killed by bangers (& mash)
So, I got the job.
Now I have to worry about people accusing me of being a fraud, a phony, a hack -- all of which, to some extent, are probably true.
Also, I may need to worry about the myriad death threats I'm bound to receive from local hip-hop artists. However, the only coherent -- using the term very loosely -- threats the previous music editor received were a pile of red meat... wait... I've told this story. Nevermind. But about the rappers: these guys work so hard to cultivate an impressive persona, penning endless rhymes about their lyrical acumen, the size and agility of their male member, their prominence among national criminals (esp. murderers and hustlers), and their general greatness, and yet they handle criticism worse than a deluded bipolar hypersensitive obese figure-skater.
Anyway, blogging feels even less exciting than vacuuming out my car, which is contingent on whether I can dig up one of those nigh-ubiquitous insanely long orange extension cords. If I can't, then I'll have to think of something else menial to do, like clean the kitchen floor with spraystuff and an old t-shirt I'll tell myself I don't need anymore. You know what they say: Arbeit Mach Frei!
Tonight, I'm going to another concert, making this the fourth night in a row I've seen shows, all but two of which were local. I introduced myself to the leader of each and gave them my card. Scored a couple of CDs off a merch table. I'm starting off this job thinking it'll be good to personally associate with local musicians (which is the complete opposite of what my predecessor did.) That way we can write about them instead of useless shit about tiresome touring bands like Social Distortion and (zzz) Sum 41. I've already received positive feedback for my efforts, which, however, have not yet led to a published piece on a local band. Like the aforementioned figure skater, I'm going to be in serious need of the toughened skin I lack, for I've always been afraid of disapproval. But my plan is to at least convey that I care about the local scene, so that perhaps at least the reasonable readers will choose merely to disagree with me rather than categorically despise everything I am and everything I do. It's a lot harder to hate someone you've met and engaged in congenial conversation. Then again, indy rock snobs are insufferable and impossible, like bad. In any case, I'm prepared for the indefinite perpetuation and increase in intensity of my intestinal complaints.
Also, I'm going to have to worry about becoming an alcoholic. Or not worry about it.
Lastly, and this is where YOU come in, I need to think of a name for the column I'm going to be writing every week. My predecessor was the Prairie Dogg. I can't provide any other examples because my computer at home can't load various New Times websites because of the ad-blocking software, I think, which I can't seem to turn off. Anyway, any and all suggestions will be appreciated. Needs to be something music-related, obviously. And should probably be some kind of character, seeing as how all our other columnists have characters, except one, SeeSaw, which is a piece of playground equipment capable of commenting on art openings -- only less animate than the talking steak who rants about local politics. It's funny how these things actually become interesting when you take them literally.
I'm also thinking about setting up a new blog to write about all the stuff I can't cover in the paper. But that might be too much of an undertaking -- a bit too immoderate an approach to this job. My predecessor routinely got trashed on various local message boards, so I'll check those once in a while and perhaps respond. I don't know. I guess it's better to err on the side of caution, but my life has been so boring since, like 2001, that I think I'm gonna go balls out.
It occurs to me that this all may be a direct result of my suddenly having more self-confidence than I've had since fucking high school.
Well, then.
Now I have to worry about people accusing me of being a fraud, a phony, a hack -- all of which, to some extent, are probably true.
Also, I may need to worry about the myriad death threats I'm bound to receive from local hip-hop artists. However, the only coherent -- using the term very loosely -- threats the previous music editor received were a pile of red meat... wait... I've told this story. Nevermind. But about the rappers: these guys work so hard to cultivate an impressive persona, penning endless rhymes about their lyrical acumen, the size and agility of their male member, their prominence among national criminals (esp. murderers and hustlers), and their general greatness, and yet they handle criticism worse than a deluded bipolar hypersensitive obese figure-skater.
Anyway, blogging feels even less exciting than vacuuming out my car, which is contingent on whether I can dig up one of those nigh-ubiquitous insanely long orange extension cords. If I can't, then I'll have to think of something else menial to do, like clean the kitchen floor with spraystuff and an old t-shirt I'll tell myself I don't need anymore. You know what they say: Arbeit Mach Frei!
Tonight, I'm going to another concert, making this the fourth night in a row I've seen shows, all but two of which were local. I introduced myself to the leader of each and gave them my card. Scored a couple of CDs off a merch table. I'm starting off this job thinking it'll be good to personally associate with local musicians (which is the complete opposite of what my predecessor did.) That way we can write about them instead of useless shit about tiresome touring bands like Social Distortion and (zzz) Sum 41. I've already received positive feedback for my efforts, which, however, have not yet led to a published piece on a local band. Like the aforementioned figure skater, I'm going to be in serious need of the toughened skin I lack, for I've always been afraid of disapproval. But my plan is to at least convey that I care about the local scene, so that perhaps at least the reasonable readers will choose merely to disagree with me rather than categorically despise everything I am and everything I do. It's a lot harder to hate someone you've met and engaged in congenial conversation. Then again, indy rock snobs are insufferable and impossible, like bad. In any case, I'm prepared for the indefinite perpetuation and increase in intensity of my intestinal complaints.
Also, I'm going to have to worry about becoming an alcoholic. Or not worry about it.
Lastly, and this is where YOU come in, I need to think of a name for the column I'm going to be writing every week. My predecessor was the Prairie Dogg. I can't provide any other examples because my computer at home can't load various New Times websites because of the ad-blocking software, I think, which I can't seem to turn off. Anyway, any and all suggestions will be appreciated. Needs to be something music-related, obviously. And should probably be some kind of character, seeing as how all our other columnists have characters, except one, SeeSaw, which is a piece of playground equipment capable of commenting on art openings -- only less animate than the talking steak who rants about local politics. It's funny how these things actually become interesting when you take them literally.
I'm also thinking about setting up a new blog to write about all the stuff I can't cover in the paper. But that might be too much of an undertaking -- a bit too immoderate an approach to this job. My predecessor routinely got trashed on various local message boards, so I'll check those once in a while and perhaps respond. I don't know. I guess it's better to err on the side of caution, but my life has been so boring since, like 2001, that I think I'm gonna go balls out.
It occurs to me that this all may be a direct result of my suddenly having more self-confidence than I've had since fucking high school.
Well, then.