The Four-Time Story July 13, 2008

Part One: The Backstory

I have a friend that moved to China. I would not say that this friend and I were best friends necessarily, and I really only knew her for about a year before she moved. But in that short amount of time the two of us became pretty close, or at least as close as you can get to someone in one short year. I would go to her house and babysit her baby, I would bring her lattes, and we would talk about yoga and Montessori. She would come to my open mics and my shows. We would talk about our respective significant partners. I met her stepdad. One of her cats currently resides in my home in America, and one set of my yoga clothes currently resides in her house in China. Fair trade I’d say. I was pretty sad when I learned that my new friend was moving to China; I have abandonment issues. But I dealt.

When she posted on a social website we both subscribe to that she was coming back to visit America, I was excited! I immediately sent her my phone number and anxiously awaited her call. She called! I promptly made my way to the bar many of us were meeting at, and as soon as I walked in, she grabbed both of my hands and started jumping and dancing, and of course I couldn’t help but join in! We looked like two Woodstock hippies on “something awesome” dancing to “some great band”. The great band was the wonderfully local Kasey Rausch, and I don’t think she, or anyone else, minded.

The drinks had been drunk and it was time to move on, just as a new performer was taking the stage. My expat friend expressed her feelings toward the situation by letting us know that she didn’t want to leave just as the new musician was about to perform as it might be rude, or it might hurt her feelings. I wanted to tell her that was not even a concern.

Part Two: The Three-Time Interruption

My friend was so concerned about leaving this man just as he was starting, and I wanted to assure her it would be okay. As a musician myself, I have some experience in this area. I told her never to feel bad, never to worry, musicians understand. The whole incident reminded me of a story of when I was in my band.

“Listen to this story,” I said. “My band and I were playing up at the Brick, and we were the third band to go on. We all sat through the first band, then the second band, who was from L.A–” Then came the first interruption. A question about where to go next maybe? I’m not sure, it was all very fast! A few members of the group lit up their cigarettes. I wanted to tell the story. It was a good story. “Hey lemme finish my story,” I said, with giant, hopeful eyes.

“Oh yeah,” said my visiting friend. “Your band was playing in L.A., and then what?” No. No, that’s not what I said. “No, the second band was FROM L.A., and when they were done playing–” Oh. I thought. “No one’s listening,” I said out loud.  “Okay.”

“I’m sorry, Val,” my friend said. “I want to hear your story, but let’s decide where to go.” Fine. I understand. We cross a street and head down the block, stopping in front of the bar I think we’re going into.

“Okay, this is the third time I’ve tried to tell this story, and it’s a good story. Whoever interrupts, I’ll kick your ass!” I threatened. I didn’t really mean it. I’ve never kicked anyone’s ass in all my life. But part of me wished I meant it. “My band was playing up at the Brick–”

“Is this really where we’re going?” someone asked. “We could just go back to my house, I have beer.”

This is where I realized it was over. No one wanted to hear my story. I thought it was a good story. I’m not too sure of what was going on here, other than maybe everyone was a little too tipsy to pay attention. Maybe it was the group I was with. I was fairly unfamiliar with everyone else in the party except for my American-Chinese friend. This just wasn’t the crowd. I quietly followed the herd back to an apartment for more conversation that didn’t include my party. I had given up.

Now, I don’t want to leave you all with the impression that I had a bad time. I actually had a really fun time. I got to hang and hug and share happiness with my long-lost friend. I had a few margaritas. I smoked a little, laughed a little (okay a LOT), and chilled out. I shared memories and updates, and it I had an all-around fantastic time! But I’ve go this story, and I have to get it out. So here it is…

Part Three: The Four-Time Story

The good thing about blogs is that no one can interrupt, no one can feign interest, and no one can stop me from telling the whole story. For the fourth, and hopefully final, time, here is the story. Let’s cross our fingers and hope that my laptop battery and internet connection doesn’t give out, turning this into the greatest story never told.

My band and I were scheduled to play at the Brick, an interesting bar in Kansas City. We were scheduled to play first, but for some reason got bumped to playing third and last. Sandwiched in between was a band that none of us have ever heard of, Vintage. They were apparently from L.A. The five of us patiently waited through the first band, unhappy that it wasn’t us up there as most of us had to work in the morning. We then patiently waited for the second band to finish.

