Well, That Went Well

So, I was at rehearsal last Sunday and I, by my own admission, got my shorts in a bunch over some trivial bullshit and walked out. I should've been a bit more of an adult but I was (and have been) fed up with the entire band thing for months now. It's almost like I've been looking for a reason to quit. I guess I'd finally found one (and the balls to follow through and actually "quit").



I called the drummer (who's house we were rehearsing in) to make arrangements to come back and get my equipment; amp, guitars, P.A., cables, stands, mics, cabinets, etc. He told me to call the other guitarist and get with him because some of his gear was in use and he wanted to make sure I only took what was mine. Fair enough.

I ended up getting over there last night and started breaking down things, packing it up, and loading my truck. The whole time, the drummer is basically treating me like shit; making snide comments and jumping down my throat if I even walked past something that wasn't mine. Whatever. It's his house and I've known he's a prick for months. He's just reinforcing established character traits.

When I finished getting my stuff loaded, I tried to cover some of the business aspects; login info for the MySpace page I'd set up, who would be responsible for the web domain and domain registration, credit for any songs I helped to write if they continued to play them... Just typical stuff that would need to be resolved when a contributing member of a creative endeavor parts company.

Then this asshole of a drummer decides to unload on me. After he finished his little tirade (with the accompanying drool streaming from his mouth, like most drummers do), he told me to get off of his property. That was my intention anyway, so no problems there.

What pisses me off is that when he auditioned for the band, I was one of the one's most vocal about his coming on board; I keep saying "Yeah. I think he'll work really well." Little did I know that he was a whiny, dominating, control freak. Within weeks of us moving our gear to his house to rehearse, he started trying to say how we were going to do things; "I can't play that like that so we need to change it..." "No, you're wrong. We're going to do it my way or it won't happen..." What a fucker.

Oh well, it's not my problem now. He can go and fuck himself. I suspect that he will die a very lonely, bitter man. Enjoy yourself Jeff. Maybe next time, that telephone pole that you run into at 55 mph will get the job done right instead of leaving something unfinished.