And now for something completely different...

I stumbled onto this video again while researching another band we have coming to the Discovery Music Series - it's the Mountain Stage interview with The Weepies.

It's been a few years since The Weepies played the stage at the Attucks Theatre, but I remember that concert like it just happened. The Weepies were my favorite band before they came to the Attucks, and they continue to be long after. It's not something I even have to think about. "Michelle," you might say, "You listen to a freakin' crapload of music. Who's your favorite?" "The Weepies," I'll reply. Instantly. I won't even launch into a long, hipster diatribe about it, because A.) it's easy truth and B.) you've already stopped listening. But, it was frosting on the cake to meet them in person and learn that they are as down-to-earth and friendly and engaging as you want your favorite band to be. They were magical on stage AND off.

Tonight, the Wheeler Brothers are playing our stage. And no one in Norfolk has any idea who they are. I know this because in spite of the marketing dollars that were thrown far and wide at this series, we've sold less than 100 tickets to this show. And I didn't know who they were either. But, here's what I can tell you about them: their YouTube videos are great. They post really funny animated gifs to their Twitter feed. Oh! And they were also just voted Austin's Best New Band of 2012. Wait... That last part seems important. They're TALENTED.

No one is guiltier than I am about not buying tickets when I've never heard of the band. I mean, why would you? Money's hard to come by, and what a crapshoot that could turn out to be. But, the thing I love about the Discovery Series (and why I mention The Weepies) is that it doesn't often matter WHO the band is. The venue is an experience all it's own. The sound quality is brilliant, new and amazing bands are playing new and amazing music, and CREATIVELY, too (can we talk about how the Alternate Routes incorporated a tool box into their percussion arsenal last show?)... You get to know the band. The venue is intimate. The bands are little known. Some of them are still manning their own merch stands. They WANT to meet you. They tell stories on stage. You connect to them. You love their music. You buy their CD's. You find out that the band you loved on stage is just as down-to-earth and friendly and engaging as you wanted them to be. You become a fan for life. You go to their sold-out arena concerts and say, "I liked them so much better at the Attucks." (Remember the Avett Brothers? Yeah. We're STILL saying that about them.)

The Attucks is in a dismal neighborhood. You've never heard of the group. The show is on a Thursday night. It's raining. There are about a million reasons NOT to go. But forget all that stuff for a minute. Open yourself up to this theater. It's one of my favorite spaces in Norfolk, and it's not because of the building. (Which is beautiful, by the way.) There's a warmth that comes from intimately engaging with musicians that's a completely different animal from the hype of a standing, sold-out concert in a sweaty, smoky venue. Which is probably where the Wheeler Brothers are headed on their next tour stop. I don't devalue those places - I like a loud, sweaty concert as much as the next girl - but, this. THIS. This is something different. Something really, really, really good.

And you should go there.

Top Ten Reasons Why Tim Jenkins is Better than the Baby Jesus

High School: Revisited

Since I don't have teenagers to offer this advice to, here are some valuable lessons I learned from judging a high school talent show this evening:

1.) If you ever thought you might've been over-exaggerating how awkward your time in high school was... allow me reassure you. You're not remembering it wrong. The awkwardness is practically tangible.

2.) It doesn't matter how good looking you ACTUALLY are, high school standards are INCREDIBLY skewed. It's actually pretty remarkable the things that can make you unpopular. And when you're unpopular, it doesn't matter how talented you are - no one cares. It's righteously infuriating. That said, though, charisma will take you a long way. Not pretty? Not smart? Not the best at anything? Doesn't matter. Learn how to work a room and no one will ever give you a hard time again.

3.) However... the pretty (but charisma-free) popular girls are still going to end up behind a microphone. No one wins in this scenario. Especially not the audience. Folks who value popularity will pretend to get it, but inwardly, everyone is cringing.

4.) I remember being told that I had no idea what love was when I was in high school. Which, of course, turned out to be true. But, here's the thing: whatever those kids think is love right now is the only point of reference they have. You'll never get them to believe they don't know what love is, so why bother telling them that?

5.)  If it doesn't have boys in drag, it's not a high school talent show.

6.) While a teacher can be your greatest ally in high school, you should probably know they're also rooting for the snotty kids to fail.

7.) While it's great you're a songwriter, no one actually wants to hear the ballad you wrote. To point, "I don't want any of this lover's lament crap. I want something peppy, something happy, something up-tempo. I want something snappy." That's how you win talent shows. Charisma, baby. Charisma!

(I feel I should amend this to note that high school was not a bad time for me. I traveled pretty safely in the middle of the pack - liked by kids on all ends of the spectrum, for the most part. But it's FASCINATING to have an outside view of this world. Like a goldfish bowl that you used to live in.)