They were a very glamorous band. They all wore red ascots. The lead singer did a little Mick Jagger dance in between verses. If the sound wasn’t quite right, they stopped the song and let the sound man know exactly how they felt about it. After the final song, the singer announced to the crowd that they were having a party in their hotel room and everyone was invited. Well, if a band from L.A. invited you to a party at their hotel room, what would you do? You’d go, right?

“Wait!” I shouted. “There’s one more band left, don’t go anywhere!” Dirty looks were shot in my direction from many individuals.

“Don’t leave yet guys,” yelled one bartender. It was nice of her to help, but her efforts were wasted. As we set up our gear more and more patrons filtered out of the door. By the time we ran the sound check and were ready for our set, our audience included the sound man, the door man, two bartenders, and a cricket that I swear I heard chirping in the back.

We all looked at each other. I looked at each and every member of our little group, and they looked at me for a decision. “Let’s just have a practice,” I said. So we played through our entire set as if the bar was packed. When it was over, I sauntered up to the bar as if we were a glamorous band from L.A. and asked for our cut of the door. The bartender slid the roll of cash over to me and said “I want to be honest with you, you guys were the best band that played tonight.” She told me the other band were assholes for what they did and they were really sorry this happened.

Apology accepted.

Under the awning of the bar on the street I pulled the cash out of my wallet and counted it, then divvied up amongst the members. Exactly seven dollars for each of us.

So you see, four people walking out of an acoustic show in the early evening is nothing compared to what some bands go through.

Part Four: The Moral(s) of the Story

Not every audience is interested in hearing a good story. Likewise, not every audience is interested in hearing a local Kansas City band. Maybe someday we’ll travel to L.A. and we’ll be that band from Kansas City, we’ll invite the audience back to our hotel for a party, and we’ll demand they wait until the final band has played before they can come. Then we’ll be someone else’s story.

Meditation on Coffee July 7, 2008

Get it? Get the irony? Meditation? Coffee? Right? Ha ha! I crack myself up!

My fiance and I are currently living at my ex husband’s house. We will probably be living there for one to two more days. We had some issues with the sewer line that left our home disgusting and inhabitable, and as a result, we are displaced citizens of the world. Fortunately, I get along with my ex husband well enough that he’s letting us stay at his apartment while he and my son are out of town. But what does this all have to do with coffee?

Well, for starters, EVERYTHING has to do with coffee in one way or another.

I don’t use your traditional coffee pot. I’ve switched to a french press coffee maker that turns coffee into liquid awesome. I had packed up my coffee making supplies and taken them to my ex husband’s house with me so that I might enjoy some awesomeness in the midst of all this chaos. But I found out that his stove CAN’T BOIL WATER. What up with that?

Point of the story, all I wanted was a cup of coffee. Simple, right? Nopes. While I was waiting for the water to boil (which seemed to be taking about twice as long as it would have on my stove, no offense, Steve), I had time to think about all that went into making a cup of coffee.

First, you have to boil some water. While that’s boiling, you grind the beans. But you can’t just mash up some beans, oh no. The beans have to be ground to the correct consistency so that the brew is still delicious but you don’t have grounds in your teeth when you drink it. I do about 6-7 seconds on my grinder. Then, if you can get the water to boil, which I did eventually, you gently pour the hot water into the coffee maker and stir it lightly, finally placing the un-plunged plunger onto the top. Then you wait. About four or five minutes does the job. And then comes my son’s favorite part, plunging. Perfect every time.

Okay, I know I sound like a crazy lady who ruminates on her coffee way too often. Well, you’re right! But the point of the story here is that even the simplest thing, such as making a cup of coffee, can sometimes be one of the most complicated things to do. And since I like to relate shit like this to real life, I feel sometimes like I can take very simple things in my life and blow them up into very complicated things. It shouldn’t be that complicated to brush your teeth or put on your underwear or make a grilled cheese sandwich or pay your bills on time or fixing the sewer or finding a place to live while they fix your sewer.

Things can be complicated if you want them to be.

Things can be simple. If you want them to be.

