused face about the term “eh” you are not Canadian, which you kinda need to be in order to know who Mr. Penner is.

LEGENDARY!

But that’s not the point. The real point is that I was discussing a drunken meal I made on my return home from Hess Village last weekend with my friend. I recently hopped back on the wagon of party-ville, and am doing well considering.  While at the bar, I think I drank my body weight in rye. And not of the bread variety, but we’ll get to that in a minute. I was totally that girl; stumbling home, drunk texting … someone … (probably more than one) and hobbled back to my apartment just in time to feel the pang of a guilty pleasure arise. Looking in my fridge, several things happened. One, I must get more fruit, and two, it seems that it was sandwich time. Now, eating before bed is not a normal tradition for me, however, this time, I made an exception as the bread and toppings seemed to be crying at me for love. I obligued.

Now, I’m not sure what it is about eating hammered, or eating other people’s food, but it always seems to taste better; and let me tell you: this sandwich was Ah-maze-ing. I can’t even described the dance my tastebuds made whilst the preperations occured. Maybe it was the jager… maybe it was the tangy zip of Miracle Whip, but let me tell you, the addition of cucumbers lightly seasoned with salt and pepper was the shize.

(Oh god, I’m salavating)

Here is my recipe for helping a hangover cease to be a hangover.

1. Use fresh, whole wheat bread, preferably of the organic variety. (Shmamberley does not soley support the brand “Arnolds” bread, although I’m sure he’s a very nice guy)

2. Spread a generous layer of Miracle Whip on both slices of said bread, toasted if desired, although this takes a lot more time and seems like EONS in a drunken stuper.

3. Add shaved turkey to the mix… I don’t eat much cow or pig these days, but if I trusted myself to cook some bacon, this would be a very different flava. (You heard me)

4. Slice tomatos and cucumbers with a dull knife and place over turkey. Add salt and pepper to taste.

5. Grab a stick of cheese.. and not that processed crap. Get like, some amazing old chedda from the Farmers Market, but my top fav would be brie. Grate that bitch and let it make the mountain-sandwich rise.

6. Lettuce would be good, but I didn’t have any.

And there you have it! I highly suggest slicing it in half and just because you’re THAT special, why not skip the crust and go right to the good stuff? The middle.

Upon waking, I had no recolection of said sandwich. Not even a bit. I was tipped off by the mass amounts of crumbs on my bedspread and upon furthur investigation, my kitchen was a frackin’ mess. Turns out, I rather enjoyed that sandwich whilst watching the end of Aladdin on VHS.

I hope you like my recipe. Next one will be for disaster, as I’m rather partial to those and it makes for a much better journal entry. I shall leave you with the song that prompted my love for this meal. Thank you and enjoy.

‘Till Death Do Our Opinions Part

You are blonde. No offence.

You are pretty, up until that 5th shot.

You are really smart, but I can’t understand a word you’re saying.

You are drunk.

It’s summer. I can tell cause there be bitches pouring their hearts out on the patio and I can hear you from across the way. I don’t know what it is about nice weather, good music, close friends and specially made drinks that makes you so sad, but it makes me laugh, and I’m sorry.

The pain that you are enduring right before a packed audience will be embarassing tomorrow I dare say. I’m sure that on any other day that ends in y you would be different, but tonight, you are the scene.

And the stage is yours and set.

Let me guess. Your boyfriend was checking out another girl. At a bar. Holy crap, never would have thought. Are you so terribly insecure that you’ve forgotten to gauge out his eyes before exiting your parents den? Honestly, get over yourself. He’s probably just looking at what a professional drinker looks like. This, coupled with the fact that he made out with your best friend the other day stirs up what scientists call, “depression”.

Consider this: the depression is fueled by the downer of the alcohol, so it kinda makes you act like the girls bartenders often refer to as “a piece of work”. That’s right, there’s a heading.  You kind of make them sick as if everyone around you is in clear and present danger of losing a ligimant if anywhere near the “hot zone” when ignited.

Honestly though, it’s not all your fault. You can blame it on the rain, you can blame it on the stars that shine at night, or you can blame it on the drink. That’s not necessarily a bad idea, but I’ll tell you what is

GIVING YOUR CRYING GIRLFRIEND MORE BOOZE!

