For the five or six of you out there who read my first TIMS review of the Fuzion show, you may recall that I promised I'd write more in 2016. This is my first upholding of that promise.
To get here, though, I needed two things. The first was to go to another show. I was finally able to do that last weekend. The second was that I needed to have some alternate context to make it interesting. There's no value in reviewing TIMS per se, as the review would usually be favorable. That would get boring after the first time, and even if the ladies may have had an off night, posting about it here would just be bad form.
So I thought instead that perhaps I could write about the backstory, in which TIMS were a necessary element, but not a central theme. Turns out I have such a story. It all started with this hare-brained idea I had to get my little girl more interested in playing a musical instrument than she appears to be now, and ending up with "Hey, I'll take her to a TIMS show! What could possibly go wrong?"
Well, quite a bit as it turns out. But you have to slough through some of my prose to see the connections. I call this essay:
"Bring Your Daughter to the Slaughter," or, "How Not to Introduce your 9-Year-Old to Live Metal: A Chronology"
Enjoy.
----------------------------------------
March 16th
5:45PM: Leave work, pick up kids from the ex for your overnight, grab In-N-Out for "dinner," and head home.
6:15PM: Daughter, having already finished her plain grilled cheese in the car and homework at daycare, runs in the house, plops on the sofa and promptly engages in a Minecraft session on her iPad. Saxophone, with a barely discernible matting of dust atop it, lay idle next to her on the sofa, her music book open face down on the floor under her pink music stand.
6:16PM: Consider lecturing her about practicing more. Consider advising her that if you're an accomplished saxophone player in the band, you'll get hit on by all the hot fans. Realize that's probably better advice to give a boy.
6:17: Request of daughter ten minutes of practice. She complies reluctantly and squeaks out a few bars of Row, Row, Row your Boat before getting back to her game.
6:20: Sigh in frustration. Grab a beer from the fridge. Open your laptop and connect to Ultimate Metal. Read the new TIMS posting about the ALL AGES EARLY 3:00PM FREE SHOW in Fullerton. Think to yourself, "Hey, free show. Jonesing for a TIMS set and they're twenty minutes away." Realize you have the kids that weekend. Chug the beer. Sigh in frustration.
March 17th
11:00AM: Take a break from work. Flame a moron in Yahoo! Comments. Let your mind wander to your exasperation from the night before. Remind yourself that you didn't practice as a kid either. Think back to that time when you said you didn't care what instrument she played, so long as she worked hard at it and enjoyed what she was playing. Consider that you know of five badass women in a metal band who do exactly that. Recall daughter being a Rolling Stones fan from the age of six. Wonder if daughter's current musical inspiration might be misdirected.
11:10AM: Go to your desktop. Connect to Ultimate Metal. Re-read the posting about ALL AGES EARLY 3:00PM FREE SHOW in Fullerton. Think to yourself, "Hey, all ages." Realize that there may in fact be two birds facing imminent demise from the single rock in your hand. Wonder if you might just pull this off.
11:16AM: Post a reply requesting clarification of "ALL AGES." Ask Linda if they'll have a bounce house for the kids.
2:15PM: Linda graciously replies "no" to the bounce house, but "yes" to the kids and offers helpful advice on getting a good spot. Things are looking up.
3:30PM: Commit to executing a game plan for attending show with daughter. Realize you'll have to pitch it to the ex. Things are looking bleak.
March 18th
6:30PM: Decide that she needs a primer. Spend an hour searching for your copy of Best of the Beast. Realize afterward that the ex got it in the divorce. Text ex, asking to borrow the copy. Text in response says Go pound sand, jerkoff. Wonder why she gave her new boyfriend the PIN to her iPhone.
7:45PM: Order used copy through Amazon. Amazon says will deliver by March 28. Show is on the 26th.
March 21st
6:54PM: Consider that daughter, expressing cold feet at the idea of seeing someone harder-core than "Weird Al" Yankovic, might need a companion. Text reliable playdate's dad. Ask him if he likes Iron Maiden. He says no. Ask him if he likes the thought of hot women playing Iron Maiden. He says, "We're in."
March 23rd
5:29PM: Consider that daughter needs hearing protection. Grab a pair of earplugs from work and have her try one out. Daughter complains that it's uncomfortable and awkward, and refuses to wear it. Project in your future mind the irony of the statement as it's echoed verbatim by her college boyfriend ten years from now.
March 24th
10:27AM: Confirm with reliable playdate's dad the imminent gathering. Dad punts because he wants to stucco the new addition to his house. And to stay married.
4:31PM: Text TIMS pitch reluctantly to ex. Cringe for the blowback.
5:27PM: Ex texts back. Response is terse, and surprisingly agreeable. Recall the last time it went easier than you thought it should, she subpoenaed you for more alimony the following week. Text a "heads-up" to your lawyer.