Vee’s Guide to Riding the Bus July 3, 2008

I have been riding the bus for several years now. Granted, at first, I was a little nervous. I had to learn through experience how to ring the bell for my stop, how to let others off before you get on, how to exit at the back, and how to use the little bike racks they have cleverly attached to the front of the busses. I had to learn how to read a bus schedule, and how to estimate when the bus would be at my stop based on when it was scheduled to arrive at my stop. I didn’t know what a transfer was, I didn’t know where to buy a bus pass, and I didn’t know how rude people could be to handicapped folks. Let’s face it! Kansas City public transit is confusing as hell!

I was at the bus stop with my son the other day, and man was sitting on the bench, waiting. He seemed nervous, and kept looking at his watch. “Excuse me,” he says. “Do you know when this bus is supposed to be here?” Now, I don’t claim to be psychic, but I’ve been doing this a long time, and this man smelled like a bus newbie. It’s all good. I was a bus newbie once too! I tried to explain that should be at the main stop at this certain time, which meant it would be there in around 2-5 minutes after that. This is all assuming, of course, that it’s running on time.

We sit and wait for the bus, it finally shows, and to the man’s horror, he needed to have gotten on the bus at the other corner that had passed by just moments before!

I thought to myself “the Kansas City Area Transportation Authority really needs to put out a guide on how to ride the bus.” Now, when I started riding the bus, some well meaning friends made me feel like any moron should be able to figure out how to ride the Kansas City bus. But not this moron, oh no. I had to get off at the wrong stop first. I had to not have enough change. I had to miss my bus several times before I learned just what in the hell was going on. Basically what I’m saying is, you really need to know your shit.

So here it is folks! If you’ve never ridden the bus before, here’s my guide, with a few tips and tricks! Hope you enjoy it!

A. Make sure you have enough change. Currently, the fare for the KC Metro is $1.25. The bus WILL take nickels, dimes, and quarters. It will NOT take pennies. If all you have is a $5 bill, the driver will issue you a change card that you can use on your next bus trip. The bus driver, however, will NOT lend you a quarter. If you’re short a coin or two, you can ask the passengers if they have any change to spare, but it’s likely that they’ll yell at you or ignore you, or, if you find that rare woman in the green dress that my fiance like to call the “Green Dress Lady”, you’ll just get told to shut the fuck up. If this happens, the bus driver will likely take pity on you and let you ride for free. Or not. Depends on how cute you are.

B. Find a seat. Sometimes this is easy, but other times it can be a challenge. If the bus empty, avoid sitting in the seats reserved for handicapped and the elderly, unless you are prepared to move when they board. If the bus is full, there are some nice little strappy handles to hold on to should you need to stand. However, understand that you will likely be shoving your armpit in someone else’s face. Likewise, if you are sitting and someone else is standing, you may be the recipient of said armpit in the face. Should this happen, please refrain from making comments such as “oh lordy!” or “use some deoderant!” It’s rude.

C. Let the handicapped, elderly, pregnant ladies, and moms or dads carrying small children have the seat at the front. It’s not only polite, it’s the law! True story: I was on a crowded bus when a little old man with a cane came on the bus. The bus driver asked someone to let him sit down. I asked someone to let him sit down. Nobody would. As a result, the bus driver refused to leave the stop until someone let the man sit down. Don’t fuck with the handicapped, or you’ll make it harder on the rest of us!

D. Watch for your stop. Nobody else is going to watch it for you! You know those little blue signs on the side of the road? Those are the stops! If you pull the yellow cord about a block from your stop, the bus driver will stop for you, and you won’t have to ride all the way downtown and back. While this may result in some great sightseeing of the city, you’ll also make it harder on yourself to get where you’re going.

E. Transfers. These are good for two hours on any bus in the city. They are free.

F. Be polite. Okay, this is really a rule for the Green Dress Lady. When someone is being nice to you, don’t tell them to shut the fuck up! It’s not nice! And yes, even though the last time I saw you, Green Dress Lady, was last year, I’m still annoyed that you would do this to everyone on the bus.

Little known fact. If you are out by yourself and you run into trouble, like if you are mugged, or attacked, or you fear you are being stalked, flag down a bus! The bus driver has a direct link to the police, and the bus is also considered a safe space!

I hope this little guide has proven informational. Feel free to comment if you have any questions!