Summer Luau Poster

I'll be honest - I get bored sometimes at work. Don't get me wrong... I'm BUSY. And pretty much all the time. But with a lot of unstimulated fodder like ad mat localization, website data entry, photo resizing... It's overwhelmingly sad how much of this designer's job doesn't really involve design at all. So, recently, I decided to take the matter into my own hands and basically design the crap out of a poster project that really no one was even paying attention to. I did it for me. To remember that I'm capable of more than the daily grind of task-mastering that gets handed to me every day. To remember that I was once good at making stuff. To de-numbify my brain.

What proved to be the jumping point for this project was just a matter of being completely taken by the work of studio People Too. Their paper cuts are GORGEOUS. And while it wasn't exactly in the cards to hire a studio out of Russia to illustrate a no-budget project that no one actually cared about (for a free event, no less), I decided the effort to learn how they were making these things would be well-worth it in the end. And now that I've done it, I want to do it again. I want them to hire me. I want to move to Russia. (Ok, maybe not that last part.)

Your paperclip legs and hairless paper cranium are sexy to me, big-lipped, torso lady.

The creepy, waltzing, headless hula zombie stage...

A little glue dandruff...

My giant fingertip will crush your tiny stamen, itty bitty hibiscus!

Homemade lightbox - pretty proud of that, but this was also about the time I began cursing my hipster professor for how little photography knowledge I came out of college with. (Ask me any question about ZeFrank, though - I can tell you LOTS about that guy.)

Lots of natural light on the balcony of Chrysler Hall! Ha ha... Don't mind me...
I CANNOT BE CONTAINED TO MY OFFICE!!!

Final result? Super happy fun times! Would I change some stuff if I were to do it again? Yes. Definitely. But, the process was ridiculously fun, and the end result pretty freaking adorable if I do say so.

For my next poster... I'm thinking clay. OR PUPPETS!

Dad.

Whenever in a department store, he liked to find the biggest pair of XXXXL granny panties he could find and yell, "Are these the ones?!" to us across the entire store. I suspect it was payback for making him go shopping in the first place.

He once rolled up the label from a mustard jar and stuck it in his nose, embarrassing me so much, I ran out of the room crying. (Despite the fact it happened in our kitchen. And only our family was watching.)

He was always kind enough to take the fish off the line for me, but refused to let me be the kind of girl who wouldn't bait a hook. He had tackle boxes full of the sparkliest, most intoxicatingly rubber smelling, tassle-y, tentacle-y lures, but rarely did I ever see him fish with anything other than a worm.

He was always the one who clipped my toenails. A detail I remember, as I had the most excruciatingly ticklish feet, and he was the only one who could A.) hold me down and B.) frighten me into submission. I got to sit on his lap, though... I liked that part.

He taught me how to make a peanut butter and bacon sandwich on toast. I try not to think about what it did to his heart, because it's still one of the best things I've ever eaten.

He built us a treehouse. He mowed over every watermelon & pumpkin seed we ever planted. He never really blamed us for killing the saplings in the front yard by ramming our sleds into them after a run down the hill. He made us pick up sticks in the backyard... WITH A VENGEANCE. He buried our dead hamsters by the side of the house.

He took great pride in my ability to "run like the wind." Usually he just said it so I would run and fetch stuff for him, but sometimes, I think he was just impressed and liked to see me do it.

He never went to church, except for weddings, or special services, or someone's First Communion. He communed with nature - that was his church. Or that's what he said. I always thought God liked that about him. I know I liked that about him.

He could make anyone laugh. I spent so much time being embarrassed by him talking to strangers that I nearly missed how good he was at it. There wasn't a waitress alive who wouldn't flirt with him or a baby on the planet he couldn't make stop crying.

He drank a lot of Michelob. I asked him once if it was because it almost spelled my name, and he said, "Of course." He left one in the refrigerator the last time he was at our house. Even though we've moved since then, it came along with us. Someday, I expect, someone will drink it by accident. And when they spit it out and ask, "HOW OLD IS THIS BEER?!" I'll probably laugh. Because he would've found that hilarious, too.

There's no end to the things I remember, just an end to this post. Happy Father's Day, all. And Dad? Miss you every freakin' day. I'm going to pull the label off a mustard jar in your name.

Two Blog Posts, Both Alike In... Eh, who am I kidding?

I have no dignity.

This really should be two separate posts, as it's two completely separate thoughts, but since only like three people read this thing anyway (hi, three people!!!), I'm jamming it together.