March 25th, night before the show
5:28PM: Recall that daughter still needs hearing protection. Grab a pair of earmuffs from work and head out.
5:57PM: Pick up daughter from spring break camp and have her try them on. Says they're better than the plugs. Feel blood pressure go down.
6:03PM: Pick up autistic nephew from ex. Imminent TIMS concert is not brought up. Text lawyer a reminder. Feel blood pressure go up.
6:30PM: Arrive at the house. Find Best of the Beast waiting in the mailbox. Feel blood pressure go down.
6:35PM: Put BotB in the DVD player. "Number of the Beast" is piped through the stereo. Daughter insists on testing the earmuffs at the same time. Volume is all the way to eleven. Out of one hundred. Feel blood pressure go up.
7:15PM: Daughter announces she is done with BotB primer. Warm down with Vivaldi's "Four Seasons." Wonder if anyone in the history of humanity has ever played those two albums back-to-back. Despite the unlikelihood, decide "Must have played Iron Maiden and Vivaldi at least once back-to-back" is still a better criterion for your second wife than "Must like Beavis & Butt-Head" was for your first.
March 26th, day of the show
1:30PM: Substituting for your Urban Sitter go-to, the specialist for nephew arrives. Decide that she's hot: long wavy brown hair, doe-brown eyes, petite frame, and way too young for you. Or as you like to say, "your attraction standard since 1982." Recall fondly the archetype. Wonder what she's been up to lately.
2:25PM: Arrive at Slidebar Rock & Roll Kitchen. No cover, no evidence of minimum purchase. Guess they really meant free show. Lots of folks wearing "Book of Souls Tour" and Lemmy in memoriam tees. Standing-room floor by the stage is one row deep. Surrounding tables are full or reserved. Daughter, earmuffs already donned, complains the show is too loud. Inform her the show hasn't started yet. Accept that size of her bladder is one-third yours, and that losing the perfect spot you have on the floor right now is one bathroom stop away. Take comfort in the fact that at least she can't drink beer.
2:27PM: Helpful server, sensing overt despair, finds and seats us at the last available table in the house: bar side, next to front-floor passage. Feel you've been blessed by the Metal goddesses. Wonder if they're expecting a virgin sacrifice in return. Eye your daughter. Weigh your options. Accept the risk of wrath and send the goddesses a mental message: Sorry, not her.
2:28PM: Helpful server brings menus. First time at Slidebar, look for signature menu item. Find it:
Sliders. Hmm.
Admit to self that you didn't see that one coming.
2:29PM: Metal goddesses evidently receive mental message. Formerly helpful server returns. Engages in minute-long expository, essence of which is "Sorry, my bad." Politely escorts us away from table. Daughter and dad both hungry. Standing food is a non-starter. Scheduled show is looming.
2:30PM: Recall the Fuzion show, when 6PM really meant 11PM. Imagine a 30-minute stage-call delay is not unreasonably optimistic. Accept tactical risk, and walk to Old Spaghetti Factory for sit-down lunch.
3:05PM: Daughter slow-rolls her spumoni. For the first time ever.
3:15PM: Return to Slidebar to a packed room and a band well into the set. Stand at the rolling door entrance at the back in a desperate attempt to alleviate angst of daughter, who donned earmuffs seventy yards ago. Glimpses of blonde hair stage left and brown hair stage everywhere else indicate this is not the warm-up band.
3:20PM: Enjoy show from a distance. Observe daughter raising foot to prove, she says later, that the music is loud enough to push her leg backwards two or three centimeters.
3:25PM: Continue to enjoy show. Take DSLR pictures of the band futilely, as the glare is too high in the back and you left the lens hood at home. Observe daughter's hair doing an impressive Maxell poster imitation.
3:30PM: Persistent forelorn expression on daughter's face demonstrates that experiment has run its course, and musical inspiration will likely come from elsewhere. Wonder if you can get to Tarzana next weekend in time for a better fix.
Punt on fourth and long.
3:32PM: Walk to the parking garage, drive toward a park that's close to home. Put BotB in the CD player. Daughter asks, "Really?" Left Forty Licks at home. Replace with "Weird Al's" Mandatory Fun.
4:10PM: Arrive at park. Daughter immediately finds two classmates and spends the next ninety minutes on an ad hoc playdate. Toss her the DSLR where, after you give her a five-minute primer on framing and composition, she proceeds to take better pictures than you do. The Slidebar show is never mentioned.
6:00PM: Erase all gains made in free show, no beer and cheap lunch, and then some, by paying nephew's sitter. Wonder how the Internet turned babysitting into a racket. Well, at least she was hot.