Come on lameoid! What the f*ck are you thinking? You kinda deserve being yelled at now cause that bartender’s only waiting for some more entertainment in the long evening ahead of them. So, if you’re gonna fuel the fire, pick something that won’t burn when she pukes it up. That means no jager, or tequila, or straight up anything. Pick something fruity that will remind her of the plans of a beach and some fruity bitch drinks that you’ve promised before all this went down.

Until next time boys and girls, play safe. Ok? Thanks. Until I see you next, I’ll attempt to not trip your drunk ass girlfriend, but it won’t be easy. Just sayin’.

Band Etiquette

So, I’ve been playing shows for a solid 6 years now I guess, which, hindsight, makes me feel extremely old. In fact, this is me at this very moment:

With this crusty old age comes knowledge. Yes. I am in fact knowledgeable about things and stuff. I know that mixing toothpaste with milk or apple juice is not a good idea, and having after parties in apartments at 3am with a bottle of jager ensues police at around 7am. I also know that when you play shows, you are representing yourself and your band while you’re there. If you get drunk and insult the validity of the opening bands and their talent or lack thereof, chances are, you won’t be playing with them again.  If you bring a bunch of underagers with fake i.d.’s to a 19+ show, the booking agent might take the money you made in door tickets and give it to the liquor board to pay the hefty fine that comes with underage drinking charges.

Also within these past 6 years of playing shows, I’ve learned my likes, and dislikes about performing in general.

I like getting paid.

I like using my own mic, and do so because every time I used to play with the house mic, it would end up smelling like stale beer and boy sweat. A fine mix for a seperate occasion.

I like sound techs that stay at the sound booth for the duration of the set unless they’re on the floor rocking out or checking levels.

I like when bands chill beforehand. You can learn a lot from other people in this industry.

Now… what I don’t like, (and the purpose for this blog) is when bands load out during other peoples sets.  I mean, I see how it is and it’s not cool.

Here’s what I think went through your little emo heads before the loading out happened.

You booked a show based on the fact that you heart music and you wanna play and have a good time. Not so that you can support the other people that also heart music and wanna play and have a good time and brought some people to see not only thier band but yours. Selfish selfish selfish.

You then decided to take the opening slot so that you can go somewhere else afterwards, or maybe you have to work in the morning, either way, you’re lame. Everyone works, which is part of the beauty of not everyone making it in this business. It’s called freakin’ dedication people… not just any kind of dedication, but “freakin’”.

So, you play your set, and you’re pretty happy about it. You played well; you might even be sweating a little bit, but oh… oh… oooohhhhh…. your drink tickets are gone… hm… what to do what to do… stay and watch the other bands you had the pleasure to play with and vice versa? or…. goooo…. hm… decisions decisions decisions.

So, you pack up your equipment while the 3rd band is on their 3rd last song, cause you just can’t wait the 12 minutes it’ll take for the singer to say, “Thank you and don’t forget to tip your waitress” before you can lug your crap out the door inconspicously. You have to leave now. So you do, and guess what? You probably forgot to tip the waitress.

Alas, you grab your heaviest piece of equipment from the very back of the venue and trudge toward the door interrupting a crowd of happy people having happy fun time so you can go home to your teddy and a warm cup of milk. You might even step on a few people’s toes, (both physically and metaphorically).  You have now successfully distracted people from the band that is essentially working, and you might even distract the band. Good on ya’! All eyes on you buddy.

Not only are the loading doors the smoking doors, but the walkway is extremely small, so you pass by without discretion inturupting yet another crowd of people from even entering the building to see the band they paid to see. Now, this may only have taken… what… 2 minutes to accomplish? But usually when this happens, (and I’m not talking just about when I’m playing shows, it happens when I’m at shows and it pisses me off…) you’re a drummer. Drummer’s have at least 5 pieces… and a bag.. so, that’s 5 trips x 2 minutes each, equalling 10 minutes for the 12 minutes you couldn’t wait to get the shit out of there.

Have some respect for show goers, players, and workers. You’ve signed on for the night. Stay. Support. Don’t drink and drive. Next time, I’ll trip you.

See? That’s you. Sans stairs. I’ll trip you straight up.