Screendoor Sub

Interesting article by an interesting band:

Matt Cooley, lead singer for Aftershocker, surveyed the bar for that Friday’s gig. His eyes caught on the single beer on tap, a silver bullet on a wood lever. Behind him, someone continued fiddling with the PA; the speakers had yet to receive signs of life from Aftershocker’s instruments. They should already have been three songs deep into their set, yet this guy—the bar’s manager or a relative of the owner, but definitely not possessing a drop of techie blood—obstinately refused help. Stranded in this stripmall bar, unbearably pedestrian off the stage, having just paid for a pitcher of the one beer on tap, Matt Cooley ran his hands through his hair and issued a bold proclamation:
“We won’t be playing here again.”
Although Aftershocker has a few things in common with the slew of bands formed during college by friends and roommates, they are a bit of a different beast. Unlike a lot of the college sect, they played outside their campus’s vicinity and after a few band members have graduated, they’ve stuck together.
Perhaps the biggest difference is in the quality of music Aftershocker performs. These guys know their way around their hardware; they practiced weekly before regular shows made weekly practice superfluous; and they have a surprisingly professional stage-presence.
Lead guitarist Dave Marchand can shred like nobody’s business. His solos on lead guitar leap and bound up scales as his hands move with the nonchalant quickness that is the obvious result of lots of one-on-one time with his ax. Other band members’ talents don’t quite stand out as much as Marchand’s, but they hold their own. Ralph Patterson keeps a tempo on drums that teeters on the verge of over-clocking into a frenzy. Bassist Chris Choate and rhythm guitarist Dylan Haas are both plenty competent. Josh Rau plays keyboard, saxophone, harmonica and accordion. Matt Cooley—we’ve met Matt Cooley—he fills the role of lead singer aptly.
Still firmly entrenched in the bar circuit, Matt Cooley’s ultimatum is a bit of a laugher, but also a bit telling for who this band is. We won’t be playing here again—keep in mind he said this with a complete lack of irony that would make it almost painful to recollect, if sometime around the fourth or fifth song in their stripmall bar set the talent and enthusiasm of a polished, earnest rock band didn’t assert itself; and sink the invalidity of Matt Cooley’s cocksure presumption.
100.5 The Zone’s Battle of the Bands (which Aftershocker exits in the semi-finals) operates out of the Powerhouse Pub in Folsom. The pub's décor has an unrestrained western, touristy theme that could have been found in a turn-of-the-century, Tombstone, AZ Applebee’s.
The winner of this several round tournament goes on to open for The Zone’s 10th Annual Exotic Ball, with a reported audience of 15,000 (reported at the battle by one of the radio station’s morning DJs).
The Jerry Jenning’s band (Aftershocker’s competition this round) sets a calm, almost comatose mood with their sort of soft- rock, jam band style. Seconds into Aftershocker’s set, the mood shatters. The crowd is startled awake by Matt Cooley’s demand to “get on their fucking feet.” (most don’t comply, but it gets their attention). Aftershocker veers into a raucous, nonstop, three song block. Talking excitedly to each other, the DJs snap pictures of Aftershocker jamming onstage. If not on their fucking feet, the crowd is at least onboard, whooping and bobbing their heads emphatically in-time.
By the end of their hour set, Aftershocker has managed to cajole the audience to pump their fists and shout on cue to “The Next Step,” (AS: Ya know/Crowd: YA KNOW) ending on a euphoric high that really, possibly makes this next thing totally alright:
After the show, unprovoked, they give someone a signed set list.
For a moment she seems confused. Sure, she enjoyed the show. But this? She exchanges a curious glance with her friend. There’s this unbearable inevitability that they’ll throw their heads back and laugh at the whole thing, crumple up the list and chuck it.
But, that doesn’t happen.
They leave the bar shortly thereafter. Except, and it’s a little fantastic to see, the woman with the set list carries it cumbersomely and carefully at her side, attempting not to crease it.
Ultimatums never to return at sights of unsatisfactory gigs? Distributions of signed set lists? Who do these guys think they are? Then it hits you: Despite the bars nestled by AM/PMs and the early exit from battles of the bands, Aftershocker thinks—is absolutely convinced—that they are the next great rock band: the newest saviors of rock in a long line of saviors of rock. And at their best moments, when they stir a dive’s crowd of distracted regulars into synchronized fist pumping and unison shouting, you’re on the verge of believing them.

Nine left. The over/under of the grasp on my sanity? Tenuous.

Been awhile blog.

I've tied down a long-term gig at a middle school teaching algebra. Teaching middle school algebra is about as fun as it sounds. No, scratch that, it's about as fun as having your balls eaten by fireants sounds.

The problem with being a long-term sub is kinda like the problem of being a large Mario, but not a fire-throwing Mario, in the underwater levels of Super Mario Bros. Large Mario finds his powered-up size works against him in the narrow confines of the water stages. So what if I'm bigger, older, and stand in front of the classroom? All these signs of power egg the kids on. If only I was fully powered up in the eyes of my students, if only I could find that elusive fire-flower, which effectively nullifies Mario's size disadvantages with the ability to hurl flames.