Part I: Client Edits

My job is a bit of a cluster right now. It's a long story that barely warrants repeating - if you know me in real life, you've probably heard it anyway. But along the bruised and shrapnel-ed path of the last few months, I've been asked multiple times over why I don't take another job elsewhere. And believe me, I should. Not because there's no light at the end of this mess - there's definitely a glimmer starting to show. But, honestly, it would be a smarter move to leave. There are better opportunities for me out there - jobs where I could actually have health insurance (I've been contracted for the last four years - there's no visible end to that in sight), or get paid like the private sector does (yay, city government...), or work collaboratively with other creative-types, or work for a company I always said I wanted to work for...

But THAT... is not what this is about.

This is actually about why I STAY.

This isn't by any means the only reason - it's just something I was reminded of recently. And it's a hell of a thing. In my current position, I am the only one of my kind. I'm the only designer - I'm the only creative, really. And at the moment, I don't even have a boss. There is literally not a soul telling me when my stuff sucks. Which is actually kind of a HORRIFYING thing - I'm never going to get any better. And what if it really DOES suck?! But, in the exact opposite way, it's fairly awesome to be able to do something once and have everyone think it's great.

Enter freelance. I do a bit of outside work for one of the tenants of our theater, and was recently schooled in the fine art of client edits - something I'd nearly forgot existed in the real world. I spent an entire day on a project for them, only to have them turn around and change pretty much everything about it. I may be exaggerating the point a bit, since it's been so long since anyone handed me such brutal changes, but this is pretty much how that went down:


It wasn't so much the number of changes they had, but moreover how they stripped out everything I thought was interesting about the original piece. It was commissioned to advertise their event in an art gallery, so I thought the bright, vintage-y comic book approach was pretty nifty - and apparently so, as they actually told me the original was "too hip/cool" for what they were going for. I could only laugh. I'd clearly missed the mark for them, and that was on me, but what a way to go down. I never take edits personally (though I'm often distressed by the amount of additional time they take), but I had forgotten how much they do make you question your own aesthetic. I couldn't even tell you anymore if the initial design was good - everything about it had to be stripped clean, so how could it have been?

THAT is the thing that would happen all. the. time. were I to go work for an agency. That exhausting, "make the client happy," soul-sucking thing.

It's not the only reason to stay, but it is (FOR SURE) a reason.

Part II: WTF?

I'll readily admit to being sort of a pretentious radio listener. If I can't listen to my iPod or Pandora station in the car, I leave it on satellite radio (when it's free), NPR or the comedy station. But today, all those sources failed me in one way or another and I turned the dial to a country station.

And all I could think was, "WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED SINCE I STOPPED LISTENING TO THE RADIO?!!!!"

I've listened to this a second time, and it didn't horrify me quite as much, but I'll tell you, when you're not prepared for it, all you can ask is, "Why is this viciously cruel person trying to pass his murderous rage off as parody?!"

Please enjoy.

Call Me Rebekka

"I yam what I yam, and that's all what I yam." - Popeye

I spend a lot of time being me. Which is weird, because I don't always totally love me, so you'd think I'd be someone else some of the time. I pick up mannerisms belonging to others - if they set them down, and they look shiny, I'll pick 'em up and try 'em on for a bit - but I've yet to commit to full-on personality theft. Mostly because I never remember the props and fake mustaches and phony accents that come along with being someone else.

But I realized there's a person I'd very much LIKE to be - and until today, I didn't realize her name was Rebekka. (Mind you, this is a real person, not a, "I've decided to name this personality Rebekka. She loves cats and pistachio ice cream," scenario.) Rebekka Seale writes a blog called Dear Friend, which I happened on today. And I realized, as many activities I might have in common with this girl, SHE is the person I sometimes wish I were. The sweet, sourdough-baking, wool-hat-knitting, brown-paper-and-twine-sandwich-wrapping, dreamy-watercolor-illustrating poet-type, who writes romantic things like, "Here's wishing you all sweetness in the world this month: Blazing fires on frigid nights, and shimmery snow if your winter has been anything but. May your hands be kept warm by steaming cocoa, may you be intoxicated by the perfume of flowers, and may you lavish love on all those dear to you."

I swear, if I ever said anything like that to anyone they would look at me like I had three heads and probably ask if I were drunk. Which, yes, I would probably have to be to even attempt it. And even then it would probably come out more like, "Here's wishing you cheese sandwich! ... Er... flugelhorn..."

I posted this mostly as a kudos to Rebekka Seale, whose blog made me take a break from the silliness and sarcasm and sloppy awkwardness that pervades most of my waking hours, and made me dream of a person I'll never be, but would very much like to be. A person whose blog looks like a really glamorous Pinterest board.