6:15PM: Ponder the day privately and conclude that it, as all daddy-daughter days are, was the best day ever.
To get here, though, I needed two things. The first was to go to another show. I was finally able to do that last weekend. The second was that I needed to have some alternate context to make it interesting. There's no value in reviewing TIMS per se, as the review would usually be favorable. That would get boring after the first time, and even if the ladies may have had an off night, posting about it here would just be bad form.
So I thought instead that perhaps I could write about the backstory, in which TIMS were a necessary element, but not a central theme. Turns out I have such a story. It all started with this hare-brained idea I had to get my little girl more interested in playing a musical instrument than she appears to be now, and ending up with "Hey, I'll take her to a TIMS show! What could possibly go wrong?"
Well, quite a bit as it turns out. But you have to slough through some of my prose to see the connections. I call this essay:
"Bring Your Daughter to the Slaughter," or, "How Not to Introduce your 9-Year-Old to Live Metal: A Chronology"
Enjoy.
----------------------------------------
March 16th
5:45PM: Leave work, pick up kids from the ex for your overnight, grab In-N-Out for "dinner," and head home.
6:15PM: Daughter, having already finished her plain grilled cheese in the car and homework at daycare, runs in the house, plops on the sofa and promptly engages in a Minecraft session on her iPad. Saxophone, with a barely discernible matting of dust atop it, lay idle next to her on the sofa, her music book open face down on the floor under her pink music stand.
6:16PM: Consider lecturing her about practicing more. Consider advising her that if you're an accomplished saxophone player in the band, you'll get hit on by all the hot fans. Realize that's probably better advice to give a boy.
6:17: Request of daughter ten minutes of practice. She complies reluctantly and squeaks out a few bars of Row, Row, Row your Boat before getting back to her game.
6:20: Sigh in frustration. Grab a beer from the fridge. Open your laptop and connect to Ultimate Metal. Read the new TIMS posting about the ALL AGES EARLY 3:00PM FREE SHOW in Fullerton. Think to yourself, "Hey, free show. Jonesing for a TIMS set and they're twenty minutes away." Realize you have the kids that weekend. Chug the beer. Sigh in frustration.
March 17th
11:00AM: Take a break from work. Flame a moron in Yahoo! Comments. Let your mind wander to your exasperation from the night before. Remind yourself that you didn't practice as a kid either. Think back to that time when you said you didn't care what instrument she played, so long as she worked hard at it and enjoyed what she was playing. Consider that you know of five badass women in a metal band who do exactly that. Recall daughter being a Rolling Stones fan from the age of six. Wonder if daughter's current musical inspiration might be misdirected.
11:10AM: Go to your desktop. Connect to Ultimate Metal. Re-read the posting about ALL AGES EARLY 3:00PM FREE SHOW in Fullerton. Think to yourself, "Hey, all ages." Realize that there may in fact be two birds facing imminent demise from the single rock in your hand. Wonder if you might just pull this off.
11:16AM: Post a reply requesting clarification of "ALL AGES." Ask Linda if they'll have a bounce house for the kids.
2:15PM: Linda graciously replies "no" to the bounce house, but "yes" to the kids and offers helpful advice on getting a good spot. Things are looking up.
3:30PM: Commit to executing a game plan for attending show with daughter. Realize you'll have to pitch it to the ex. Things are looking bleak.
March 18th
6:30PM: Decide that she needs a primer. Spend an hour searching for your copy of Best of the Beast. Realize afterward that the ex got it in the divorce. Text ex, asking to borrow the copy. Text in response says Go pound sand, jerkoff. Wonder why she gave her new boyfriend the PIN to her iPhone.
7:45PM: Order used copy through Amazon. Amazon says will deliver by March 28. Show is on the 26th.
March 21st
6:54PM: Consider that daughter, expressing cold feet at the idea of seeing someone harder-core than "Weird Al" Yankovic, might need a companion. Text reliable playdate's dad. Ask him if he likes Iron Maiden. He says no. Ask him if he likes the thought of hot women playing Iron Maiden. He says, "We're in."
March 23rd
5:29PM: Consider that daughter needs hearing protection. Grab a pair of earplugs from work and have her try one out. Daughter complains that it's uncomfortable and awkward, and refuses to wear it. Project in your future mind the irony of the statement as it's echoed verbatim by her college boyfriend ten years from now.
March 24th
10:27AM: Confirm with reliable playdate's dad the imminent gathering. Dad punts because he wants to stucco the new addition to his house. And to stay married.
4:31PM: Text TIMS pitch reluctantly to ex. Cringe for the blowback.
5:27PM: Ex texts back. Response is terse, and surprisingly agreeable. Recall the last time it went easier than you thought it should, she subpoenaed you for more alimony the following week. Text a "heads-up" to your lawyer.