Eh, then again that doesn't make a whole lot of sense.

Highlights?

- Discovered a note informing me that I "suck monkey balls." "A Student that doesn't like you" addressed it to me "hate." At least that's not as bad as having a student that hates you addressing a note "don't like." I think.

- A plot to put itching powder on the sub failed when I refused to shake the suspicious outstretched hand of this one knucklehead. That's right, his idea was to first spread the itching powder on his hand and then shake mine. Honors students they ain't.

- Going back to "knucklehead." Just about every teacher's lounge I've been to throws this phrase around for the school's utmost punks. It's kind of a catchall that fills in for "jackass," "dumbshit," "douche bag," and anything else you shouldn't call a 13 year old.

Two calamities struck in the midst of otherwise uneventful periods involving the dispensing of crunches and pull-ups.

Calamity 1

Someone touches your shoes. So you touch his backpack. What's the next move? Fight, of course. I mean, those might be your favorite shoes, but you have the audacity to touch his backpack! What else is going to happen?

Breaking up fights. Frustrating.

Calamity 2

Some freekin' genius set a stink bomb off in the locker room. Imagine rotten egg mixed into the olfactory jambalaya that is a boy's locker room. If you can't quite imagine that, try the following.

An orangutan has finished a 10k and really exerted himself. You know, gave it his all, didn't walk, and as a result is absolutely covered in sweat. On his way home, he stops at his favorite Mexican restaurant. Unfortunately, Guillermo, that night's cook, has been battling an unusually potent stomach flu. Unbeknownst to our orangutan (let's start calling him Petey) the super burrito he ravenously consumed had been infected with Guillermo's bug.
The flu acts with lightning quickness.
Petey's relief in the restaurant's public restroom is short lived after the discovery that his stall's toilet paper reserves are exhausted. Faced with no alternatives, Petey unlaces one running shoe and removes the fetid socks from his still moist foot. Using this reeking orangutan sock, Petey smears the barely digested burrito from his densely haired rear.
Forget about Petey and focus on that sock. Now, imagine pulling that sock over your head (which shouldn't be too hard, orangutans have large feet).

But other than that, a great day, really.

For the past week it's been nothing but P.E. spread between two middle schools. The thing about subbing P.E. is it really ain't that interesting. Watching kids chuck basketballs is easy, but doesn't make great campfire stories. But there were still a few mild entertainments.

If every kid in every period did 20, then I've supervised 20,000 push-ups this week. But only one did those prison style push-ups you see in movies, you know the ones, using the knuckles. What did he do after he was done? Shank? Trade some smokes? No, he gingerly cradled his bruised and scrapped knuckles.

This one school makes kids pick up trash for detention. Great idea, they're still miserable and they're doing good for the school.
Two kids I didn't recognize joined my class' basketball playing frenzy. I ask if they should be picking up trash. They say no.
But something doesn't add up.
There's some kind of knavish glint in their eyes, which craftily dart leftwards as they talk. Also These kids are standing near two scantly filled trash bags and have plastic gloves for picking up trash.
I decide to investigate.
I ask them their names. The first, out of earshot of his buddy, tells me "Michael." I walk over to the second. He tells me Michael too. Befuddled, I point out they have the same name.
"You told him Michael too?" says the second one.
And they picked up trash for the rest of their days. The End.

Hey, remember that one class I subbed for, like, three days? The one that by the third day was starting fires and forming bike gangs in class? (This Class)

They greeted me with huzzahs and ovations. The principal, who was subbing for me (it was one of those last minute deals) asked the class, "Is he the sub you were talking about?"
"YEAH!"
Aw, shucks... or aw, crap?

Turns out, Aw shucks. The kids were fantastic today. Intelligent, diligent, and not delinquent.

I still managed something terribly unprofessional (bringing my Ripken-esque streak to, like, 40 days). Because of the suddenness of today's job, I forgot to grab food. Lunch rolls around, me starving. Me starving bad, me think great unright. So I raided one of the lil darling's earthquake food supply. Hey, I'm a jerk.

Everything I did in yesterday's third grade class got the same response. "Mr. Regular Teacher doesn't do that." I mean, everything. My handwriting, how I dismissed tables for recess, the way I asked them to open their math books before they put their names on their papers, my preference for an open palm slap as opposed to use of a yard stick for discipline, everything.

Then there was this passage from Charlie and The Chocolate Factory. If it had been a batch of older kids, and one of them had started laughing I think I might have too, which reveals tons about my maturity. Anyway, it was during that part when Wonka describes the everlasting gobbstopper and it went something like this:

"It's amazing! You can put it in your mouth and suck it for hours and it won't get any smaller! You can suck it and suck it and suck it and suck it all day and it won't lose any of it's flavor. It'll be great for children with little pocket money!"

What's wrong with our society when third-graders aren't laughing at this stuff yet! Parents must be notified.