March 25th, night before the show
5:28PM: Recall that daughter still needs hearing protection. Grab a pair of earmuffs from work and head out.
5:57PM: Pick up daughter from spring break camp and have her try them on. Says they're better than the plugs. Feel blood pressure go down.
6:03PM: Pick up autistic nephew from ex. Imminent TIMS concert is not brought up. Text lawyer a reminder. Feel blood pressure go up.
6:30PM: Arrive at the house. Find Best of the Beast waiting in the mailbox. Feel blood pressure go down.
6:35PM: Put BotB in the DVD player. "Number of the Beast" is piped through the stereo. Daughter insists on testing the earmuffs at the same time. Volume is all the way to eleven. Out of one hundred. Feel blood pressure go up.
7:15PM: Daughter announces she is done with BotB primer. Warm down with Vivaldi's "Four Seasons." Wonder if anyone in the history of humanity has ever played those two albums back-to-back. Despite the unlikelihood, decide "Must have played Iron Maiden and Vivaldi at least once back-to-back" is still a better criterion for your second wife than "Must like Beavis & Butt-Head" was for your first.
March 26th, day of the show
1:30PM: Substituting for your Urban Sitter go-to, the specialist for nephew arrives. Decide that she's hot: long wavy brown hair, doe-brown eyes, petite frame, and way too young for you. Or as you like to say, "your attraction standard since 1982." Recall fondly the archetype. Wonder what she's been up to lately.
2:25PM: Arrive at Slidebar Rock & Roll Kitchen. No cover, no evidence of minimum purchase. Guess they really meant free show. Lots of folks wearing "Book of Souls Tour" and Lemmy in memoriam tees. Standing-room floor by the stage is one row deep. Surrounding tables are full or reserved. Daughter, earmuffs already donned, complains the show is too loud. Inform her the show hasn't started yet. Accept that size of her bladder is one-third yours, and that losing the perfect spot you have on the floor right now is one bathroom stop away. Take comfort in the fact that at least she can't drink beer.
2:27PM: Helpful server, sensing overt despair, finds and seats us at the last available table in the house: bar side, next to front-floor passage. Feel you've been blessed by the Metal goddesses. Wonder if they're expecting a virgin sacrifice in return. Eye your daughter. Weigh your options. Accept the risk of wrath and send the goddesses a mental message: Sorry, not her.
2:28PM: Helpful server brings menus. First time at Slidebar, look for signature menu item. Find it:
Sliders. Hmm.
Admit to self that you didn't see that one coming.
2:29PM: Metal goddesses evidently receive mental message. Formerly helpful server returns. Engages in minute-long expository, essence of which is "Sorry, my bad." Politely escorts us away from table. Daughter and dad both hungry. Standing food is a non-starter. Scheduled show is looming.
2:30PM: Recall the Fuzion show, when 6PM really meant 11PM. Imagine a 30-minute stage-call delay is not unreasonably optimistic. Accept tactical risk, and walk to Old Spaghetti Factory for sit-down lunch.
3:05PM: Daughter slow-rolls her spumoni. For the first time ever.
3:15PM: Return to Slidebar to a packed room and a band well into the set. Stand at the rolling door entrance at the back in a desperate attempt to alleviate angst of daughter, who donned earmuffs seventy yards ago. Glimpses of blonde hair stage left and brown hair stage everywhere else indicate this is not the warm-up band.
3:20PM: Enjoy show from a distance. Observe daughter raising foot to prove, she says later, that the music is loud enough to push her leg backwards two or three centimeters.
3:25PM: Continue to enjoy show. Take DSLR pictures of the band futilely, as the glare is too high in the back and you left the lens hood at home. Observe daughter's hair doing an impressive Maxell poster imitation.
3:30PM: Persistent forelorn expression on daughter's face demonstrates that experiment has run its course, and musical inspiration will likely come from elsewhere. Wonder if you can get to Tarzana next weekend in time for a better fix.
Punt on fourth and long.
3:32PM: Walk to the parking garage, drive toward a park that's close to home. Put BotB in the CD player. Daughter asks, "Really?" Left Forty Licks at home. Replace with "Weird Al's" Mandatory Fun.
4:10PM: Arrive at park. Daughter immediately finds two classmates and spends the next ninety minutes on an ad hoc playdate. Toss her the DSLR where, after you give her a five-minute primer on framing and composition, she proceeds to take better pictures than you do. The Slidebar show is never mentioned.
6:00PM: Erase all gains made in free show, no beer and cheap lunch, and then some, by paying nephew's sitter. Wonder how the Internet turned babysitting into a racket. Well, at least she was hot.
6:15PM: Ponder the day privately and conclude that it, as all daddy-daughter days are, was the best day ever.
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